We need to tell our abortion stories

‘I thought I was the only girl in Dublin who had had an abortion’

In 2010, at 19 years old, I had an abortion. We had responsibly used a condom, and it had broken. Although scared and worried, I assured myself that I would go to the family-planning clinic the next day and get the morning-after pill. During the three weeks between taking the pill and finding out I was pregnant I had no idea that the emergency contraceptive had failed me.

Abortion was something I thought I would never have to endure. I don’t think any women ever “plans” to get one in their fertile lifetime. It is usually something that is decided with a heavy heart.

I had turned 19 three months previously, in February. My parents had announced their separation less than a year before, and I was suffering depression. I could not have a baby. I could not care for and provide financially for a baby. I could not bring a child into the world with no expertise on adult life. I could not subject a child to my own troubles at the time. I had to terminate the pregnancy.

A close friend accompanied me on the trip. At the clinic I had a consultation with a doctor who asked me my reasons for obtaining an abortion and explained in detail what I could expect. This was followed by a scan, to determine if I was still pregnant, which was one of the most disheartening experiences of my life.

Having that cold jelly placed on your stomach as if you are about to happily view your first baby, but knowing that this is one you cannot carry, is so hard. But abortion is hard. Nothing about it is easy. No matter what people may think, every aspect of having an abortion is difficult for a woman. She is not heartless.

The aftermath of the abortion was okay physically, but mentally I did not regret anything. To this day I still do not regret anything. Having an abortion was the best possible choice I could have made in my situation.

I figured I must be the only young girl in Dublin who had had an abortion, because I had never heard of anyone who had. The reality now, it seems, is that there are plenty of young girls that have, but they are too afraid to talk about it, for fear of being judged and shamed. This needs to stop. Aisling Abbey

You can read a full account of Aisling Abbey's experience at bawdyfox.com/my-teenage-abortion-5-years-on

‘The loss of my child caused emptiness, grief and sadness’

I had an abortion, and it is the biggest regret of my life. If I had known back then that when I was three and a half weeks pregnant there was a little heart beating under my heart, my child would be alive today.

I listened to the rhetoric that there is nothing there, that it’s just a bunch of cells. To have an abortion you must dehumanise the unborn child, convince yourself that there is nothing there.

The loss of my child caused huge emptiness and unforeseen grief and sadness. This grief stole the best years of my life. I was damaged psychologically, emotionally and spiritually.

I participated in a retreat for healing, and I was finally able to grieve the loss of my child and give him dignity. I am now a facilitator of retreats here in Ireland, and my weekends are booked out in advance. So there are many women and men who regret their choice. Bernadette Goulding

‘I never took sides in the debate, until the unimaginable happened’

When asked to choose the precise point when a human life begins, I never departed from my position on the fence, never took either side of the pro-life/pro-choice construction.

Until the unimaginable became reality. Then I was forced to acknowledge and experience the trauma that thousands of Irish girls, teenagers and women had before me. I recognised that abortion and the Eighth Amendment were my battleground, too.

Panic, paranoia, anxiety, an inability to eat, sleep or function. Thoughts of escape, thoughts of suicide. I would be lying if I said at some point I didn’t encounter and wrestle with them all.

I hid the situation from a tight-knit family. Using different phone numbers, using aliases, deleting internet search histories after desperate hours trawling the web in search of support and guidance, I spun a delicate and elaborate web of lies.

An early flight over alone, scared, tired and emotionally numb, with the only solace the knowledge that at least five other Irish women on board the aircraft were enduring what I was.

Sitting in a packed attic of a residential estate with nearly 20 other women, I longed only not to have to be so painstakingly and heartbreakingly alone. Through every preprocedure screening I couldn’t stop the tears silently rolling down my face – fear, guilt, isolation, despair.

Afterwards, withering from the effects of the anaesthetic, I slipped unseen through the airport and boarded my flight back to the very place which had forced my banishment in the first instance.

