The Pregnant Pause

I’ve admitted to being a walking bag of contradictions in the past, but never before have I felt so confused and exhausted by my conflicting emotions of deep regret one morning and warm relief the next. After vast amounts of thought, my brain still remains a giant plate of scrambled eggs. I should apologise in advance because I'm about to write my feelings all over your Internet and it's likely to upset a lot of people.

By age 45, half of all women will have had an unintended pregnancy and one in three will have had ended theirs, yet there remains so much shame and stigma surrounding the issue. I haven’t yet been able to say a lot about this openly in real life and most accounts I’ve found on the Internet were either very pro-life or very pro-choice. What happened to all the voices that were slightly muddled or unsure?

I’m aware of the floodgate writing about this opens, and it honestly is such a terrifying process to actually sit down, dig deep, and churn out all these words about something so sad and so personal, and then lay it out here for third party consumption. But the more I think about it, the more I feel that it is important for me to try to be as transparent and honest as I can, especially with other women, because a woman's ability to choose whether or not she wants to terminate a pregnancy – for whatever reason – is often under attack.

I have found the experience of abortion to be greatly uneven throughout the world. It varies not just by law but also by upbringing, culture, race, income, age, religion, education, family; by whether a boyfriend offered a hand to hold at the clinic or told her matter-of-factly that there are already enough human beings in the world as it is; by the kindness and warmth or callousness and flippancy of the attending nurses; by whether she had to order the pill online because it is illegal in her town or battled protesters outside a clinic. Some feel so ashamed that their family and friends will never hear of their pain; others feel stronger for having lived through the experience and regret nothing about their decision.

It isn’t every day that a story comes back full circle to bite its author directly in the arse, but such is the case for me, who has wittingly joked about pregnancy scares for a decade. I kid you not, bitch is knocked up! (Ba dum tss.)

I'm probably the least reliable narrator right now but I want to attempt to talk about this without it sounding like a fancy fur coat that everyone is keen to try on, only to have it thrown back at me in revulsion because we all know nobody would ever deliberately wear something so vile.

In my gut, I knew what I wanted to do. But the moment logic and reason caught up with my instincts, I did the thing I thought I'd never do. Suddenly it became apparent that my life right now was not conducive to raising a happy, healthy child. Even though I was in a much better position compared to the many young victims of rape who kept their babies in spite of it all, I couldn't bring myself to put a child or myself through a lifetime of chaos. Even though I'd always trusted my intuition, I turned my back on it when it really mattered.

Adoption. Murderer. Reckless. Selfish. Irresponsible. Let the judgements roll...

I will not delve into all the intimate details, such as how did it happen and wasn’t he wearing a condom and how far along are you and what did he say and is he going to take responsibility for it and whose is it, actually and are you sad and does your family know and who have you told and who can I tell and when will you make an announcement and does Nadia know and is it okay for me to tell her when I see her tonight and who is going to pay and how much is it going to cost, exactly and does Nadia know because I feel like she needs to hear it from me and are you seeing someone else and what's going on between you guys anyway and does he have a new girlfriend and what are their names and how much do they weigh and are weekends lonely and are you happier and do you think you will ever regret this and could you just tell me exactly every detail from the very beginning especially the bad stuff?

“It will hurt,” my doctor warned. No shit. I wasn’t expecting an abortion to feel like a milk bath and massage. I had 3 doses of medication inserted into my baby box before I felt any contractions. I cramped and bled the entire weekend before returning on Monday for an ultrasound. Somehow the amoeba was surviving. Just 6 weeks and already it was a little bit resistant, a little bit stubborn. =)

Because it was still early in the pregnancy, we could afford to wait until Friday before we made our next move. My sesame seed had evolved into a peanut by then and I think I saw a heartbeat on the screen but I didn’t dare ask. It's weird the attachment you can have to something you can't even physically hold. I spent another Friday afternoon at the clinic for a second round of medication. I heard a small splash when I sat on the toilet to pee that evening. Using a pair of chopsticks, I fished out a lump of curdled blood attached to a grey thing the size of a ping pong ball. It was surreal. I thought, do I just flush the toilet? And then I did.

Since then, I’ve had six bowls of really awful herbal soup cooked by my mum, two hours of sleep per night, ten plates of steamed Pomfret, forty cups of bitter tea, approximately 3,000 iron pills, and a partridge in a pear tree.

