OK
https://myabortionstory.tumblr.com/
Websites
Runtime: 2.5s
On November 21, 2024, 09:20 AM UTC, https://myabortionstory.tumblr.com/ was accessible when tested on AS2586 in Estonia.
Failures
HTTP Experiment
null
DNS Experiment
null
Control
null
DNS Queries
Resolver:
194.204.0.19
Query:
IN A myabortionstory.tumblr.com
Engine:
system
Name
Class
TTL
Type
DATA
@
IN
A
74.114.154.22
@
IN
A
74.114.154.18
TCP Connections
Connection to 74.114.154.22:443 succeeded.
Connection to 74.114.154.18:443 succeeded.
HTTP Requests
URL
GET https://myabortionstory.tumblr.com/
Response Headers
Accept-Ranges:bytesContent-Length:87788Content-Type:text/html; charset=UTF-8Date:Thu, 21 Nov 2024 09:21:02 GMTLink:<https://64.media.tumblr.com/avatar_a2527a6f3e2d_128.pnj>; rel=iconP3p:CP="Tumblr's privacy policy is available here: https://www.tumblr.com/policy/en/privacy"Server:nginxStrict-Transport-Security:max-age=15552001Vary:Accept-EncodingX-A8cblr:1X-Content-Type-Options:nosniffX-Nc:MISSX-Rid:24da2528c071e7d3b8869ce01a69312cX-Tumblr-Pixel:3X-Tumblr-Pixel-0:https://px.srvcs.tumblr.com/impixu?T=1732180862&J=eyJ0eXBlIjoidXJsIiwidXJsIjoiaHR0cDovL215YWJvcnRpb25zdG9yeS50dW1ibHIuY29tLyIsInJlcXR5cGUiOjAsInJvdXRlIjoiLyJ9&U=FJKKNLCMEI&K=facee2ec0b2edd099e5b9ded8acd5d74388b4da501ea1282fa942f91928cc998--https://px.srvcs.tumblr.com/impixu?T=1732180862&J=eyJ0eXBlIjoicG9zdCIsInVybCI6Imh0dHA6Ly9teWFib3J0aW9uc3RvcnkudHVtYmxyLmNvbS8iLCJyZXF0eXBlIjowLCJyb3V0ZSI6Ii8iLCJwb3N0cyI6W3sicG9zdGlkIjoiNjMxNDM3Njg5Mjc4ODQwODMyIiwiYmxvZ2lkIjozNjc3MjM3NTEsInNvdXJjZSI6X-Tumblr-Pixel-1:MzN9LHsicG9zdGlkIjoiNjMwNzE4NzM3NTA1NTAxMTg0IiwiYmxvZ2lkIjozNjc3MjM3NTEsInNvdXJjZSI6MzN9LHsicG9zdGlkIjoiNjI2ODg3NDc1MzExMzEyODk2IiwiYmxvZ2lkIjozNjc3MjM3NTEsInNvdXJjZSI6MzN9LHsicG9zdGlkIjoiNjI1ODA5NzI0NTk5ODc3NjMyIiwiYmxvZ2lkIjozNjc3MjM3NTEsInNvdXJjZSI6MzN9LHsicG9zdGlkIjoiNjI1MTc2MDIxMTY4MjI2MzA0IiwiYmxvZ2lkIjozNjc3MjM3NTEsInNvdXJjZSI6MzN9LHsicG9zdGlkIjoiNjI0NTM0ODY1NjI4NTYxNDA4IiwiYmxvZ2lkIjozNjc3MjM3NTEsInNvdXJjZSI6MzN9LHsicG9zdGlkIjoiNjIzOTA3MzM5NDAzMTk4NDY0IiwiYmxvZ2lkIjozNjc3MjM3NTX-Tumblr-Pixel-2:EsInNvdXJjZSI6MzN9LHsicG9zdGlkIjoiNjIzMjc2NDg5NjQyODE5NTg0IiwiYmxvZ2lkIjozNjc3MjM3NTEsInNvdXJjZSI6MzN9LHsicG9zdGlkIjoiNjIyNjQxNDk4NzA3NjczMDg4IiwiYmxvZ2lkIjozNjc3MjM3NTEsInNvdXJjZSI6MzN9LHsicG9zdGlkIjoiNjIyMDE4NjI3NjY3OTg0Mzg2IiwiYmxvZ2lkIjozNjc3MjM3NTEsInNvdXJjZSI6MzN9XX0=&U=KBKHFJBAJA&K=b90eb4e9672d584098167f53e58d26cf3cbca872c11b359a24670d7e2de8fbcfX-Tumblr-User:myabortionstoryX-Ua-Compatible:IE=Edge,chrome=1X-Ua-Device:desktopX-Xss-Protection:1; mode=block
Response Body
<!DOCTYPE html><script>var __pbpa = true;</script><script>var translated_warning_string = 'Warning: Never enter your Tumblr password unless \u201chttps://www.tumblr.com/login\u201d\x0ais the address in your web browser.\x0a\x0aYou should also see a green \u201cTumblr, Inc.\u201d identification in the address bar.\x0a\x0aSpammers and other bad guys use fake forms to steal passwords.\x0a\x0aTumblr will never ask you to log in from a user\u2019s blog.\x0a\x0aAre you absolutely sure you want to continue?';</script><script type="text/javascript" language="javascript" src="https://assets.tumblr.com/assets/scripts/pre_tumblelog.js?_v=b9f848c06fcba7eaf305d4a7cb7a1b98"></script><!DOCTYPE html>
<!--
Observer Theme
By Zack Sultan
Released January 2013
Revised June 25, 2017
-->
<html>
<head prefix="og: http://ogp.me/ns# fb: http://ogp.me/ns/fb# blog: http://ogp.me/ns/blog#">
<title>my abortion story</title>
<style>figure{margin:0}.tmblr-iframe{position:absolute}.tmblr-iframe.hide{display:none}.tmblr-iframe--amp-cta-button{visibility:hidden;position:fixed;bottom:10px;left:50%;transform:translateX(-50%);z-index:100}.tmblr-iframe--amp-cta-button.tmblr-iframe--loaded{visibility:visible;animation:iframe-app-cta-transition .2s ease-out}</style><link rel="stylesheet" media="screen" href="https://assets.tumblr.com/client/prod/standalone/blog-network-npf/index.build.css?_v=f085dde138e244526309d4673db67b4c"><link rel="shortcut icon" href="https://64.media.tumblr.com/avatar_a2527a6f3e2d_128.pnj">
<link rel="alternate" type="application/rss+xml" href="https://myabortionstory.tumblr.com/rss">
<meta name="description" content="My abortion story is a campaign started by Anis - Institute of Bioethics and by Think Olga to listen to women's abortion stories. Listening and storytelling is a way of caring for women. We ask you..." />
<link rel="shortcut icon" href="https://64.media.tumblr.com/avatar_a2527a6f3e2d_128.pnj">
<link rel="alternate" type="application/rss+xml" href="https://myabortionstory.tumblr.com/rss">
<meta name="viewport" content="width=device-width, maximum-scale=1.0, user-scalable=no" />
<!-- Options -->
<meta name="if:Show Navigation" content="1"/>
<meta name="if:Alternate Header Layout" content="0"/>
<meta name="if:Show Description" content="0"/>
<meta name="if:Show Archive Navigation Link" content="1"/>
<meta name="if:Wide Images" content="1"/>
<meta name="if:Photoset Layout" content="0"/>
<meta name="if:Show Post Tags" content="1"/>
<meta name="if:Show Post Notes" content="1"/>
<meta name="if:Show Copyright" content="0"/>
<meta name="Title font" content="Gibson">
<meta name="Title font weight" content="bold" title="Bold">
<meta name="Title font weight" content="normal" title="Normal">
<meta name="font:Body font" content="Calluna"/>
<meta name="Background color" content="#fff">
<meta name="Title color" content="#444444">
<meta name="Link color" content="#5f79a4">
<meta name="color:Body text" content="#333333"/>
<meta name="color:Secondary text" content="#888888"/>
<meta name="image:Logo" content=""/>
<meta name="text:TypeKit ID" content=""/>
<meta name="text:Title Font" content=""/>
<meta name="text:Body Font" content=""/>
<meta name="text:Post Headline Font" content=""/>
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<meta name='text:Disqus Shortname' content='' />
<meta name='text:Google Analytics' content='' />
<!-- Scripts -->
<script src="https://static.tumblr.com/4kpnlef/Pttmhz2ap/jquery-1.9.1.min.js"></script>
<!-- Media resizing -->
<script type="text/javascript">
$(document).ready(function() {
// Make desktop tumblr video stretch to 100%
$('.tumblr_video_container').css({ 'width' : '100%', 'height' : '100%' });
// Resize tumblr video on mobile
$('.iphone-video a').css({ 'width' : '100%', 'height' : '200px' });
});
//Make Spotify the right size and responsive
$(document).ready(function(){
$('.mobile-spotify iframe').css('height', '80px');