Abortion is not the danger. It is the stigma, the fear, the isolation, the loneliness and the crippling lack of compassion. Whatever one’s choice or one’s stance on the issue, we must all be reunited in the opinion that something needs to change.

‘Every day of my life I revisit my 19-year-old self’

I had an abortion some three decades ago, when I was 19. I am sitting here and I can hardly see for the tears I am crying, not for me but for the little human being I aborted.

I got pregnant the first time I had sex and was shocked, frightened, disgraced.

I went over to Manchester. I met a neighbour in the clinic, a girl who lived doors away from me. We never speak of this. I cannot remember the procedure very well, but I know that it was painful, physically and emotionally. The emotions came later.

I travelled home again on the boat and left behind my secret in Manchester. But I never left it behind. I look now at my children. They will never know their mum’s secret.

Every day of my life I have moments when I revisit my 19-year-old self. Yes, I would have been the talk of the town for a day. Was that enough reason to rid myself of this baby?

It was a decision I came to on my own, with no help, no big discussions, no counselling. I went into the chapel for confession a few years later, only to be dismissed out of the confession box by the priest, who said he could not forgive this.

In all this I am so glad that information is there now – the morning-after pill, etc – but in Ireland women have to travel furtively. In 2015 this procedure should be available here.

‘I knew having another child would not be possible’

In October last year, just 40, I found out I was pregnant with a man who didn’t want any more children and who I knew I didn’t have a future with. I have a beautiful daughter who I love immensely, but even though I work full time I struggle financially. After rent, bills, food, etc, I normally have less than €10 until I get paid again.

So I knew having another child on my own would just not be possible. My daughter’s life would suffer. My life would suffer. And from previous life experiences I knew I would slip into depression, which would affect my daughter even more.

So, although many people say it is the hardest decision to make, to me it was obvious. The day after I found out I was pregnant, and told my boyfriend, I booked the abortion. He supported my decision and, thankfully, supported it financially as well.

I told my mum, and as she has been my rock all my life she was fully behind me this time, too. I know how lucky I am, as many girls don’t have that support and have to do it alone.

On the morning of the abortion, when I got into the taxi the driver instantly asked me was I going to the clinic. I smiled and asked how he knew. He told me all the Irish women that get into his taxi are going there. I asked how many does he bring there, and he said maybe three or four a day.

The procedure was quick and painless. I was lucky that I had my boyfriend with me, but I wondered how many girls made that scary journey abroad on their own. It angers me that we are shunned and banished to another country. I am a criminal in my country, according to my government. Someone else has made the decision about what I can and can’t do with my body and my life and my future.

I do not in the slightest regret what I did. For my daughter’s future, I did the right thing. And I’m proud that I was strong enough to go through it and take responsibility for my own actions.

‘I did not have time to come to terms with the fact that I was raped’

I had an abortion when I was 18. It was deeply traumatic and defined a layer of unhappiness that lasted the better part of a decade before finally dissipating and healing.

This trauma, sadness and intermittent despair were not due to my choice to have an abortion. I knew every minute since I booked my flight all those years ago that I was doing the right thing for me. No, this awful feeling was due to the weight of judgment I felt from this country, a weight I was too young to handle and brush off.

I had an unprotected one-night stand, and I was raped the next weekend. Either of two men could have been the father.

I did not have time to come to terms with the fact that I was raped. I rang the clinic alone, booked the flight and bought towels.

It was all very decent and very direct in the clinic. They ensured I knew what I was doing and that I knew what my options were should I not go through with a termination. I got in a taxi several hours later and returned, no longer pregnant, to the country that had failed me.

I moved on and tried to change the person I was, deeply scarred and doing my best to pretend otherwise. I changed almost everything about myself. It took years to come to terms with the fact that I had no problem with my abortion but that my biggest problem was the judgment of the Constitution on my womb at that time of my life.

And then, when I started to heal from that, I said to myself that I needed to see a counsellor about the fact that I was raped. I moved on, came back to myself, met a man, and had beautiful children and a nice, normal life.

