As someone who led regionally in the reproductive rights, and justice space in Nevada, managed one of two abortion funds, and continues to serve my community, post-(awful) non-profit industrial complex, as a pregnancy loss doula, a birth control referral, a papsmear enthusiast, etc., it dialed down to those few weeks in 2019. My career was based off of having such a positive, easy experience to have my abortion funded at a Planned Parenthood by New York Medicaid, and also receive health insurance for a year, the first time I was insured in years, that, that, was simply my North star for everyone to receive abortion care that straightforward, and honestly, that peaceful. My deteriorating mental health, my trauma, does not, and did not correlate with my decision to terminate the pregnancy. Just because I was an abortion patient, did not mean I was a victim. I am done asking nicely, I demand that people get that right—-specifically in the “pro- choice” well-meaning white women of our current, and modern, time.
Harmful, stereotypical plays like “Keely and the Du” shown by Good Luck Macbeth Theatre in Reno, NV last year, do more harm than good. I was eight weeks, and I had mife and miso, to thank for reclaiming my destiny. Medication abortion, still at risk, but accounting for 63% of all abortions in the US in 2023. If I would’ve stayed pregnant, I would’ve been tied with my college boyfriend, forever, who was great, but we were not the best together. We were both so young. We “lost” each other rather than have lost our twenties to each other. My path was to move back home to the East Side where I belong. Good ole Catholic guilt, Catholic shame, built its own corner in my advocacy. I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again, my abortion was between me, my doctor, and God. Nobody else.
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