$('.mobile-spotify iframe').css('width', '290px');
$('iframe[src*="embed.spotify.com"]').each( function() {
$(this).css('width',$(this).parent(1).css('width'));
$(this).css('height', '82');
$(this).attr('src',$(this).attr('src'));
});
});
$(window).resize(function() {
$('iframe[src*="embed.spotify.com"]').each( function() {
$(this).css('width',$(this).parent(1).css('width'));
$(this).css('height', '82');
$(this).attr('src',$(this).attr('src'));
});
});
// Fix Flickr images treated as videos.
$(document).ready(function(){
// Grab the videoWrappers that are already here.
var videoWrappers = document.querySelectorAll('.videoWrapper');
for(var i = 0, len = videoWrappers.length; i < len; i++) {
fixFlickr(videoWrappers[i]);
}
// Also process any new nodes that are added to the page.
var observer,
observerConfig = {
childList: true,
subtree: true
};
observer = new MutationObserver(function (mutations) {
for (var i = 0, len = mutations.length; i < len; i++) {
// If there were new nodes added, we check that they are valid flickr embeds
if (mutations[i].addedNodes.length && mutations[i].addedNodes[0].querySelector) {
var newVideoWrapper = mutations[i].addedNodes[0].querySelector('.videoWrapper');
if (newVideoWrapper !== null) {
fixFlickr(newVideoWrapper);
}
}
}
});
observer.observe(document.getElementById('content'), observerConfig);
});
function fixFlickr(videoWrapper){
var potentialEmbed = videoWrapper.firstElementChild;
if(potentialEmbed.hasAttribute('data-flickr-embed')) {
videoWrapper.style.paddingBottom = 0;
videoWrapper.style.height = 'auto';
}
}
//disable safari active states
document.addEventListener("touchstart", function() {},false);
</script>
<!-- Style Sheet -->
<style type="text/css">
.regular p {
font-weight: bold;
color:aqua;
}
.regular .bottom-nav {
display: none;
}
::selection {
background: #529ECC; /* Safari */
color: #5a5858;
}
[scrubbed]-moz-selection {
background: #529ECC; /* Firefox */
color: #5a5858;
}
body {
margin: 0px;
margin-bottom: 0px;
padding: 0px;
font-size:18px;
-webkit-font-smoothing: antialiased;
-webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(0,0,0,0);
}
p, li, blockquote {
line-height: 28px;
margin: 0;
}
h1, h2, h3 {
margin: 0;
padding: 0;
font-weight: 400;
font-size: 30px;
}
.ir {
text-indent: -99999em;
}
.center {
text-align: center;
}
/* Global colors
********************************/
body {
color: #5a5858;
background-color: #ffffff;
}
.blog-description {
color: #888888;
}
a {
color: #5a5858;
text-decoration: none;
border-bottom: 1px solid rgba(136, 136, 136, 0.3);
}
#header h1 a {
color: #444444;
border-bottom: none;
}
a:hover {
}
a:active {
position: relative;
outline: none;
top: 1px;
}
.metadata a, #footer-links a, #footer p.promo a, .links a {
color: #888888;
border-bottom: none;
}
.metadata a:hover, #footer-links a:hover, #footer p.promo a:hover, .links a:hover, .more a:hover, a.mobile-player:hover {
}
.post {
border-bottom: 1px solid rgba(136, 136, 136, 0.2);
}
.colophon p {
color: #888888;
}
/* Global fonts
********************************/
body {
font-family: Georgia, Palatino, 'Palatino Linotype', Times, 'Times New Roman', serif, georgia, serif;
font-weight: normal;
}
.title h1, .link-title h1, .chat-title h1, .q h1, .a h1, .album-info h2, #footer h2 {
font-family: Georgia, Palatino, 'Palatino Linotype', Times, 'Times New Roman', serif, georgia, serif;
font-weight: normal;
}
.blog-title h1 {
font-family: Georgia, Palatino, 'Palatino Linotype', Times, 'Times New Roman', serif, futura, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;
font-weight: normal;
font-size: 96px;
line-height: 1em;
}
.metadata a {
font-family: , helvetica, arial, sans-serif;
font-weight: normal;
}
/* Page
********************************/
#page {
border: 0px solid;
max-width: 900px;
padding-left: 50px;
padding-right: 50px;
margin: auto;
}
/* Header Centered
********************************/
#header {
margin-top: 20px;
margin-bottom: 80px;
display: block;
overflow: visible;
}
#header a {
text-decoration: none;
}
.blog-title {
display: block;
width: 100%;
text-align: center;
margin-top: 70px;
}
.blog-title a {
border-bottom: none;
}
.blog-title img {
max-width: 100%;
}
.blog-description {
font-size: 16px;
line-height: 20px;
margin-top: 20px;
}
.links {
margin-top: 0px;
text-align: center;
float: none;
border-bottom: 1px solid rgba(136, 136, 136, 0.2);
}
.links ul {
margin-top: 10px;
padding: 0;
display: block;
text-align: center;
float: none;
}
.links li {
display: inline;
margin-left: 10px;
text-transform: none;
}
.links li:first-child {
margin-left: 0px;
}
/* Post wrappers
********************************/
#content {
width: 100%;
overflow-x: hidden;
clear: both;
}
.post {
margin-bottom: 45px;
padding-bottom: 40px;
width: 100%;
}
.narrow {
max-width: 640px;
margin: auto;
}
/* Headings
********************************/
.title h1, .link-title h1, .chat-title h1 {
text-align: center;
margin: auto;
margin-bottom: 25px;
font-size: 42px;
line-height: 50px;
}
.link-title a {
text-decoration: none;
position: relative;
border: none;
color: #529ECC;
}
span.link-arrow {
position: relative;
font-size: 20px;
bottom: 3px;
}
.quote-short {
font-size: 24px;
line-height: 36px;
margin-bottom: 25px;
}
.photo img, .album-art img, .videoWrapper {
max-width: 100%;
display: block;
margin-left: auto;
margin-right: auto;
margin-bottom: 30px;
border-radius: 2px;
}
.photo img, .album-art img, .videoWrapper img {
min-width: 640px;
}
.photoset-layout {
max-width: 700px;
display: block;
margin: auto;
margin-bottom: 30px;
}
.tumblr_audio_player {
height: 250px;
}
.audio iframe {
width: 100%;
margin-bottom: 20px;
}
.videoWrapper {
position: relative;
padding-bottom: 56.25%; /* 16:9 */
padding-top: 25px;
height: 0;
}
.videoWrapper iframe, .videoWrapper object {
position: absolute;
top: 0;
left: 0;
width: 100%;
height: 100%;
}
.videoWrapper iframe.flickr-embed-frame, .videoWrapper img {
position: relative;
width: 100%;
max-width: 100%;
height: auto;
}
/* Post body styles
********************************/
.caption p {
margin-bottom: 15px;
}
.caption h1 {
font-weight: bold;
margin-bottom: 15px;
}
.caption h2 {
font-weight: bold;
margin-bottom: 15px;
font-size: 24px;
}
.caption blockquote {
margin-bottom: 10px;
border-left: 3px solid rgba(136, 136, 136, 0.2);
margin-left: 5px;
padding-left: 15px;
line-height: 26px;
}
.caption pre {
white-space: pre-wrap;
white-space: -moz-pre-wrap;
white-space: -pre-wrap;
white-space: -o-pre-wrap;