Even though I have amazing friends who guide me and take care of me and save me from my darkest days, everyone has his or her own life to return to and wants me to do the same. Everyone else has moved on and is a little tired of my situation, even though I am still in transition as I try to make sense of everything that has happened. Unless my baby daddy texted me something appalling recently, or there are some new boyfriends and girlfriends in the mix, most people don’t want or know how to talk anymore about the physical reality of going through an abortion and the psychological burdens that accompany it.

Except your mother.

It’s one thing to be tough and stalwart. It’s another to bear such extraordinary pain alone. Don’t do it. Even though it feels like nobody else understands the specific ways you are in pain, you have to be brave enough to show some weakness. You have to trust people, especially the people you love and who you know love you back. You have to give them the chance to come through in the clutch. What’s the point otherwise?

A mother is like your conscience only much louder. And nosier. In fact, your conscience probably stays out of your own affairs far more often than your mum does, which is not so much because while your conscience is negligent or busy, your mum is always watching and you are nothing without her, really.

Ultimately, any gut-wrenching experience makes you see things differently. It tears apart your ego and breaks your heart so new light can come in. It also reminds you of the simple truths that we purposely forget every day or else would never get out of bed. Things like, condoms break and pills get skipped and pulling out seems good in theory. And shit happens. And it can happen to anyone. The best outcome is that you learn a little more about what you can handle and you stay soft through the pain. Perhaps you feel a little bit wiser now. Maybe your story can be of help to others if they should ever need a hand navigating such supremely shitty times.

The fact that anyone has to feel ashamed of his or her personal decision is extremely unfortunate. The countless women who feel scared and alone when they end up needing to have an abortion are the reason I speak freely on the matter. My hope is that one day, all women will be able to feel the same way. That being said, even though I am not ashamed of my abortion, and I will never be ashamed of being a woman who exercised her rights, getting an abortion really does suck a lot. Really. Just to reiterate: getting an abortion sucks.

As I’m learning, saying I'm pro-choice and living that decision are not entirely the same things. When you decline the gift you're given, will the universe offer you that gift again? In truth, most days I feel like I need to be punished for getting pregnant in the first place, so I alienate myself and am hesitant about asking for help or support that I'm not sure I deserve. I weep at anything, even detergent commercials. Some days I wake up and it's almost too much to open the door of guilt and regret because it is daunting and overwhelming. But it’s precisely the stuff we ignore that haunts us further down the road.

So, I dunno, you guys. I'm waiting for the day I wake up feeling like my whole self again. But until then, I think we just try to do whatever we can and forgive ourself the rest.

The End

I could write more words about how different we are, but I won’t. The way we processed the world around us, the way we functioned, the way we expressed ourselves was just the tip of the iceberg. And frankly, acknowledging our differences had always been the easiest part of this game.

Still, our differences have had taken some getting used to. This seeming to be the one who desires rather than the one who is desired. Seeming to be the one to extend the goodnight kiss beyond sweet dreams and into let me hold you. The one who thinks in the middle of it, my god, you are handsome. The one who sometimes whispers, thank you, I'm so lucky. The one who, though smaller, afterwards makes up the outside part of the spoon.

I used to think that falling in love was something that just happened to us. My younger self likened it to getting hit by a magnificent force – like say, a school bus – something that was beyond our control and dependent on the stars. But what I'm beginning to understand is that love is an action we take. It is a decision we make to put in the effort to know someone, to bother to understand someone, while simultaneously letting that someone into our own life.

It's a feeling like no other when you want to know someone so quickly and so exhaustively and so urgently that you wish you could do it via osmosis. You want to give of yourself and be given to, freely and equally. Because all there really is at the core of any relationship is what you offer up and what you get back.

Being the highly individualistic people that we are, most of us move at our own speed. One evening before falling asleep, I was asking Guillaume about his favourite childhood memory, what his parents were like, the different countries he’d visited, and so on, when he said something very strange. “Stop trying to figure me out,” he sighed. Surprised by his request, which I took as an unforgivable affront to my honour, I wanted to scream. But my voice was too quiet, it didn’t leave my head.

That was the moment our relationship stalled. It became apparent that the sharing was no longer mutual, and our differences began bubbling to the surface. Someone (Guillaume) at some point revealed himself or herself (himself, really) to be a withholder, and the rejection stung (owwwww).