I have forgiven myself for my doubt, for my self-loathing, for my lack of self-worth. But I never needed to forgive myself for having had an abortion.

‘My ex wouldn’t have made a good father. More importantly, I wasn’t ready’

I had an abortion. The sentence I never thought I would say.

The absolute guilt that tears up inside me isn’t because I made the wrong decision. It was the lie. My mother and my sisters not knowing. My sister who cannot have kids thinking, How could you do that? That was her opinion on abortion, I remember. Would she think the same of her baby sister?

I wasn’t ready to have a child, and he wasn’t either. It was our choice. My ex wouldn’t have made a good father. He probably never will. More importantly, I wasn’t ready. I wouldn’t have coped. It was the right choice for me.

It was the biggest lie of my life. I knew those nurses and that lovely doctor touching my hand; they knew no one knew. Another Irish girl about to tell a lie. I’m damaged because of that stigma our country holds.

Now I am with a new partner. I sit here thinking I’m still carrying that secret and I always will. But I hope Ireland opens its cloudy eyes to our poor women and girls travelling abroad to do something they feel is the right choice for them.

‘Truth be told, sometimes I feel I made a hasty decision’

In my late 20s I had a one-year-old child and a husband who was abusive. I was also pregnant despite being on the pill.

I called my best friend, and we agreed that the only choice I had was to terminate the pregnancy and leave the marriage.

My reasoning was pure and simple: I already had a toddler who depended on me for love and support; how could I be of any use to her if I had to give my attention to another baby without a second parent there to foster her growth and development? I wanted my child to grow up knowing that they were loved, valued and special to me, and I knew I wouldn’t be capable of that if I had to split my attentions.

I flew out straight from work one evening. The next day I caught a taxi to the clinic. It was quite surreal. I remember being in a “holding room” with about four or five other women ranging in age from 17 to 45. We traded stories. They had all been brought to the clinic by a mum, sister, aunt or close female friend.

The 17-year-old wanted to study medicine and knew she wasn’t ready to have a baby. Her mum wouldn’t let her tell her dad for fear of repercussions on the young man. The fortysomething woman had five children already. Her husband had no idea she was here, but then mine didn’t either.

Later on I woke up in my hospital gown in a small ward filled with the familiar faces from the earlier discussions. I turned to the young woman in the bed next to me and asked when we were going to have our surgery. She told me that we were already back.

I returned to Ireland a few hours later. I have never told my ex-husband or my family. I had an infection following the procedure.

I have shared my story with close friends. Some don’t agree with my actions, but then they’ve never worn my shoes and would never tell me what to do with my body.

I went on to have more children in a different relationship, when the time was right for me and my daughter.

I would love to say that I have no regrets. But, truth be told, sometimes I feel I made a hasty decision. I had no pretermination counselling from a professional, just a good friend who hated my husband.

‘Edwards syndrome . . . Chances of survival: slim to none’

At the 18-week scan something is not right. Could we wait while a second opinion is sought? Finally the amniocentesis is done. Two weeks of waiting, then the confirmation: Edwards syndrome, a chromosomal abnormality. Chances of survival are slim to none. My partner and I have already agreed we will go to England if the news is bad.

I have no recollection of the flight to London. We sit in the waiting room and I quietly sob. Listening to two teenage girls, one trying to convince the other to keep her baby. They look no older than 16.

As I am so far along in the pregnancy I have to be put to sleep for the procedure. That means a day of hanging around, waiting beforehand.

I am not religious, but I have a picture of a saint and holy water my mother-in-law has given me. I am not sure if I have ever cried as much as I do that day. We cannot bring her body home, so I ask the nurse to sprinkle her with the holy water and say a prayer.

I am groggy afterwards, numb.

The weeks of crying and numbness turned to months, now years. Time doesn’t really heal all wounds. There is always an ugly scar underneath. You just learn to cope with the pain.

