A Prologue to My Death

I look down at two pink lines. Pink for pregnant. Pink for being afab. Pink for holding the weight of sexism on my shoulders.

I’ve been picturing my life lately, 20 years in the future. I’m wearing a black coat, with short hair, and wrinkles on my face. I’m smiling.

Most of the time I’m alone. Happy. Well traveled. Loving and loved. Sometimes there's a little girl about seven or eight years old with me. Sometimes. But I know that if I had to choose between having kids now and never having kids, I would never have them.

I want to be free. I want to move through this world whenever I want without being responsible for anyone but myself. I want to make choices without having to consider how they’ll alter someone else’s life.

Abortion is illegal where I live. I start researching and counting thousands by thousands as I add up the fees of this responsibility.

Maybe I could take out a loan?

I look at herbs and teas that will help me handle this naturally. Quickly. Discreetly. I don’t tell anyone. It’s too dangerous. I could be prosecuted for this choice. And yet, I’d rather go to jail than carry and birth a baby.

I know, I know. I could give it away, but what kind of life would that be! The foster care system allows children to be abused daily. Does anyone want to adopt a baby from a fat, black, queer, mentally ill person with a family history of several diseases including diabetes and cancer?

I didn’t think so.

Not to mention I could die in the process of childbirth or come away with irreversible changes to my body that will make life much harder to live. I’d rather go on my own terms.

I take the teas and herbs while I wait for loan approval. I find someone trained in this medicine to help me be free of this responsibility that I did not choose.

I picture myself having the baby and keeping it. I feel stuck, trapped, hopeless. I suffer from postpartum depression and know that mine and the baby’s lives are at risk. I resent it for making my life unbearable.

The teas and herbs don’t work.

I’m able to scrape enough money together to go to New york and get an abortion.

I don’t tell anyone because I know I could still be charged and convicted in my home state for this “offense.” You know what I find offensive? Not being able to choose what to do with my body.

I pretend I’m on vacation. Post pictures of me smiling over cocktails on my snapchat. At least I’m fat, so I can hide the pregnancy longer.

I get the abortion. I want to feel relief but I’m so worried it didn’t work. I can still feel something.

I wait a few days. Maybe it worked.

I rest. I wait. I rest. I wait. I’m supposed to go back in a few weeks to make sure it worked, but I can’t afford to go back, so I hope and pray.

I drink more teas, drink alcohol. Ingest anything that won’t send me to the hospital.

I continue to grow. I cry knowing it’s too late. I have stayed pregnant against my will, and now my only option is to give birth against my will.

Is it though?

I think about the life I’ve had, the life I would have. The life my child would have, and I can’t bear it.

I want it to be quick, effective, and mostly painless. I go to Walmart and buy something small but powerful. I get my ammunition.

I go to my favorite restaurant and have a nice meal. My last meal. Eat some ice cream. Smoke some weed, watch something funny. Laugh. Cry. Pray. I chat with family and friends. Make plans. Try not to cry with them.

I put the gun in my mouth and pull the trigger.

We’ve been here before

But

For many of us, this is a fresh wound

Red and raw

We bleed red like anyone else

And yet

Our blood is better spilt than preserved

Blood,

red like the targets on our backs

Blood from Birth

Blood from Death

There will be blood

There will be blood