Part II
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Did I want to drive off the Key Bridge for about a week after my abortion?
Yes.
Was I ever going to get enough speed to get over the sidewalk and barriers in DC rush hour traffic?
No.
I didn’t really cry again until after the procedure. I wish I could say I stayed home and lit candles, mourning the loss and finding my spirituality and peace with the situation that was happening, but I didn’t. I don’t remember what I did that weekend, besides buy extra thick maxi pads on the way home and get grossed out at the heavy loss of blood every time I sat on the toilet. I didn’t take a soothing bath and my boyfriend was out of town on a trip he couldn’t cancel, so I didn’t really have a hug.
Like many difficult things in my life so far — moving myself and all my things to a new state multiple times, managing a long-term toxic and harassing environment, leaving active duty and creating some sort of life — I did it by myself with the wisdom, or lack of, that I had developed so far.
By Monday, I was ready to leave my apartment. I hadn’t truly faced the experience and I needed a distraction. I strapped on another diaper of a pad and went off to work.
The walk from the car to the office was cold and tiring. The wind found its way through my jacket and my stomach cramped.
Oh here it comes again.
I wore black pants in case anything seeped through my layers. The glass automatic doors slid open for me and I stopped at the bathroom on the top floor.
Pretty nice up here.
I had figured all the restrooms on each floor were the same, but I guess this level had a few more executives and perhaps nicer accommodations. Before walking into the stall, I caught myself in the mirror.
Yikes, I am pale.
I didn’t have much color in my face and my lips matched the same dull palette. I was quite literally drained in the process of draining myself. But, it was winter in DC, so what stressed out government worker wasn’t a little drained? I blended in easily.