word-wrap: break-word;
background-color: rgba(136, 136, 136, 0.2);
border-radius: 2px;
padding: 10px 15px 10px 15px;
font-size: 15px;
line-height: 24px;
margin: 15px 0 25px 0;
}
.caption ul, ol {
margin-top: 0;
margin-bottom: 25px;
padding-left: 40px;
}
.caption img {
display: block;
max-width: 100%;
height: auto;
margin: 30px auto 30px auto;
border-radius: 2px;
}
.quote-short {
line-height: 40px;
font-size: 36px;
margin-bottom: 20px;
}
.quote-medium, .quote-long {
line-height: 32px;
font-size: 24px;
margin-bottom: 20px;
}
ul.chat {
list-style-type: none;
padding-left: 0;
}
.chat li {
border-bottom: 1px solid rgba(136, 136, 136, 0.3);
margin-bottom: 10px;
padding-bottom: 10px;
}
.chat li:last-child {
border: none;
margin-bottom: 0;
padding-bottom: 0;
}
span.odd, span.even {
font-weight: bold;
}
.more a {
display: block;
width: 99%;
height: 30px;
border: 1px solid rgba(136, 136, 136, 0.3);
text-align: center;
text-decoration: none;
border-radius: 2px;
padding-top: 10px;
margin-bottom: 30px;
}
.more a:active {
background: rgba(136, 136, 136, 0.08);
box-shadow: inset 0px 1px 4px rgba(136, 136, 136, 0.2);
top: 0px;
}
.audio-module {
display: block;
overflow: hidden;
margin-bottom: 25px;
}
a.mobile-player {
border: 1px solid rgba(136, 136, 136, 0.2);
background: rgba(136, 136, 136, 0.1);
width: 99%;
padding: 30px 0 30px 0;
margin-bottom: 25px;
border-radius: 2px;
display: none;
}
a.mobile-player:active {
top: 0px;
box-shadow: inset 0px 1px 4px rgba(136, 136, 136, 0.2);
background: rgba(136, 136, 136, 0.18);
border: 1px solid rgba(136, 136, 136, 0.3);
}
.play-triangle {
margin-left: 20px;
width: 0px;
height: 0px;
border-style: solid;
border-width: 6.5px 0 6.5px 10px;
border-color: transparent transparent transparent rgba(136, 136, 136, 0.8);
}
.album-info {
display: block;
float: left;
width: 63%;
}
.player {
display: block;
background-color: #ffffff;
float: right;
padding-top: 5px;
padding-right: 2px;
border: 1px solid rgba(136, 136, 136, 0.3);
}
.desktop-spotify {
display: block;
}
.mobile-spotify {
display: none;
width: 290px;
margin: auto;
}
.iphone-video object {
display: block;
margin: 0px auto 20px;
}
.asker-block, .answer-text {
display: block;
overflow: auto;
}
p.question {
padding-bottom: 10px;
padding-top: 10px;
}
p.album, p.question {
font-size: 24px;
line-height: 32px;
}
h1.qa-letter {
display: block;
float: left;
width: 45px;
position: relative;
bottom: 3px;
font-size: 30px;
}
.q {
margin-bottom: 20px;
}
img.asker {
float:left;
margin-right: 8px;
border-radius: 2px;
position: relative;
top: 2px;
}
p.asker {
font-style: italic;
}
p.question {
clear: both;
}
/* Metadata
********************************/
.metadata {
border: 0px solid gray;
overflow: auto;
font-size: 12px;
text-transform: uppercase;
margin-top: 20px;
}
.metadata a {
text-decoration: none;
}
.date, .tags, .notes-count {
display: block;
float: left;
margin-right: 15px;
}
.tags a, .notes-count a, .date a {
margin-right: 5px;
}
/* Footer
********************************/
#footer {
text-align: center;
margin-bottom: 40px;
}
#footer a {
text-decoration: none;
border-bottom: none;
}
a.back-next {
margin: 0px 10px 0px 10px;
}
#footer h2 {
font-size: 24px;
text-align: center;
margin-bottom: 40px;
}
#footer-links ul {
margin-bottom: 0px;
padding: 0;
display: block;
text-align: center;
}
#footer-links li {
display: inline;
margin-left: 5px;
font-size: 14px;
}
#footer-links li:first-child {
margin-left: 0px;
}
#footer .colophon p {
font-size: 14px;
font-style: italic;
}
#footer p.promo {
font-size: 12px;
text-transform: uppercase;
font-style: normal;
}
/* Notes and comments
********************************/
#permalink-content {
margin-top: 40px;
}
.avatar_frame {
position: relative;
top: 4px;
margin-right: 10px;
}
.comments {
margin-bottom: 35px;
}
.comments h3, .permalink-notes h3 {
font-size: 18px;
font-weight: 600;
margin-bottom: 20px;
}
.permalink-notes ol {
padding-left: 0;
}
.permalink-notes li {
list-style: none;
margin-bottom: 10px;
padding-top: 10px;
border-top: 1px solid rgba(136, 136, 136, 0.3);
font-size: 13px;
}
.permalink-notes blockquote {
margin: 5px 0px 5px 0px;
border-left: 3px solid rgba(136, 136, 136, 0.2);
margin-left: 20px;
padding-left: 15px;
line-height: 24px;
}
.notes a {
border-bottom: none;
text-decoration: underline;
}
.post iframe, .post object {
max-width: 100%;
}
/* Browser size break-points
********************************/
@media screen and (max-width: 800px) {
#header {
margin-top: 20px;
display: block;
overflow: visible;
padding-bottom: 0px;
}
.blog-title {
display: block;
text-align: center;
margin-top: 50px;
float: none;
width: 100%;
margin-bottom: 50px;
}
.blog-title h1 {
font-size: 40px;
margin-bottom: 10px;
}
.blog-description {
font-size: 16px;
line-height: 20px;
}
.links {
margin-top: 0px;
margin-bottom: 0px;
text-align: center;
float: none;
border-bottom: 1px solid rgba(136, 136, 136, 0.4);
}
.links ul {
margin-top: 10px;
padding: 0;
display: block;
text-align: center;
float: none;
}
.links li {
display: inline;
margin-left: 16px;
font-size: 17px;
text-transform: none;
}
.metadata {
font-size: 16px;
}
.player {
display: none;
}
a.mobile-player {
display: block;
}
.album-info {
width: 100%
}
.title h1, .link-title h1, .chat-title h1 {
text-align: center;
font-size: 36px;
line-height: 42px;
}
}
@media screen and (max-width: 740px) {
#page {
padding-left: 1em;
padding-right: 1em;
}
#header {
margin-bottom: 50px;
}
/* WRANGLE TUMBLR VIDEO PLAYER */
.iphone-video img {
width: 90%;
}
.iphone-video a {
margin-bottom: 20px;
}
/* IMAGES */
.photo img, .album-art img, .videoWrapper img {
min-width: 100%;
}
.link-title a {
line-height: 50px;
}
.desktop-spotify {
display: none;
}
.mobile-spotify {
display: block;
}
}
</style>
<!-- End header -->
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<p class="blog-description">My abortion story is a campaign started by <a href="http://www.anis.org.br"><b>Anis - Institute of Bioethics</b></a> and by <a href="http://www.thinkolga.com"><b>Think Olga</b></a> to listen to women's abortion stories. Listening and storytelling is a way of caring for women. We ask you not to focus on whether you are against or in favor of abortion, but instead just give a little bit of your time to stop to get to know these real stories. Would you listen?</p>
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<h1>Story 52</h1>
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<p>I would like to ask you not to write
