He was a heroin addict. I was 22 with the barbed wires of childhood poverty still pulling at my skin. A descendent of endless generations of teen mothers, I cut my teeth on a lineage of trauma, cycles of abuse and pain I couldn’t escape. But this abortion would be part of my story, one of the steps necessary to plow a new journey – for myself, for my family, for the women who have yet to come.
He was a heroin addict looking for a meal ticket; I was 22 and waiting to be rescued from my circumstances. He compelled me to keep it, but I knew better than to accept the pleadings of a conman. But there was no rescue on the horizon. I had learned, and I knew, that nobody was coming to save me. So, I chose to save myself.
With a womb full of heroin addicted sperm and an egg still trembling with generational fear, I would quickly find myself gripping the pills that would remove a mountain from my path. Planned Parenthood’s accessibility and compassion drove my resolve, dropping me deeply into a well of gratitude for the choice that was afforded me by my fore sisters in 1973. Decades after their landmark decision, they were saving my life by giving me the option to choose a path other than what had been destined for me.
He was a heroin addict; I was 22. As the pills took hold, I slept. I dropped swiftly and silently into a rest that liberated my body from what felt like a condemnation. When I awoke, my body heaved to and fro, an exorcism of who I was, an exorcism from my circumstances. And in that moment, decisions were made. And promises too. To myself, to my future children and to my sisters, the women who would also one day need to make a choice. This choice.
The choice to say no to what isn’t part of your story. The choice to break a lineage of teen motherhood and ensuing trauma for the women and children of my family. The choice to sacrifice in favor of my future children. The choice to pull a square peg from a round hole, the choice to choose you, choose myself, choose us, choose change. To choose.
-Kayla Scott