We did what was right for us. Some women carry on their pregnancies even when the diagnosis is bleak. I did not have the strength to do that. We should all have the right to make that difficult decision without the added risk and complications of having to travel abroad.

‘I am a man, and in no way do we regret our decision’

I am a man, and together we made that journey two years ago. In no way do we regret our decision; we did not have the financial, emotional or logistical capacity to deal with a child.

Obviously I didn’t go through the physical procedure, but on the flight I could feel the air steward’s gaze (disapproving or not?) at what we were about to do. One or two things went wrong over there, and had to be dealt with a few days after we returned.

‘I’m not to blame that I chose to have sex and the condom broke’

I’m a 38-year-old woman. I’m married. In 2001 I had an abortion. And I’ve never felt guilty about it. Or shameful. Or ever really talked about it.

That’s not to say that I don’t think about it, sometimes. When I hear people who believe abortion is wrong try and make the argument that “all” women who have abortions are racked with guilt afterwards . . . I do not make a fuss. I just silently say to myself, “I don’t.”

When I hear people around me – colleagues, passing acquaintances, distant family members – let things slip into conversation things that illustrate the contempt and hatred they feel for “women who murder their own babies’’, I just silently say to myself, “I’m not to blame that I chose to have sex that night and the condom broke.”

When I see people in positions of public power write and say things that express this weird, twisted need to have power over women’s own bodies, wombs and medical choices . . . I do not make a fuss. I just silently say to myself, “You will never control my body.”

I’m one of the many women who every day leave this country to have abortions in other countries. Leaving with a choice that we’ve made for ourselves. Returning to our lives. Not making a fuss. I don’t make a fuss. And I daren’t either.

I daren’t put my own personal choices “out there’’ to be judged or looked down on by people who don’t understand that the decision I made14 years ago was the right decision for me, for my life, for my body. My choice.

‘We are now in our 30s and have two beautiful children’

As a final-year student in university I got pregnant by my boyfriend, who is now my husband. We scraped the money together for the dreaded trip to England and kept it a secret for many years. We have never felt any guilt or remorse, only the feeling that we would have been judged had we told the truth.

In time we did tell some close friends and family. We are now in our 30s and have two beautiful children. It was the right decision for us at that time, and it is truly shameful that this so-called modern state is still forcing women (and men) to go through this expensive and difficult ordeal in a foreign county, like common criminals.

‘When I arrived back I thought I would be arrested and charged’

In 1984 I became pregnant. I was very clear I did not want to continue with the pregnancy. With support I made contact with the nondirective counselling available at the time, and arrangements were made for the travel to London. The man responsible said he would help me financially but failed to do so. As a student I was totally dependent on the amazing care and generosity of friends (who had little or nothing themselves).

I was very frightened at the time. The fallout from the 1983 referendum was raw. There was huge societal conflict and a viciousness towards women like me who had advocated for pro-choice opportunities. This was now very real for me.

I had an awful boat trip back to Ireland, was sick all the way, and when I arrived I had a panic attack, thinking I would be arrested and charged. I collapsed at the quays and was found by a fellow passenger who knew me to see from college. He took me to the home of a friend who had been awaiting me with a bed and tea.

Thirty years on, having spent many an hour supporting women (and, indeed, some very empathic men) deal with this complex issue, am I any the wiser? Sad, yes; ashamed, not now. Traumatised, yes. Not by the act itself but more because of the very insidious and vengeful consequences.

‘Do I say nothing and play it safe, or do I come out?’

After reading Róisín Ingle’s story last weekend I was immediately empowered to support women who have made this journey and who will continue to be forced abroad. But then I stopped myself tweeting the story. I use my Twitter for work. I am self-employed. I advise my clients not to get involved in religion or politics in a professional capacity.

I, too, had an abortion. I, too, have no regrets. Do I say nothing and play it safe? Or do I come out and stand in solidarity with the women and their right to choose?

For now I will continue to guard my privacy, but I will certainly take a long look at myself and my life, and see if I too can’t tell my story as bravely as Róisín has.

These accounts have been edited