my story down. In fact, I will not record it, this is what I can tell you. I am
a writer, I wrote my story and would like you to read it. Read just as I wrote
it, please.</p><p>It was 12 pm and she was still
sleeping, maybe dreaming. She dresses up to go out and look for a job. The
smell of coffee wakes her up. She stretches her arms, her back, and she yawns.
The bed still invites her to stay, her body has been strange for days now, she
gets out of bed to pee, to take a shower, to go to college; it was not just
another day, she felt her body was someone else’s.</p><p>On the bus, she felt like everyone
was watching. In the classroom, someone talked about bodies and she had to
leave. She did not understand why or what for, but she had to, and she did.
Once she got back home, she wrote a text on her phone, but did not have the
courage to press “send” at that moment, so she decided to go to sleep, woke up
an hour later and sent the message: “Go to the drugstore, please.” As if he did
not understand, but at the same time did, he answered: “Ok, the drugstore?” She
could not say anything else, but he went to the drugstore and he bought what
had to be bought.</p><p>It happened, it was happening. No,
we were always so careful, it was not possible, no! She knew it, her body knew
it, no! As the days went by, she felt like everybody owned her body except for
her. It hurt. She felt the pain, her breasts hurt, feeling it was painful, the
pain hurt. Her body was not hers anymore, she had to get it back.</p><p>Looks and talks mixed up with the
guilt and the pain, saturating that body that she was rejecting. She was
resisting. There was a cost to get her life back; listening to the pastor of
the local church on Sunday made her mad, it fed the guilt that she was avoiding.</p><p>A suitcase and lots of fear.
Courage. They traveled. In her country, she found the warmth of women, the
warmth that she needed, women and sisters she did not know in an embrace of
bellies, wombs, pussies, fallopian tubes, ovaries, souls who had experienced
what she felt. To reach a certain calmness. To listen to her own language made
her feel safer, but she was not home. She felt like calling her mother, like
hearing her father’s voice, like hugging her sisters.</p><p>She decided to write her father a
message while she was at the drugstore: “I miss you, daddy. I have a question
to get out of my chest: is there anything that could make you stop loving me if
I did it?”. She knew she would probably have to wait for his answer because he
worked a lot and usually took a long time to text her back, but this time he
answered immediately. “Noooo! My love, you are the love of my life, remember
your dad’s hugs now. Is the young lady doing well?”. She sighed, crying,
feeling something between anxiety and relief. She needed those words from her
father.</p><p>He was paying for the pills while
telling her that they should buy fruit and water before going to the hotel. A
tight hug on a sidewalk of San Telmo warmed up the cold autumn and released the
next step. Only the two of them, together as accomplices, overcoming fate, clandestinely.
They paid for the best hotel they could afford and made love.</p><p>The procedure had been studied,
hospitals, addresses; people they could trust were aware; the moment arrived.
While her memories came up like a movie, the pain got to her whole body. Calls
and words embraced her. The coldness of her country invited her to stay between
blankets while she was feeling pain, pain unknown to her so far. Pain not only
in the body. Pain from the guilt, from the clandestinity, from fear in all its
forms. Fears she had never felt before. All kinds of images and colors were
invading her mind and stealing her indetermined and complex will.</p><p>It happened. It was happening. It
was intense. As the hours passed by, she felt her body coming back to her, she
was slowly recovering it. Along with her intuition, she felt happiness. I made
it, we made it! Intense. If she had felt as if her life wasn’t hers, now she
felt changed, affected, and like she owned it. She had some barbecue and dulce
de leche, they went out to see a tango show. Dance, movement, life.</p><p>Listening to her body and giving it
life was what she did, as she grew with that experience. Untamed intuition
guided her. An intense experience that marks us, makes us stop, take our life
in our hands, resist, move forward. Plane and inspiration. Going back to the
place where she had chosen to live during a cycle of her life. That same place
where she was almost locked up while they were looking for the drugstore to buy
the pills; she felt inspired to talk about the unbearable. Inspiration that
came from that experience that pushed her to produce thoughts about it. It was
her present in action.</p><p>It was Thursday and she had class. Self-writing.
To live and to write. She is not worried about writing a book or a dissertation.
She is busy with the writing. She feels that she has to do it. She needs to
write. She feels that her experience does not stop inviting her to write. She
reads a book before she goes to sleep and sees this: “We don’t know anything
about a body until we know what it can do.” Reflective, but very sleepy, she
falls asleep smiling and not knowing exactly why. She was never the same.</p><p>New life, new day. It was 12 pm and
she was still sleeping.</p><p><br /></p><figure class="tmblr-full" data-orig-height="1080" data-orig-width="1920"><img src="https://64.media.tumblr.com/e65ef7ce8743ccb6b97f117105be235f/b03ebb725ae907d7-02/s500x750/bffb406ee29e29a6bb4fae7eadfdc4adcf53521e.jpg" data-orig-height="1080" data-orig-width="1920" width="500" height="281" alt="image" /></figure>
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<a href="https://myabortionstory.tumblr.com/post/631437689278840832/story-52">Oct. 8 2020</a>
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<h1>Story 51</h1>
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<p> I had a child when I was 15, and the
one who raised him was my dad. I used to live with him. He had a very troubled
relationship with my mom. I was raped by my stepfather when I was 5, then I
went through almost 3 years of violence. I had no one to talk to, there was no
way to tell anyone about it. So, when I was turning 18 years old, I was trying
to rebuild my life after having had the baby whom my father was raising for me.
