Planned Parenthood is so much more than abortions.
The doctors and nurses at Planned Parenthood recognized the signs that I was suffering from bulimia before my own primary care physicians. Dr. S gently urged me to speak to a counselor, not just about the impending abortion, but about, as she put it, “whatever is making me want to harm myself.”
I had never looked at what I was doing has self-harm despite ratting out a friend in high school for doing the same thing. It was for me, control, and not to lose weight. I was cleansing my body of the toxins that were making it the abomination that my mother had convinced me it was.
Of course, I did not want to speak to a counselor, but I agreed to anyway, and by the middle of the following week, I was no longer pregnant. In the weeks that followed, I prepared to go to college. The Planned Parenthood counselor referred me to another therapist, a colleague of hers in Albany, where I would be attending college. I felt ready to leave, happy to be free of my mom and away from her verbal and emotional abuse.
Spiraling in college and being lonely.
Though still dating The Bad Boy, I knew that we were too different. We had been everything to each other for three years, yet a long distance relationship was not what either of us wanted. But we did not break up, agreeing to an open relationship. Our relationship, once enough to help me ignore the horrible words that my mother fed me, was no longer strong enough to shelter me from her hate. I began searching for something else.
I was lonelier now than I had ever felt before because I didn’t feel like I fit in. My mother was right– something was wrong with me. After only a month or two at the University of Albany, I began dating The Jamaican. And I threw myself into maintaining both relationships. When in school, The Jamaican and I were inseparable. While at home, I spent all my time with The Bad Boy.
And the verbal abuse at the hands of my mom continued.
The Jamaican often spoke to me and of me in the same manner. His words hurt so much that I began to withdraw. Often, The Jamaican reminded me that I wasn’t pretty and that I wasn’t “wifey” material. While engaged in a sexual relationship with me and calling me his girlfriend to my face, he’d deny that we were together to others. He’d accuse me of being too dark or too fat and used those as reasons to not introduce me to his mother.