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I felt I knew what I had to do. I felt like an abortion was the only way to fix everything. I remember walking into the clinic; the silence was heavy. Twenty or so women and men sat in the room, silently thinking about the choices they were making. When I stepped up to the desk to check in, people were laughing and smiling in the back. They greeted with a smile as I checked in and thanked me for being early. They assured me they would get to me as soon as possible. Younger girls had brought their moms. Some had their boyfriends there. I remember one couple giggled some has they sat and waited. One by one they would get called back to speak to the counselor or to get their ultrasound. I sat in silence, alone, preparing myself for what I was doing and reminding myself that I had to do this. I had to be strong and wasn't going to cry.

My turn for the ultrasound came. I wanted to see so badly but felt too ashamed to ask. The nurse asked me where I was from, and I told her we had to travel here. She said that it was so sad women couldn't receive the help they needed in some places. I was sent back to the waiting room to sit and reminded myself to be strong. Now it was turn to speak to the counselor and go over all the paperwork I had signed. She asked me a few questions, mainly making sure I wasn't being forced to have an abortion by anyone. I answered all her questions. My responses were short and direct. I told her why I had chosen this route and that was that. I asked for a copy of the ultrasound because deep down I felt I needed it to see my child to have something, anything, to show that this baby was here it was a part of me. The counselor told me she was going to go prepare the room, and she would come get me when it was time. Maybe five minutes later I was in the room talking to the doctor. After she left and I waited for my next set of instructions, my eyes began to tear up. Swallowing got hard, and I kept reminding myself to pull it together, just pull it together. I got undressed, climbed on the table and lie there while they prepped me. I remember looking up at the counselor and telling her I felt like I was being too insensitive because I felt no emotions—but that wasn't the case. She assured me however I chose to handle it was perfectly OK.

In 10 minutes it was over. I could get dressed and wait in recovery. I walked into the recovery room and sat with all the girls I had seen in the waiting room. You could see the light they once had in their eyes was gone. Some were in pain and some were trying just as hard as I was to hold it together. I acted like I was fine and in no pain, so I could leave this depressing, silent place. I felt that if I could just get outside and feel the air on my skin that it would wash it all away. I never cried that day, except once alone in my car. The few days afterwards, I felt like everything was OK. Life was going to be OK. Now I sit in silence and cry, and feel my heart break. I scream and yell how sorry I am, how terribly sorry I am for what I have done. There is a part of me that thinks somehow, some way I can turn back time and go back to some imaginary land, walk back to that clinic and ask for my child back—that I can somehow hold it in my arms and watch it grow, memorize its face and lips, and smell the sweet aroma of my child. But reality always sets in, and I am reminded that I can't do that. No one will ever grieve for my child besides me. No tears will be shed by anyone else who would have loved my child. No grave to visit, no name, nothing to show for this beautiful life that I selfishly took. I have an ultrasound picture—a small reminder, a small glimpse of my child. It is the only evidence I have that it was here. Along with the unbelievable amount of heartache I carry with me, it is all I have to remind me of what I have lost.

Age: 25
Location: Texas
Date: April 27, 2016