I met a guy at a party who became my boyfriend. He was older. I thought that
maybe an older man would understand my whole story.</p><p>When I found out that I was pregnant,
I ended up telling this boyfriend. I had an ultrasound and found out that I was
already a bit more than 3 months pregnant at that point. That was when I lost
it. Considering the time, it wasn’t his baby, it was probably from some casual
thing I had before. How was I supposed to tell my parents that I was pregnant
again? And that it wasn’t my boyfriend’s baby, and I probably got pregnant from
a casual thing? My boyfriend, he told his mother, so I decided to tell them
both that, you know, the baby was probably not his child. He said he would
support me, but that he wouldn’t raise a kid that wasn’t his.</p><p>His mother came to me. She said I
should have an abortion, that I was going to be ok, that this child would be a
burden in my life, and I wouldn’t be able to keep studying if I had the baby.
She said that I should think of my dad, of all the disappointment I had caused
him, and that I should not cause him any more disappointment. She even said it
wasn’t illegal, that it was my choice. She spent an hour talking to me. I had
the abortion and ended up in a hospital, bleeding. At the hospital, I couldn’t hide
it any longer, so I told the truth. I guess they didn’t write it down in my
chart. Maybe, if they had mentioned it, I would have been arrested, because I
was told that the doctor had to report the woman to the police if he found out
the truth.</p><p>I was at there for a week. I was
surrounded by women with their newborns, it was horrible. My boyfriend went there
to visit and told me how careless I was for not having noticed I was 3 months
pregnant, a bit more than 3 months. I didn’t feel anything. I didn’t feel sick,
I felt nothing at all. What I’ll never forget is the moment when they sent me
out. The moment when the abortion was really done. When the contractions
started, I was there at the maternity area of the hospital. I was walking down
the halls when everything came out. All the blood came out. I just stood there
staring at the floor in the middle of the hospital. People took a while to help
me out. Everyone saw it; it wasn’t just me there. Even if I wanted to, I
couldn’t stop staring at what was on the floor, between my feet.</p><figure class="tmblr-full" data-orig-height="2244" data-orig-width="4016"><img src="https://64.media.tumblr.com/8eb311b6105fcef758dd45fb719307d3/bcbd94eef0cc318e-4b/s500x750/b72f91e7d84a1f720fc753e3be010e733ff09c6c.jpg" data-orig-height="2244" data-orig-width="4016" width="500" height="279" alt="image" /></figure>
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<a href="https://myabortionstory.tumblr.com/post/630718737505501184/story-51">Sep. 30 2020</a>
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<h1>Story 50</h1>
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<p>I remember that day very clearly. A
boyfriend of mine got me pregnant about a month after he had broken up with me.
He realized he still loved his ex-girlfriend and left me. Actually, he was
seeing both of us for a while, and I was in love with him. If I told him I was
pregnant, he would say I had done it on purpose just to make him stay. He would
say it was someone else’s baby, because we were not dating anymore. He would
say it in my face: “Whose baby is it? Because it can’t be mine”. I asked a
friend to go talk to him, and that is what he told her: “I don’t even know if it’s
mine.”</p><p>So, I was alone, wasn’t I? With two
kids, an ex-husband, a boyfriend who was also an ex-boyfriend, and pregnant. A
friend knew a guy who sold cytotec. He worked at a drugstore. I waited for my
paycheck and bought four pills. I took two and put two. At the time, they cost
me R$ 300, almost my whole salary. I don’t know how much that would be today. I
wouldn’t have any more money in case it all went wrong, and it did. The pills
were fake. I had to go to the drugstore, face the guy, threaten him that I
would tell the owner if he didn’t give me new pills. He gave me new ones and they
didn’t work either. </p><p>A week later it started to come out.
A smelly liquid came out, and I had a high fever. I will never forget that
moment. I was at the bank, waiting in line, and a friend saw me sitting on the
floor, almost fainting and bleeding a lot. I couldn’t go to a hospital and say
what I had done, so she sent me to a nurse who was a trusted friend of hers and
who said that he would finish what had to be done.</p><p>I went to a moneylender to pay this
guy. And it was in some backyard, you know. I did the curettage without
anesthesia. He told me that the infection was already in such a serious
condition that my life was at risk. The fetus had been dead for some time, when
I was trying with the drugs in the previous weeks. He gave me antibiotics and I
decided not to take it; I don’t even know if I wanted to end up dying at that
moment, with all the suffering I was going through. I don’t even know what hurt
the most, if it was the curettage in the backyard, the days I spent without
being able to say anything, or if it was all this fear of the law and the sin
around me.</p><figure class="tmblr-full" data-orig-height="1080" data-orig-width="1920"><img src="https://64.media.tumblr.com/5ec7cf0db67189c43b5fe376cc587b00/e0c672c2ffee317a-83/s500x750/edf7ff3439fb811a1b90d7a54ded7973a709ff04.jpg" data-orig-height="1080" data-orig-width="1920" width="500" height="281" alt="image" /></figure>
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<a href="https://myabortionstory.tumblr.com/post/626887475311312896/story-50">Aug. 19 2020</a>
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<h1>Story 49</h1>
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<p>I am curious about the stories that
people have been telling you. Sometimes, I wonder if they are just like mine,
especially if they are stories about young teenagers. I know that we are all
different somehow, and each person will bring out different details. But I
imagine that most of them are stories more or less of the same kind. About
young teenagers. Yes, I was 15 and I had just begun my sex life. It was my
second day doing it with him. He refused to use wear a
condom and said that he could ‘control’ himself. I
wasn’t on the pill; I couldn’t, because I was 15 and lived with my mother. If I
came home with anything, she would know. If I came home with birth control
pills, she would find out very soon.</p><p>Well, but he didn’t do as he had
promised. He didn’t pull out. At that moment, he even laughed and said nothing
would happen, telling me to go shower and to put vinegar in my vagina. And that
was what I did. I put vinegar in my vagina, tried to put it even near the womb,
I
don’t know, but I did it, didn’t I?at least I guess I did.
AMe, at
that moment, I started to freak out. In less than 15 days, I took some money
from my parents at home. I went out to buy a pregnancy test from the drugstore.
It came out positive. I couldn’t even keep it at home, couldn’t throw it out in
the trash at home if I didn’t want my mother to know, right? Just for
you to have an idea, I couldn’t do it any differentlyI don’t
think I could do it any differently. All I
knew was that I wouldn’t have that child.</p><p>My parents are very catholic. They
used to go to church every Sunday. My mother was one of those people who could
go to another church, in another neighborhood, far away, just to hear a
specific priest or a specific church choir. They used to say I had an uncle who
was a priest. One of my sisters used to say she wanted to be a nun. At my
house, what they used to say about couples who would live together without
getting married, (they called it “to get friendly”,)
was that they were people who lived like prostitutes. They said that women who
had sex before marriage were ‘lost’, wasted.</p><p>So, I didn’t want to be any of that.
