October 15, 2024
By Jen Stanbro
She lived in an abusive home.
The kind of pathological torture which detached medical journals call ‘complex trauma.’ The kind of suffering that will never reach the awareness of most. This was her third pregnancy even though she’d just turned 16.
None of them were her choosing, nor were the actions that caused them, but the connections she felt to the souls inside her were no less powerful. So when each beating brought about a miscarriage, her sense of loss tore her apart in ways that left jagged chasms in her soul. She couldn’t go through that again. She wouldn’t tell anyone this time.
She thought about those beatings as she walked toward the clinic, knees weak, shaking uncontrollably, trying not to think about what she was about to do.
As she approached the building, picketers and protesters aimed hateful accusations and shaming glares at her. She tried to block them out, but their words only fed the self-hate that was her loyal companion. Her long sleeves covered the evidence.
They knew nothing of what she’d endured. She looked perfectly healthy and normal to them. Just some horrible, self-centered, irresponsible teen trying to kill her baby to keep her life of promiscuity easy. They could not fathom what was really going on, what choices she never had on any day. And they obviously didn’t care.
They only stood there, holding signs proclaiming the sanctity of life as they told her that hers was worthless to them.