pro-choice

Abortion activism. Maybe it’s insulting to the men around us because we’re admitting we’ve slept with men who woudn’t make good fathers. People we realized couldn’t look after our needs in a pregnancy, couldn’t provide for a child. Our self-worth was low, so was theirs. Our consciousness wasn’t all there and future-orientated, neither was theirs. Maybe asking for abortion access is a reminder of every past and future lack of love. (Even though that isn’t the real issue at hand — bodily autonomy, reproductive rights, medical care in pregnancy etc. But the issues ‘felt’ during the debate are a different story.)

To what extent is love a choice? Don’t we want to get swept off our feet- To consent, but to have no formal egoic choice-making in the process- A deep life-changing feeling, not a clinicality. Yes; I could choose a lover, but deep down I still want him to choose me first. I want a divine man, one who is brave enough to tell me he chooses me, and then to listen to me for my agreement. To respect women doesn’t mean to take men down, nor does pro-choice mean we are making all the decisions from our ego. That gets lost in the debate because we’ve been hurt, and are screaming for justice.

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Our voices will make the future. If you don’t like it, please teach us. We’re listening.

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Ask each other what we really think. Don’t be afraid of the answer. I’m deeply interested in knowing what you really think. Everyone changes.

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I’m seeing that people in loving relationships don’t have to be pro-choice for themselves. They’re not worried about it.

This whole debate, seeing the words spoken against each other, the hateful misunderstanding, has cut into me again. Because along with the lovers, the women-haters rally against pro-choice. And I don’t want to cut into the lovers to get them to understand, nor do I feel safe talking with the women-haters. Nor do I want to admit to anyone hostile how hurt I am. So I wait and focus on myself.

But I am hurt. People tell me to put on power, but I’m sad. I learned from childhood that we rely to some extent on each other. The priest said,

Do you know what hell is? It’s a long long table filled with delicious food. But everyone seated around has their hands tied, and cannot eat it. They smell it all day long, and starve. He said, you know what heaven is? It’s the same thing, but the people, even with their hands tied, are feeding each other. So they are happy, and never go hungry.

Now it’s, Put On Your Oxygen Mask Before Assisting Your Neighbor. And they’re right, too. But it is pointless to reach for the air, without faith that there’s anyone else there.

So I showed up at the shelter to put tinfoil food on plates and fold clothes, help you find boots for the first job in awhile. Where no one gives af that I lost half my hair from a disease I can’t talk about, that I’m not wearing makeup about it and won’t speak for awhile. I listen about his kids. We talk about music and winter. They were happy to see me again. I’m just remembering, that helped more than trying to resuscitate myself.

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