Not lost, notor a
prostitute, or someone who “got friendly” with someone else, as they used to
talk about it in my house. I mean, if my boyfriend wanted to be with me. This
was another thing that they used to talk about in my house. I talked to my
boyfriend first, and his reaction was to doubt it was true. He said that I was
a virgin before I met him and so I wouldn’t get pregnant so fast. He said that
girls who had just lost their virginity did not get pregnant with a few sexual
relations. I have to say, that it was
horrible to hear all this. It was horrible to hear this in addition to
everything I was going through. I was very lonely, I felt very embarrassed. I
didn’t know who to talk to, who I was going to talk to at school. I thought
that I was the only one who was going through something like that. And I kept
thinking that everyone would end up talking to my parents, they would end up
telling them.</p><p>I had a math teacher whom I liked a
lot, you know. I built up the courage and went to talk to her. I know it was
very risky, but she welcomed me. She told me to go to her house, so we didn’t
have to talk about it there, at school. I was very good at math, I participated
went to somein
competitions, so I could tell my mother that I was going to study mathematics
at the teacher’s house. When I got there, we talked a lot. Her husband was a
doctor. , Tthey
were the ones who helped me. Nobody ever knew, I never brought up this subject
with this math teacher again. It all went very, very smooth. Today, I am
mature, and I am a math researcher. Every year, I bring flowers to the
cemetery, to remind myself of the teacher who helped me to be who I am today.</p><figure class="tmblr-full" data-orig-height="2244" data-orig-width="4016"><img src="https://64.media.tumblr.com/3be16847babda009d5a9a2ed926106c3/23d1e6cf9d330931-f7/s500x750/5c65cf246d68ec591221618699b44ded699d2363.jpg" data-orig-height="2244" data-orig-width="4016" width="500" height="279" alt="image" /></figure>
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<a href="https://myabortionstory.tumblr.com/post/625809724599877632/story-49">Aug. 7 2020</a>
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<h1>Story 48</h1>
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<p>I was still just a teenager when I
became a mother. The father was a music teacher from my school. He was much
older than me. He already had kids; after me, he kept doing the same thing over
and over, getting other students pregnant. He’s still a musician now, and it
seems like none of it stained his career as a teacher.</p><p>I had just started college. My son
wasn’t even 1 year old yet, and I had to struggle with everything I had to do:
studying, cleaning up the house, taking care of him, and looking for a job. I
lived with my mother at the time, who always provided and made sure we had
everything we needed. But she never changed my son’s diapers, never tried to
help me, you know? I’m grateful to her, but that was the reality in my life. I
had to do everything by myself. I was feeling my youth passing me by, both during
pregnancy and my son’s first year of life. His dad never visited and never
provided any support. Years later, I even had to file a lawsuit. And I had to
come to terms with it all, you know? Keeping in mind that child support was my
son’s right. </p><p>I met a new guy. He was very nice
and went to college with me. We were studying the same thing, and he liked my
son. He used to spend hours talking to him, telling him stories, you know, doing
everything that was so important for me. The role of someone that is always there,
so we can share things and think about his education together. Slowly, he
started to show me another side. He started to show a violent side; he changed
whenever he drank. I never liked drinking and didn’t want that for me. I tried
to slowly distance myself from him. I could notice that a sudden break up would
not end well. But his violence got worse and worse as he felt we had no future
together.</p><p>Then, he started to stalk me and
threaten me. He went to pick up my son from school without my permission and
spent two days with him. I had to go to the police, and I had to revoke his permission
to take my son with him from school. And what I heard from the police and the
school were questions like, isn’t he your boyfriend, someone <i>you</i> brought
home? Things were getting worse. And I have to say this: we didn’t have the Maria
da Penha Act at the time, did we? We just had to go to a normal police station.</p><p>Once, I was arriving home from work,
and he was waiting for me with a gun. He tried to kill me. He shot me in the
lung. I went to the hospital and had to have surgery. All I could think of was
my son, all by himself. The bullet wasn’t inside my body, it went through me. At
the hospital, when I got there, the doctors and the nurses at the emergency
room asked me: “He caught you with another man, didn’t he? That’s why he did
it.” No. I have to tell them and you what I didn’t answer at the time: no, I
didn’t have anyone else. All I wanted was to get away from that man.</p><p>To make my situation even worse, I
found out I was pregnant. I’ve always dreamed about having another kid. I have
to be honest, I used to dream about having a daughter. But not at that time,
with that man. Not after all I had gone through, after being shot. I needed an
abortion soon. Without risking my life and without him knowing about it. I
heard about a clinic in another city. I took a plane, which cost me a fortune,
and took my son with me. I don’t have many memories of that trip or of the
procedure. I have no marks on my body; this is not a story I have to tell. I
just remember that, when I left there, I was feeling sure that my life would be
just me and my son.</p><figure class="tmblr-full" data-orig-height="2244" data-orig-width="4016"><img src="https://64.media.tumblr.com/3be16847babda009d5a9a2ed926106c3/a541ae1927b55009-50/s500x750/d6e89aa156e949c9418b089f4e88132421be5a26.jpg" data-orig-height="2244" data-orig-width="4016" width="500" height="279" alt="image" /></figure>
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<a href="https://myabortionstory.tumblr.com/post/625176021168226304/story-48">Jul. 31 2020</a>
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<h1>Story 47</h1>
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<p>This story happened about 15 years
ago. I was 13, my boyfriend was a little bit older than me. I think he was
around 18, I’m not sure; he was my first boyfriend. I had irregular periods, maybe
because I was still young. I had just become a grown girl, right? As soon as I
found out I was pregnant, he got me the medicine. It was Cytotec. He gave it to
me and told me how to use it. And I did everything as he told me to. Not long
after I took it, that same night, I started feeling sick. Very, very sick. I’m
not exaggerating. I was throwing up and bleeding non-stop. I was going to the
bathroom all the time. I was, you know, almost losing consciousness. I didn’t
really know what was going on. </p><p>He went to see me the next morning,
and I was even worse. It never crossed our minds that it was time or that it
would be good to go to a hospital. He went to school, I stayed home. I stayed
home by myself, because my mother used to work as a housekeeper and left very
early in the morning. I kept getting worse during the day. In the afternoon, I
walked to his school. I was alone. Just left my house and walked there. I
needed help. I needed someone to go to the hospital with me. When I got there, I
talked to him. I don’t remember why anymore, but he couldn’t come with me. I
had to go by myself. I went from his school to the emergency room — walking,
stopping, sitting on the curb, almost passing out. I was bleeding too much
already. That’s how I got to the emergency room. </p><p>At the hospital, people said right
away that it was an abortion, that they knew everything, that it was all my
fault, and that they didn’t like women who had abortions. Remember this: I was
13. They didn’t like women who had abortions, I had it coming, it was my fault,
and they couldn’t do anything to help me. They didn’t even give me anything for
pain and sent me back home. I walked back home bleeding, dropping the remains
that were still inside me, you know? Really having an abortion. I thought I was
going to die, because I was bleeding and bleeding, and I had never been to a
doctor before. I didn’t know how it was. I had never been to a gynecologist in
my life. In fact, I was already 20 years old the first time I went to a
gynecologist. It was when I got pregnant with my first daughter.</p><figure class="tmblr-full" data-orig-height="1080" data-orig-width="1920"><img src="https://64.media.tumblr.com/b2cf5e9dda06637258b5271466263fbe/57d861c7198b3d5d-05/s500x750/7392f180d3f2bb772d63857b46de6987e70ce874.jpg" data-orig-height="1080" data-orig-width="1920" width="500" height="281" alt="image" /></figure>
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<a href="https://myabortionstory.tumblr.com/post/624534865628561408/story-47">Jul. 24 2020</a>
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<h1>Story 46</h1>
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<p>I have two abortion stories. I can
imagine some people will hear this and say “two!”. I don’t know if any other
woman has told you more than one story, or if I am the only one to tell two
different stories here. Yes, two stories. I will talk to you about only one of
them today, and I will tell you why. I am from a middle-class family, I had
access to information, to contraception. I knew everything a young woman could
know about protection, about sexuality.</p><p>I was beginning my sex life, only
starting to have sexual relationships. This was not the first one, though. He
used to wear condoms, you know? And it broke, but he didn’t tell me right away.
