I’m alive because abortion was illegal in 1952.
My mother was a violent, drunken narcissist who was single when I was born. Four years later, she married a violent drunk. Although he adopted me, something I didn’t know until I was 34, he never forgot I was someone else’s kid. I’m told to be grateful The Drunk gave me a name – the same name of a Nazi war criminal who was tried and executed by the British. The Drunk and the Nazi were related – both by blood and by hateful ideology.
My mother and The Drunk had three children – none of which my mother wanted and she made sure we knew we were unwanted. By the time I was 10, I had myself and three siblings to raise. I didn’t do a very good job; children aren’t capable of raising children. Don’t tell me to be grateful for a childhood in hell.
I endured 16 years of child abuse hell which resulted in bipolar disorder. The first time I tried to kill myself, I was 11. The last of six suicidal episodes was the fall of 2019. I live in terror that there will be another episode and eventually, an episode will kill me. Don’t tell me to be grateful.
When I was 25, I put myself through college and earned degrees in journalism and biology – even though I wasn’t allowed to take any math or science classes in high school. When I was 38, I put myself through law school.
50 years after marrying and leaving a home run by a pair of violent drunks, I still have complex PTSD. I still have flashbacks. After many years of therapy, the flashbacks are annoying rather than debilitating as they were 50 years ago. There is no cure for complex PTSD and I will have flashbacks as long as I live. Don’t tell me to be grateful for a lifetime of internal hell.
I’d have been better off if my mother had had an abortion.
Think about that the next time you want to condemn a pregnant woman to motherhood.
Deb's Art 