From a very young age, I knew I did not want children. I was told this was utter foolishness, of course I wanted children. I just needed to meet the right man. Talk about your utter foolishness.
In my late 20s, I was briefly married to a man who wanted children very, very much. It was a mistake to marry when we diverged so completely on this critical issue. We were young, he thought I would change my mind and I guess I hoped I would too. It didn’t happen.
He prioritized his work over everything else. Given that I didn’t want kids in the first place, I certainly didn’t want to be saddled with the role of primary caregiver. I imagined myself late at night, alone, caring for a fussy child while my husband sat in the glow of a computer monitor pursuing imaginary future wealth. I was judicious, obsessive, about birth control.
I have a very clear memory from this time of a conversation I had with a girlfriend who wanted kids. “What if you get pregnant accidentally?” she asked.
“Planned Parenthood and 300 dollars,” I said, barely taking a breath.
“You wouldn’t.”
“I absolutely would.”
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When I was 19, my birth control failed and I became pregnant by my abusive boyfriend. I remember a previous pregnancy scare, brought on by a bought of nausea and unease I now know as a side effect of birth control. The same boyfriend accused me of “trying to trap him,” though he had taken no measures on his own to ensure I would not become pregnant.
That pregnancy ended in a miscarriage, though not before I had arranged to have an abortion. There was no question in my mind that this is what I would do. I could not extricate myself from the relationship but I was not going to make it worse by adding a whole new human to the equation.
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I am not completely in love with being older. I am annoyed when my joints hurt for no apparent reason. My metabolism has slowed to the point where I can no longer have carbs and sugar as hobby I do in my free time, cake has been relegated to the treat zone. I’m resentful of my moisturizer budget.
But I am grateful that people have stopped asking me when I’m having kids. I hated that shit. It was not, it had never been, my destiny to reproduce by default. I could never understand why people—women and men alike—were so insistent I have kids. This made no sense to me. Why was the assumption that a woman must have kids to be whole? And why would you force children on someone who so consistently stated she did not want them? I didn’t tell anyone not to have kids, I wished them well. I remain delighted for my friends who decide to have kids and bring beautiful new humans into the world.
I have puzzled on this for years. My lack of maternal feeling affected one other person only, my first husband. Was everyone else so vain they saw my choices as an indictment of their own? Were their world views so unbending that my divergent path shook their foundations? I suppose the short answer is “Fuck the patriarchy, that shit gets in everything.”
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I grew up knowing that it was my responsibility to not get pregnant. Men could not be relied upon to do their share. Their desires were more important than mine, be it as passing as a moment’s enjoyment or the longer-term fantasy of an idealized traditional family, so it was my job to hold the line. It was my job to take responsibility for any consequences if I failed to do so.
But I also grew up knowing I would have options.
There’s no word shortage on this issue, though there’s a point I’d like to reiterate because it’s personal.
People in desperate situations are the ones who will be hurt most if abortion rights are overturned. In many places in the US, it is already a struggle for anyone who is not wealthy and privileged. The wealthy and privileged will always find ways to terminate unwanted pregnancies, we all know this.
As a very young woman, I was in an abusive relationship and felt I could not ask for help. I am forever indebted to a system that gave me the option to end my pregnancy, no questions asked.
I shudder to think what would have happened to me if I had not had choices.