As soon as I knew I was pregnant, as soon as I took the test and found out, I
looked for a group in town that offered teenagers some information about
sexuality. It was a very nice group. I went there with my boyfriend and told
the truth. They advised me and told me an abortion would be illegal. But they
also said I could have options and told me where I could talk to a doctor about
an abortion.</p><p>I went to this doctor. He was a very
rude man, and he was very hard on me. I don’t remember my gestational age at
the time, but he was emphatic when he said: “if you don’t come back tomorrow, I
won’t do it anymore”. I left feeling very scared, and decided to tell my
mother. She used to work, so I went to her clinic with my boyfriend and we told
her everything. My family didn’t really approve of my relationship, so she said
she would talk to me later at home. She hugged me, supported me, and told me to
calm down. When she got home, she said that, ok, it was my decision and she
would be there anyway, but first she wanted me to go to the family
gynecologist, the one she trusted. And he was a very conservative man, you know?
Just imagine how it was at that time. He was very conservative. But he
surprised me, because he said: “look, I don’t do it, but I know where you can
get the medicine and I can guide you over the phone”. </p><p>My boyfriend went to where he said
we could buy the medicine. It was a street fair. He bought it, I took some and
put some inside, following the doctor’s instructions over the phone. A few days
later, nothing happened. My family had planned a short trip with. During the
trip, in the car, I started losing blood. There were huge blood clots all over
the car seat. My family took me to our family doctor, who prescribed me some
tea. They talked to him in a corner. I don’t remember, and I didn’t really hear
them talking, but they told me to go see the other doctor the next day, the
doctor who was helping me. I went there. He did an ultrasound and saw that my
uterus was clean, I didn’t even need curettage.</p><p>It didn’t take long for me to end
this relationship. It was a teenager thing. I had his support, that I can say,
and also my mother’s. It was only after everything had passed that my mother
told me she wanted to talk. She said she was against abortion, and she would
never decide to have one. But she also told me that she would support me, as my
mother, support me in whatever decision I thought was best for me. I kept
thinking about it. About how it is to be a mother, a mother able to support her
daughter and her decisions, even if her daughter was just a teenager… decisions
that are different from what she believes. And she didn’t judge at the time, did
she? She didn’t impose on me what she thought. That’s why I decided that I was
going to solve it all on my own when I went through the second experience of
abortion. And that’s what I did. I never told her, because I wasn’t going to
impose my decision on her once again.</p><figure class="tmblr-full" data-orig-height="1080" data-orig-width="1920"><img src="https://64.media.tumblr.com/4cdc2933c63b15b3338edd825f5f3731/251e2fa9c3c17c13-4a/s500x750/50141edde11fde47671cd8f6612ea368e1e3d576.jpg" data-orig-height="1080" data-orig-width="1920" width="500" height="281" alt="image" /></figure>
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<a href="https://myabortionstory.tumblr.com/post/623907339403198464/story-46">Jul. 17 2020</a>
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<h1>Story 45</h1>
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<p>I was young and had been dating this
guy for a while. I got pregnant, and we ended up having a fight. So the best
decision was to have an abortion. I talked to him, and not only he pushed me
away, he even disappeared when I went to have the abortion. He didn’t run away
because he didn’t want me to do it; he ran away just because he didn’t want to
be there, not even at that moment. The problem was all mine. I was in London at
the time. I was 35, it was 1992. </p><p>It has been a long time, so it might
be different now. But at that time, when I got to the health center, I had to see
many psychologists. I had to make appointments. I also had to be admitted to
the hospital one night before the procedure, because I had asthma and needed special
care. At the night of the abortion, I stayed at the hospital. They left me in a
room with two beds, mine right next to the other, which was empty. Maybe it was
meant for a guest, for someone to be there with me. At the back of my bedroom, almost
out in the hallway, I saw a little crib.</p><p>When I saw that crib and the empty
bedroom, I started crying. There was another woman in the hospital for the same
procedure. She heard me crying and saw the crib. She probably imagined I was
crying because of it and came to calm me down. Actually, not only did she come
to calm me down, she made a scene. Psychologists, nurses, and doctors arrived
immediately. They took the crib away and came in to apologize. It took me a
while to explain that I was crying because I had just ended a relationship and
was alone there with a bed beside me. It wasn’t the crib that was making me
suffer so much.</p><p>Well, I explained it. But they calmed
me down anyway. If I was already being well taken care of up to that moment, it
only got better. After the abortion, I woke up in a yellow room with some
flowers, a very peaceful environment. I woke up with the nurse holding my hand
and asking me how I was. The whole environment was very welcoming. It even looked
like a house more than a hospital, you know.</p><p>I know my story is very simple, isn’t
it? You must have heard some other stories that are very different from mine.
Stories of women who have abortions in clinics, using medicine, women who have
to do it in secret in Brazil, women who are younger than me. I just wanted to
tell you my story to show that it is possible to have the whole procedure with security,
with care, with dignity, just like I did. And being cared for makes everything
much easier, doesn’t it?</p><figure class="tmblr-full" data-orig-height="1080" data-orig-width="1920"><img src="https://64.media.tumblr.com/f7d4da311e8272ef1f3442a30cac6e40/a6bbcec84f0469f7-44/s500x750/4bac257da95061800f32e74c887ce53ff5ce7eb9.jpg" data-orig-height="1080" data-orig-width="1920" width="500" height="281" alt="image" /></figure>
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<a href="https://myabortionstory.tumblr.com/post/623276489642819584/story-45">Jul. 10 2020</a>
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<h1>Story 44</h1>
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<p>I think I will talk to you the way I talk to my
friends, to women in my family. I don’t know if that is how people are talking
to you, is it? I have told this story before. I have told my story to women who
had told me theirs, to women who needed to know how to do it, and to help other
women in my family. This is not the first time. I just never did it like this,
on WhatsApp. But here we go.<br /></p><p>I already had two kids. Financially,
it was tight, as it still is. My youngest daughter had just turned 1 year old. I
had two young kids at home and got pregnant again — I panicked. My husband was
a flirt, he was a player and was always partying. He had children outside of
our marriage, and I knew it. He couldn’t care less about me. He would leave me
with our two kids. He didn’t care about them either. He only wanted to party
and seemed to forget that he was a married man. </p><p>It was all totally normal for him.
