My friend-ending secret. Here it is.

I have a secret. It’s incredibly juicy and I’m sure my town locals will be abuzz about what a monster I am. I’m sure some will say, “Ohhh THAT’S what’s wrong with her.” While others will likely just mutter, “Makes sense. That girl’s a total whore.” I can’t argue that there aren’t “things wrong” with me. And if I’m being totally honest here, I probably don’t have much of a solid argument against my promiscuity. But those have nothing to do with my secret.
My miserable secret is that I’m one of those soulless monsters who had an abortion. I’m not sure if sharing my secret will make me feel better, encourage others to speak up, open the door for strangers to hate me as much as I hate me or offer some kind of sick sympathy to help me cope. I’m not even entirely sure which one of those scenarios I’m pulling for.
I absolutely know that I will lose friends for this. But I need to share my story, because in the great and disgusting battle of right and wrong, good and bad, life or death, there is one voice we’re not hearing; the woman in the stirrups.
My voice was stolen. My story shunned. My feelings obliterated and covered up. The emotional hell that I’ve been wading in for almost a year has been ignored.

I’m going to give you the abridged version of my story. You’ll be getting the when, the why, the aftermath and my closing arguments. Just be human. That’s all I ask of you. Just. Be. Human.

I have three amazing children and a little Poppy seed in heaven, or wherever poppy seeds go. I take medicine for anxiety, depression, birth-control and once upon a time a medicine to clear up some acne. My doctor made it very clear that getting pregnant while on this medicine was, to put it nicely, bad news bears. If memory serves correctly she even made me take a pregnancy test before writing the script.
Great news, my acne went away like a champ! I’m basically just radiating with beauty and luxurious skin that makes blind people see again.
But my birth control failed.
I became terribly tired all of a sudden. I could take a quick four hour power nap and wake up in time for bed.
My depression started taking little picnic breaks without me. One minute I’m giving the kids a bath and the next I’m yelling at my boyfriend for faking the flu. Who doesn’t fake an internal body temperature to get out of towel duty? You know, that old chestnut.

I don’t remember buying a test. My boyfriend, aka my giraffe said I asked him to.
I don’t remember the above details, they’re provided to you compliments of my boyfriend.
I don’t remember looking at the test, telling my giraffe or falling to the floor in a heap of hysterics. I ask my Giraffe to retell the events leading up to the test. I think even before abortion was an option we vocalized, I knew it was going to be the end result.

I wouldn’t abort because I was pregnant by a man who had only been my boyfriend for a short time, even though I was.
I wouldn’t abort because I was poor as shit, even though I was (am)
I wouldn’t abort if I knew my baby would be special needs or have a greater risk of being special needs, even though the risk was exceptionally high.

I wouldn’t abort because my divorce wasn’t final, even though it wasn’t and still isn’t.

I aborted because there was a reason this doctor’s warning stuck out to me so vividly. Her warnings about the dangers of pregnancy were a joke to me, before I got pregnant obviously. I humored myself with how silly it was that a medicine to treat simple adult acne could kill a baby. “Seems perfectly safe! Bottoms up!”
I aborted because I’ve been a NICU mom. I’ve served my time in that war zone and I’m not going back voluntarily. I take medicine to help me cope with the dead babies, the broken babies, the probably died after I left babies that I was surrounded by.
I aborted because I can’t stand the idea of dressing my children up for a funeral of their sibling who took one ragged breath and died.
I aborted because I was scared.
I aborted because every part of me knew this baby wouldn’t live.

We had ultrasounds. We heard the heartbeat. We shared our concerns with a doctor and then another. The general theme remained the same and the word “blob” was affectionately used.

Our baby was the size of a poppy seed. So that’s the name I use when I ask my boyfriend if he thinks Poppy is with his grandpa in Heaven. Will Poppy forgive us? What if we were wrong, what would Poppy’s real name be? Poppy would be here by now, or at least very close to being here.

The girls in the stirrups made this choice, so society would prefer that we not mourn. It confuses them. We chose this path, so we should just shut up and deal with our pain. We deserve it, after all.
We’re not welcome with the general public and the ladies who lost babies naturally don’t like us either. No matter where we go we’re not allowed to mourn that we had a baby and now we don’t.