People – even the wrong ones, or rather, especially the wrong ones – come into our lives to teach us the lessons we can’t learn on our own. And it's not our place to kick up a fuss about it. We just have to sit down, listen, nod occasionally, let their words seep into our pores, and then get the hell out before everything bursts into flames. And often it's only in hindsight that you realize people put up walls around themselves perhaps because they are terrified of being known. (Or perhaps they simply wish to keep you out cuz you disrupt their sleep and irritate them to no end.)

I hope I don't just speak for myself when I say this, but I'd like to believe we held a mirror up to each other and saw ourselves and the world in a more dimensional way that enhanced our understanding of the meaning of life. (Deep stuff...) Our character defects – such as my inability to manage my emotions and impulses, and his blatant disregard for and avoidance of his own emotions – became alarmingly clear.

Then came the test, an opportunity to face my demons and overcome them for personal growth, which I dodged and subsequently flunked. I succumbed to my feelings of anger, hurt, and sadness, by going down the cowardice path and opting for short-term relief. The hardest but right thing to do was reach towards him, the very person who erected a barrier between us, and ask for more understanding, acceptance, and appreciation. Asking and listening is a craft that takes precise cultivation, effort, and some trial and error because of the variances in our wiring. But when you’re with someone you truly love, it’s worth taking the time to figure out. As long as you lovebirds share similar values, being with someone vastly different from your own person can be a very eye-opening and nourishing experience.

The best policy is to never leave someone for someone else. Only end relationships because they have stopped fulfilling their purpose, not because you think someone else seems like a better fit. News to no one: nobody is a better fit. That oasis in the distance? A mirage, my friend. But like every valuable lesson I have ever learnt, I had to live it to learn it. Side note: I’m quite certain I did something horrible in a past life, like drown bunnies just for laughs. Or am I just really fucking stubborn?

This narrative of mucking something up on my first attempt is a recurring theme I have grown used to after years of testing boundaries, pushing buttons, playing with fire, and walking along the edge. Sometimes, I get another chance to make it right. Other times, I don’t. Life is a big experiment. Isn’t it funny? No it’s not. But you’re a scientist, goddamnit, Guillaume. You know this.

So, there. This is what the end looks like. And that’s all right because happiness comes from staring your mistakes dead in the eye and owning them. Happiness comes from knowing that it’s beautiful and worthwhile to take that leap of faith anyway. Happiness comes from trying to be brave, to always choose the potential for growth over the fear of getting hurt. Happiness comes from realizing that you're strong enough to survive it, strong enough to change from it. Sometimes it works and sometimes it doesn’t – the outcome is irrelevant. What matters is your belief that even as a quirky entity with major design flaws, you are still someone who deserves everything under the sun. This is how you keep the love alive – with or without a boyfriend. Once you embrace exactly who you are and figure out what you want from this life, you ignite a fire within you that no one can put out.

It takes a certain kind of audacity to believe in happiness, to believe in love, to believe that you are special. This is no small feat for intelligent people in particular. If you’re not someone who can bop along while foolishly metabolizing the world’s superficial jingles and then regurgitate them in a signature brand of empty cheer ("Let go and let God," "c'est la vie," "everything happens for a reason!"), you'll know this is not an easy thing to buy into. It is not a modest decision to prioritise happiness and ask for love. Quite the opposite, it is bold and greedy. And it is embarrassing to try and fail. And I give props to anyone who tries and fails. And then tries and then fails. Again. Over and over.

The Apple & The Orange

This Just In: Guillaume and I are wired in completely different ways.

He is a careful thinker whose default mode is ‘Quiet Contemplation.’ By the time he actually gets around to vocalizing his thoughts, he's thought things through thoroughly and drawn an informed conclusion. Whereas I idea generate in real time and ramble on without a filter, often incoherently. I don't stand a chance sparring with him at an intellectual level – or any level, really. While he's considered just about every possible scenario, I've only begun percolating the necessary information. In the end, everything slips off my tongue sounding embryonic, inferior, and just plain stupid.

Resultantly, he usually spends a good amount of our time together trying to wizen me up. Weekends with him remind me of enrichment camp, when he whips out his phone at dinner and reads me stuff off Wikipedia. Though in the moment my mind is like, "sheesh, babe, just let me eat my chawanmushi in peace." I'm always glad to return home with tidbits of new knowledge. He has never hit me in the head for being dumb, but I do see how explaining things to me is energy draining to him. And sometimes, like when he translates Le Petit Prince, he wears a look of exasperation, thinking I don’t make the effort to meet him halfway in comprehension. Which is partly true, as he mumbles a lot and I usually try to avoid using my brain excessively outside of the office.