He used to tell me, “if we can raise one, we can raise two or five.” But I was
the one doing it, wasn’t I? It didn’t matter if I was sick, I still had to wake
up at night to feed them, because he was out. The boys had school in the
morning, and I’d be the one who was up all night feeding my daughter while he
was partying. It shouldn’t be like that, or should it? Some weekends, he would
go out to party and not come back for two or three days. When he finally did
come back, he would be acting aggressively. He was not calm when he arrived, he
was drunk. So, I decided to have the abortion. You have no idea how much he
said he was against it. He just kept repeating, “if we can feed one, we can
feed two or five.” I kept saying, “I don’t want to.” I had already made up my
mind. I asked him for help, and he answered, “I’d rather see you die than see
you have an abortion.” </p><p>He told his whole family, and they
all turned against me. I kept thinking, “Why would I have another child with
this man?”. I had two children and was already suffering so much. So, I started
to act: from that day on, every day, when he came home, I got a little bit of
money. I was saving it all, but the weeks were going by. My sister had arrived
from the city and I asked her for Cytotec. I put two. I did it while he was
out, partying for the whole weekend. At the time, it was a lot of money. I’ll
repeat this: I had to save money little by little until I could afford it. </p><p>You know, nowadays, my husband is a
bit better. He got calmer as he got older. But he was terrible to women,
terrible. So terrible that I knew I could wait for him to go party so I could
have an abortion by myself. And everyone, even his family, who turned against
me, everyone kept telling me, “leave that man, leave him, you have no future with
him.”</p><p>Well, I put two with a straw and
took two more. At 2 am, I started bleeding. Can you believe that my daughter
started crying for her baby bottle? He was out having fun, I was bleeding and
feeding our daughter. The next day, I took our son to school. I was still
bleeding. I kept bleeding like that for 10 days. And it was thick blood, you
know? As time went by, it started to smell different. </p><p>After almost 15 days of waiting and
bleeding, I didn’t know what else to do. I started taking shots of
contraceptive injections to stop bleeding. I had a fever, and he kept telling
me that I should die. After 15 days, after contraceptive injections, with a
fever and bleeding… I was bleeding more and more, so I went to the hospital. There
I found out I had generalized infection. Only then, at that time, he got closer
and took care of me, but he kept calling me names. My whole family went to the
hospital, and there were people who even called me a murderer. I was wrong, I
won’t deny it. But who hasn’t been wrong before?</p><p>Well, then I needed curettage. No
one mistreated me at the hospital, because I was almost dying, I think. But
they asked me if I had provoked the abortion. I’m not dumb, am I? I said no. And
they told me, “we refuse to treat women who decide to have an abortion”. Can
you believe it? I had to hear this: “we refuse to treat women who decide to
have an abortion.”</p><p>I didn’t regret a thing, that I can
assure you. Actually, there is something I regret: having taken so long. That’s
why I spent 10, 15 days bleeding, because I took too long. I should have done
it earlier. And I shouldn’t have told him. If I think about what I regret, what
I did wrong, I regret both of these things. For a long time, he would come home
drunk and throw it in my face: “look what you’ve done.” You know what I say to
him and to everyone else when I tell this story? I say that I didn’t forget and
won’t forget, and only God can judge me.</p><p><br /></p><figure class="tmblr-full" data-orig-height="1080" data-orig-width="1920"><img src="https://64.media.tumblr.com/6a4accd42cb6e6899c199c2b0abdce7a/a473956bd729c000-df/s500x750/43d32c2b6dd1c716bcc95e4dde12e182fae41890.jpg" data-orig-height="1080" data-orig-width="1920" width="500" height="281" alt="image" /></figure>
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<a href="https://myabortionstory.tumblr.com/post/622641498707673088/story-44">Jul. 3 2020</a>
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<h1>Story 43</h1>
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<p>“I work with babies”</p><p><br /></p><p>I am 32, I’m a physiotherapist and I work with babies. I think there
is a bit of cosmic irony in that, but I don’t know if there is such a thing as
fate or if it is just about our actions, right? I don’t know if the story is
the same for each of us. My son is at home now, so I wanted to tell you that I
will speak, and I’ll be back. But I have to speak with you while I’m not with
him. I got pregnant with my son at 13, from a boy who was 16. We had been
dating for some time. I know this was all very premature, and you might think
it’s all strange from the very beginning. How does a 13-year-old have a sexual
life? It’s true. I stopped from 14 to 21 years old and then got pregnant again
from the same boyfriend, who was already my husband. We had almost 10 years of
relationship and no maturity at all — as you can imagine of a relationship that
started when I was 13.</p><p>I already knew what his reaction would be when I told him. I knew
that he was going to say no. I had no support from the person I trusted the
most in case I wanted that pregnancy, and I did want it. I had to take care of
it by myself. I asked a neighbor for help. As strange as it sounds, she had
told me that she had an abortion once, when we were talking in the elevator. She
knew a doctor. I asked my husband to make the appointment and I went there. I
didn’t want an ultrasound. I wouldn’t stand listening to the heartbeat. I
didn’t want the abortion, and I suffered so much. I have to be honest with you:
I had dreams of that baby calling for my help. It all grieved me and killed me.
</p><p>At the day of the procedure, we didn’t have anyone to take care of
our son, who was seven years old. You won’t believe it, but we had to take him
with us. The clinic was in a fancy building in my town. The doctor charged us a
lot of money, a lot; today, I’d say something like five thousand. I don’t even
know how my husband got that money. The truth is that it was the most painful
day of my life. I have no doubt about it when I say it. It was the worst, most
painful day in my entire life. I had so much pain I lost consciousness. I threw
up during the procedure. They had to carry me out of there. All I could think
of was that I was going to die. I kept thinking: “I am dying, and my son will
be an orphan”.</p><p>It was the worst feeling, physically and emotionally, I have ever
experienced. It took me a long time to recover, it wasn’t easy. I felt guilty
for not being able to face my husband. I felt guilty for not having the baby,
for not making a different decision. For many years, <a>I </a>carried this guilt. The only person who
once heard me talk about it was a friend of mine. I went to her house and we
had a couple of drinks. I wasn’t drunk, but I put everything out of me, all at
once. I was crying so much; she could not help me. Until today, she was the
only person I had told. And now you are the second one.</p><p>I can tell you now that I carry on with my life. I take care of all
the children in the world. It’s my job. And they are children the world doesn’t
want, or sometimes it seems like the mothers don’t want them. I am a child
development specialist. I take care of children with disabilities. And you know
what is the biggest fear I have? It’s that my family will find out. I still
live with my husband, the man I started dating at 13. We didn’t have more
children. We don’t talk about it and my biggest fear is that my family will
know everything.</p><figure class="tmblr-full" data-orig-height="1080" data-orig-width="1920"><img src="https://64.media.tumblr.com/532d7c74c1227a5be596f9b825796736/d392baeda3b83f9a-cc/s500x750/56f475794ea27c3995413eebb9d27af87eaf00de.jpg" data-orig-height="1080" data-orig-width="1920" width="500" height="281" alt="image" /></figure>
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<a href="https://myabortionstory.tumblr.com/post/622018627667984386/story-43">Jun. 26 2020</a>
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