The day we said goodbye to Poppy was the hardest thing I’ve ever done. I’m thankful that I had the chance to apologize, remind Poppy that I love him/her. The nurse put the pill on the table with a small paper cup filled with water. Next to that she had a bottle of other pills that I would need to take later that night. She stressed the rules, she explained the process, and she gave me papers, phone numbers, directions and guidance. But she was either telling this information to the wall or my giraffe, because I was looking at the pill. Would it hurt Poppy? I knew it would hurt me, but would it hurt Poppy?
“RUN THE FUCK OUT NOW!” But the options have been weighed, this was the best answer to the worst goddamn situation any person could be in.

She stopped talking. I needed to take the pill in front of her.
I stared a little longer. I said goodbye to Poppy one last time. I threw the pill into my mouth, I drank quickly and then I grabbed my stomach and fell to the floor.
He was on the floor with me. The nurse left, we were all alone. He rocked me on the floor until I stopped shaking. He wiped away my tears and his too. We both said goodbye to Poppy and over the next couple of days I could tell Poppy was gone. An ultrasound later confirmed it. Poppy was not our baby anymore.

The aftermath of an abortion is not how I had imagined it. I quit roller derby. We practiced in a church and I didn’t want to fall into the cavernous gates to hell that would have opened while I celebrated a successful hip check.
I quit going to the gym. There were spiritual little limericks posted all over and I didn’t feel like forcing myself to look away from them. Also, the gym is a hot spot for post partum mothers to walk off pudge and talk about how their babies kept them up all night.

It wasn’t just my loss of interest. It was my loss of joy, happiness and self contentment. I have a mistrust of stores now because those places are crawling with infants and have whole areas of the store devoted to things you can dress them in.
I am empty. I have a hole in my heart and I am shell of my former self. I am miserable and sad and I hate myself most days. Pro-lifers enjoy seeing me admit that. Nobody high-fives this shit.

Having an abortion didn’t alter my stance on the subject. I had an abortion safely because the state of New York thinks women should make that choice themselves. Even though the Giraffe and I were met with one lowly protestor encouraging us to rot in hell, it was still an intimate decision that I was allowed to make for myself. It was the hardest, worst, hellish choice I’ve ever had to make. But the idea of somebody else making it for me is much, much worse.

I dedicate this blog to the heartbroken ladies in stirrups whose stories have been shunned. To the women who aren’t allowed to mourn and whose hearts are shattering in perfect silence.

To my little Poppy Seed, Your mommy and daddy loved you then, they love you still, and they’ll love you forever.

Starting from the start again

It's been over a year since I blogged, or really wrote anything of any value. Facebook has served as a minor outlet to release some passive aggressive humor, some short tales of ridiculousness and even a few desperate cries for pity to aid in my bitterness.

Writing is my drug of choice, and the more anti-depressants I shove down my throat the more I crave this release. I need more space, more venting, more talking, more wondering, more joking and more crying. Facebook was a nice gateway drug for a while, but I'm happy to say I've relapsed. I can't heal with traditional western medicine. I need this, and if along the way I happen to appeal to you, your life, your story, your humor; then stay.

If I don't, then believe me when I say the internet is a big, big place. Bigger even than Texas and you have my permission to leave at your earliest convenience.

With that, let's start from the beginning. Again.

I am Erica Hoke.

I have three kids who amaze and terrify me every second of the day. My daughter Isabelle amazes me with her artistry and imagination. Her storytelling and above-average intelligence fill me with "I'm winning at motherhood!" pride. But, her fits of anger, constant moody blues and overall Wednesday Addams disposition keep me awake at night. I am going to pay a shit load on therapy for that girl.

My son Roman was born with Myelomeningocele. But, that's a hellish word to spell, so we'll call it by it's better known title of Spina Bifida. SB from this moment on. He amazes me with his sensitivity and I'm almost certain that his giggle could end wars. I'm never going to be the same because of this child; it's both a celebration and a mourning for me. His SB demanded that I grow up much faster than I wanted. His SB forced me to deal with obstacles way beyond my maturity level and his SB has been the main source of my now stronger than ever anxiety and depression. But, his SB has introduced me to some amazing people. His SB was supposed to make him weaker, but it made him stronger. His SB is teaching me wonderful and terrible and magical and haunting things.
My third is Sullivan. He's three years old so to start describing him just insert one massive eye roll followed by a string of whispered swearing. He is playful, brilliant and fears nothing. He's quirky and shy and is a total momma's boy. He can make me smile even through my rage at his three year old antics. That is to say he likes to see what pee drop is going to win in the great race down his legs. Get your bets in soon, folks.

