• Videos / 
• Gear / 
• Blog / 
• Podcast / 
• Substack

• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• /abort73

In 1992 I requested the medical records regarding the death of my first child. She died when I was 17. The news was heartbreaking. In 1970, abortion was illegal, so the state where I lived had exceptions and protocol. I had to go to a psychiatrist to prove that I would be an unfit mother, thus justifying an abortion. Based on his recommendation, the abortion was finalized. My mother arranged everything and explained the conditions to me. I believed I was proven unfit. I agreed to have my baby killed, not really knowing I was killing her. I thought she was just a blob.

In 1974, I did it again. I killed my son. I lived almost in a zombie state during most of high school. I married in 1971, and looking back, I was very immature and dependent on others for everything. I believed anything. I believed I was unfit to have children and was proven to be a an unfit mother. I did wonder how exactly that was determined.

A few days after my birthday, in 1992, I called the psychiatrist. I never forgot his name. I could barely breathe as I spoke; he was retiring and remembered me. I nearly threw up while talking to him. I asked him what actually determined a young girl to be an unfit mother; how did he make that conclusion about me? He was silent. I was silent. He spoke to only ask for my address and offered to send my records. He told me to call him if I need to talk or if I had any questions about my records.

As I read his report, his comments about me were so kind. He recommended further therapy which I never got or knew was recommended. The majority of the four page document was about my mother and her determination to terminate my pregnancy. He mentioned his concern for me and the baby being in the care of my mother, that she would not be a support to me. He concluded that for my age, I was infantile and unrealistically made dependent by my mother. His recommendation was if the pregnancy was to go full term, I would fair better finding a support system outside the home of my mother.

I have never spoken of this to anyone until now. I have forgiven myself. I named my children and think of them often. It was not until I attended a state fair, in 1975, that I realized my children were murdered and felt the pain of being murdered. On a very back wall at the fair were huge pictures of aborted babies in buckets, body parts in metal trays—the shame of it all.

I knew I was making the wrong choice, while flat on my back, thinking I had no choices and waking in a room full of crying women. Then after an hour or so in recovery, I found myself walking out through a lobby full of men smoking and watching TV.

Age: 60
Location: Texas
Date: April 8, 2013