The pain morphs.

Lately it’s been hitting me like lightning during my happiest times. Striking down quickly and harshly as if to remind me that I’m not allowed happiness. I murdered my child before it ever had a chance.  Child murderers aren’t supposed to ever experience bliss or happiness again.

I have had good moments since I did it. Many.  They don’t last as long as they did before. They don’t fill me in the way that happiness and laughter use to fill every inch of my self.

I cry a lot still and I wonder if it will ever stop. I sob my eyes out with my big, very dark sunglasses on when I am driving sometimes if a song hits me the wrong way from the radio. I cry in the shower quite regularly. I cry when I start to talk about it with my baby’s father.  Sometimes I have to lock myself in the bathroom at work to cry, and tell my coworkers I have food poisoning so they will leave me alone. If they ask why my eyes are red I lie and tell them I vomited.

Crying should be cleansing. But it never relieves my pain the way it has in the past. You know that feeling after a really good body gripping cry, one that has been building up for a while? I feel worse after a fit of crying. My wheels have spun and the emotions have surfaced and nothing has been resolved and I feel the black hole of despair has widened within me.

Abortion is the only acceptable (I use that word very loosely) form of human murder in our society.

I feel like I should be locked up with the key thrown away for what I did. I should be removed from the luxuries of my life. Soft beds, chocolate, wine and books should be taken from me as punishment.  My sentence may actually be life. My life is gone now.  My friends all ask where I am or why I haven’t been around. Why didn’t I show up to the barbecue? Can’t I meet for happy hour?  One friend made a huge deal of how I have been ignoring her. How do I tell her what is going on in my life and that I may never recover? Happiness now is relative and so very short lived and I don’t know that I believe that I will find it again.

This whole experience has changed the way I look at other women. All other women. I read the rates, I know there are thousands upon thousands of women who have aborted their babies as I did.  I find myself sitting and staring at a random stranger wondering if she has ever had to deal with the same situation.

Did she welcome the loss?

Did it leave a crater in her soul as it has mine?

Did she tell anyone? And if she did, did they judge her or love her through it?

Was she lucky and had a miscarriage before she had to give the go ahead for a stranger to rip her child from her uterus?

I wonder. They have to be all around me. Rich or poor. Women are aborting.

I found this wonderful post on  a blog I frequent, about abortion recovery. It helps knowing some of  this is normal, but what it doesn’t tell me is if I will ever return to normal or forgive myself.