Like any American, I have lots of problems, issues and neuroses.

The biggest of these is my inability to take action. For as long as I can remember I’ve had lofty goals and ambitions. I will take a few steps towards them, mostly in the form of extensive research. Then, I will methodically search for every conceivable problem that could possibly arise in the process of attaining these goals, then give up, eat a pint of Ben & Jerry’s and watch Sex & The City reruns for 4 hours straight every night for 3 months. Pick new goal, rinse & repeat.

Periodically, I would go through phases where I would panic, having not attained any of my goals, or achieved any “success” in the eyes of the world (education, job, money, possessions), and would rush to gain “success” only to have a nervous breakdown and stop just short of actually finishing something. Case in point: I might hold the record for the most undergraduate semesters taken to achieve an Associate’s Degree. Yes folks, it took me a whopping five and a half years (11 semesters) to get a 2 year degree. Now I’m not stupid. I just can’t make a decision and stick to it. So I started at one school, transferred to another, transferred back to the first and then transferred to another, had a nervous breakdown, and then gave up.

So how does this relate to the discovery of an unexpected bun in my oven? Well, when I realized I was pregnant, I had finally gotten a job that paid enough for a gal to actually live on, and might even keep my brain stimulated long enough for me to forget about my personal problems. I figured I was finally on the right track. So getting pregnant was the last thing I wanted to happen. I mean, if I hadn’t achieved my goals as a single girl with very little responsibilities, then having a baby was going to slow my already excruciatingly snail-like pace to a near-standstill, right?

An abortion just seemed like the most logical decision. And while my boyfriend didn’t seem to share my feelings about the situation, he respected my choice. Now, in the state where I live, an abortion requires 3 office visits. The first is an evaluation and counseling session. The second is the actual procedure, and the third is a checkup to make sure your parts are all okay afterwards. So we packed up and drove 90 minutes to the nearest Planned Parenthood for the first visit.

The first visit went off with out a hitch. I got an ultrasound and saw a ‘yolk sac’. They determined I was about 5 weeks along and I made a second appointment to have a chemical abortion. A chemical abortion is a series of pills you take that make your uterus inhospitable to a developing embryo. I was going to take the infamous abortion pill.

As an aside, many people like to call the so-called ‘morning-after pill’ an abortion pill. However, the morning-after pill is really a mega dose of the same hormones in your standard birth control pill. My understanding of the morning-after pill is that it prevents implantation of a fertilized egg. So if that’s an abortion, fine. But since as many 30 percent of pregnancies end this way naturally, many times without a woman even realizing she’s pregnant, it’s hard to muster up any moral outrage at the situation. I, on the other hand was taking the real deal. The real ‘abortion pill’. I would be terminating my pregnancy at about 5 weeks gestation. Approximately 25% of pregnancies end in miscarriage by this time. Plus, due to my health issues, I had a 30-50% of miscarrying naturally, anyway.

The night before I was to have my 2nd office visit at Planned Parenthood, my boyfriend started having a problem. He had vented to his friend about the situation, and rather than be supportive, his friend decided to get up on his moral soap box and tell him what to do. He called us selfish, irresponsible and said he would never be able to look at me the same way again. Lovely. So now my boyfriend isn’t so supportive anymore. He’s got questions. Were we being irresponsible? Selfish? I didn’t think so. After all we both struggled with serious emotional issues. We both deal with anger and rage issues, and I have been diagnosed as clinically depressed and deal with some pretty serious anxiety. Maybe it was selfish NOT to have an abortion. This is when things started to go down hill.  My confidence in my decision was gone. I didn’t want a baby OR an abortion! A deep uneasiness started to rise in my chest. This wasn’t going to be as easy or as simple as I thought.

In the end we decided to go ahead with the abortion. We took our second 90 minute trek to Planned Parenthood. The first appointment was easy. No drama. No nonsense. This time though, of course, there had to be protesters. Here comes the drama. We bypassed those insensitive fucks and made our way through security and up to the 3rd floor. We prepaid and sat down in the crowded waiting room and waited. And waited. And waited. As I waited, the anxiety started to build. I started to panic. I thought, what if this is what’s supposed to happen? What if I’m supposed  to have a baby? Maybe, ironically, having a baby would be the catalyst that would change my life? Fuckity, fuck, fuck, fuck. I just sat there, gripping the chair, the room swirling around me. What if they called my name now? What would I do? Could I go through with it?