Apart from the quality of his thoughts, Guillaume also has the ability to think long range into the future and anticipate the implications of any action. He's figured out how the world works and has an inkling of where things are headed, and most significant of all, he can foresee what's coming down the pike. Or perhaps not, as we will later learn as the story unfolds.

In stark contrast, my field of vision is limited to 2 steps in front of me and I'm slightly schizophrenic. I flutter from topic to topic and jump to quick (and often inaccurate) conclusions. Touch-and-go is my forte, and I oscillate between random extremes from one minute to the next. My exploration process moves fast and works largely on my intuition and hunches. I'm absolutely no good at articulating any opinions and information with supporting data and metrics, which just so happens to be his bread and butter.

Guillaume is the ultimate planner. Not in an overbearing control freak kind of way. But more like, “wow, how does he do that, what is this sorcery?” kind of way. He seems to have mapped out how he's going to behave in future situations and gleans energy from determining the best of all possible approaches. Though extremely capable of improvising, he has shown to rapidly lose energy (not to mention patience) if he is repeatedly called to act without deliberating for prolonged periods of time.

I severely lack the foresight and focus that Guillaume is overflowing with. My plans almost always veer off-course to the point where I don't even try to make any concrete plans or detailed outlines these days. Taking everything in stride, I've learnt how to thrive on the excitement of not knowing what comes next and embrace the possibility that anything can happen. No idea where to have dinner tonight, "oooooooh..." I squeal in delight. "What! I thought you had a place in mind," Guillaume says, with no faith in serendipity and visibly annoyed that we now have to spend the first part of our lovely evening wandering the streets hand in hand, in search of food.

Aside from our minds being very dissimilar, so are our dispositions poles apart. Guillaume likes to be in a bit of discomfort. To drive, drive, drive things forward. To raise, raise, raise the bar. It's admirable, really. And it is the secret sauce to his competence and efficiency, which he prizes above all. Being a little agitated, angry, and unfulfilled is what pushes him to actualize his goals.

I, on the other hand, want fun! Harmony. Play. Joy. Cuddles. Relax. Joy. Joy. Chocolate sprinkles. Yay. Picking up on social nuances and recognizing someone's uneasiness and then comforting them is one of the few things that comes to me quite naturally. Sometimes it's just what he needs, but not as much or as often as my instincts tell me. Most days he doesn't want to be talked out of his mildly perturbed state, especially when it's about something he wants to accomplish.

As if discrepancies in our thinking and temperaments aren't enough, our intensions always seem to be lost in translation in our communication. While the French-speaking population likes to ask, "et mon cul, c'est du poulet?" the English-speaking population almost never asks, "is my ass made out of chicken?"

Guillaume likes s p a c e. A lot of it. He needs physical space. When we first started spending nights together, he (6.3 ft with slight tummy) would often accuse me (5.3 ft with cute pooch) of crushing him in his sleep and blame his backaches on the way my limbs tangled with his in my sleep. But more than that, he needs mental space with his ideas, so he can ponder and apply himself accordingly to make wonderful shit happen in real life. And most of all, he needs emotional space. He hates stating the obvious and lives by the saying "actions speak louder than words," with his assumption that his behavior makes clear his feelings. Emotion is the one realm that logic does not always apply to, and it is therefore his personal kryptonite and something he would like not to have to talk about at all costs.

To his dismay, I am full of feelings – and the unregulated kind at that. I am constantly feeling the feels, yet have no clue how to apply logic and reason to guide my expression and acceptance of them. Dealing with me when I'm emotional makes him feel out of his depth. I be like, "helllllooooooo? Hi! Hi! Honey! Hi! Hi! Are you here? Can you be affectionate with me? Affirm me, maybe?" Often he tries to talk me out of my feelings so we can all move on, act rationally, and avoid this uncomfortable situation.

His need for space in his operating style makes me feel lost in the cold at moments, abandoned even. For someone who, like a pup, constantly tries to lessen the space between herself and everyone else, his perplexing cat-like behavior is hard to compute and I'm prone to making him feel invaded. Though I have not dared to utter the words "I love you" in a romantic context since the demise of my last real relationship just over a year ago, I have screamed it a thousand times in my eagerness to play and talk and have fun together. And conceivably, so has he, in the meals he prepares for me, his willingness to do yoga on Sunday mornings, and letting me leave my bathing suit and necklaces and toothbrush lying around his apartment.