I have a husband and a boyfriend. Well, not exactly. I'm technically still married but we've been separated for over a year. The only reason we're still married is because we're both just poor enough or just cheap enough to not want to spend the money to make it final. One day we will though, and it'll feel exactly as it does now.
The relationship I have with my ex-husband and his girlfriend bops back and forth between white hot hatred and B.F.F status. Sometimes I wonder if we're fighting just to make the public feel more comfortable.
When we fight it's not as taboo. That's what normal is, right? Most times I think we've reinvented the wheel and we're paving a new path for the way relationships can be still be relationships after they've stopped being relationships. But then the claws come out, the mistakes are made and all parties involved are reminded just how human and flawed we all are. So while we remain human and flawed our relationship will mostly likely continue to bounce and bop between "Hey, enjoy your dinner." to "Hey, go ahead and choke on your dinner." and back again. Somehow it works for us and the kids rarely know from one minute to the next if we're in hate mode or friend mode.

After my separation from Jason, I was excited to go out and party, to mingle, get my groove on. I was Stella and Westfield Pennsylvania, population: 17 might as well have been my Jamaica. I was going to work, raise the children during the week and meet new people on the weekends. I had it in my head that I would have all kinds of men texting me, and various groups of people inviting me to go to this party or that. But, there was only one guy texting me. He didn't have a job, he was at least 100 pounds lighter than me and he wore pink shirts as well as various other pastel colored polos. He liked sports, and it showed because he wasn't overweight and could flick quarters into my tip bucket at work.
Mike was the perfect escape I wanted. Nothing serious, nothing mushy, nothing that required a great deal of effort. He was addicted to breaking me of my insecurities and I was addicted to seeing him with his shirt off. A bit moley, but otherwise very cute.
He was just supposed to be an escape, but before I knew it I was feeling.....feelings. Ew.
He had his flaws and I had mine. Like, he was jobless and enjoyed wearing name brand clothing and I was working 3 jobs and was positively ecstatic for hand me down anythings. Somehow, my dark and morbid side lightened a bit and now we bet on football games. Sometimes I'll even watch Sportscenter when he's not home.
He and his side of the family have opened inside me a lust for sports I never knew existed. When Mike's son wins a lacrosse game I have to hold back my urge to pick him up and spin him around like a princess. I resist this urge for two reasons and two reasons only:

 #1) I feel like his mother would insist that all future visitations be supervised. If she doesn't think I am crazy now, that would likely be the kicker.
#2) He's a twelve year old boy and with all of his struggling to be released my knee caps would explode. 

I love loving a kid that isn't mine. Ethan is Mike's 12 year old, he's a glimpse into my future with prepubescent boys. It's not much different than my experience with toddler boys. It's essentially just dirty hands, grabbing your junk a lot, laughing at farts and being a picky eater. But he's a fabulous kid and there is some sort of yet to be named emotion that goes along with loving your boyfriend's kid.

 Mike was supposed to be my lust filled escape from motherhood, from responsibility, from SB, from ex-husbands. He was my tall and mysterious friend that turned into so much more. Plus he has a job now, which makes things a lot better because as it turns out I'm not against name brand anythings. I know, I know. It's shallow and merely cosmetic but...but....just shut up.

While this feels like a novel of ramblings to me and who knows what it might feel like to you, this is the abridged version of my life in the last year. I didn't want it to read like a Danielle Steel novel or a Jodi Picoult story of secrets and heartbreak so I skimmed the heavy stuff out. But the basic message is; I've been busy falling out of and in love again. Feeling like the best and the worst mother, being the best and worst friend, feeling on top of the world and wondering what the impact would be if I were gone. I've been busy working jobs and quitting them, showering daily and showering simply because my head was getting itchy. Busy being busy and busy laying on the couch wondering who is listening. I've been wishing on stars, breaking glass and bitching about God, the government and Avril Lavigne. I've slipped into insanity more than once, but I've always come back ready to start from the start. Again.