Content warning: This essay mentions sexual assault.
When I was a kid, one of my favorite pastimes was writing letters to university presidents, asking what I should be doing to eventually get into their schools. I was borderline obsessed with going to one of the top pre-med universities and eventually becoming a doctor, even as an 8-year-old. As I got older, my excitement to finally begin my freshman year of college only grew as my dream got closer to becoming reality. Never would I have guessed that my life would be shattered before even stepping onto campus.
On Aug. 12, 2022, one month before I left for college, I was raped. At barely 18 years old, I woke up in a strange room, with no memories of the last 12 hours, lying beside a family friend I had worked with all summer. The only proof of what happened was a small spot of blood staining the white sheets, a brown smudge no bigger than a sticky note — the only evidence of when my life changed forever.
My close friend — who had worked with both me and the family friend who had just raped me — grasped what happened before I even could, and she quickly helped me get an emergency contraceptive. Both she and the instructions on the medicine assured me that since it was so soon after the unprotected (and unwanted) sexual encounter, the medication should eliminate the possibility of a pregnancy. Swallowing that pill less than 12 hours after the assault was supposed to ease any worries about getting pregnant. I spent two weeks after the assault working myself to the bone at my job and getting ready to leave home for college, trying to distract myself. If I didn’t think, I would never have to admit to myself that I was raped.Â
Two weeks later, it was time to take a pregnancy test. (All my fascination with human anatomy ironically paid off in that I knew how soon after unprotected sex I would have an accurate pregnancy test result.) Up to this point, the idea of me getting pregnant had become a joke between my work friends and me — this pregnancy test was just a silly precaution that we would all laugh about later. “There is no way I’m pregnant; I’m barely 18 and I’ve only had sex once!” I convinced myself.Â
My blood ran cold and my heart stopped as I watched two lines immediately appear.
But then I saw the results. My blood ran cold and my heart stopped as I watched two lines immediately appear. I tried to convince myself that they would disappear, that it was somehow a false positive and that my dreams of going to college weren’t ruined. But the lines remained there, confirming my worst nightmare: I was pregnant.Â
Tears streamed down my face as I called the same friend who had helped me get emergency contraceptives. “I’m pregnant” I choked out to her. She listened to me sob until I couldn’t cry anymore, and then told me to buy more tests to confirm the pregnancy. When those all came out positive too, she stayed on the phone while I did the only thing I knew to do: open my computer and research abortions.Â
Sitting on that cold bathroom floor, I made an appointment at Planned Parenthood to have a medication abortion. The next available appointment was on Sept. 6 — a mere seven days before I was scheduled to fly a thousand miles away and start my first year of college. I walked around for the next week a shell of the person I once was, numb to anything and everything. I looked into my family’s eyes and lied about how I was nervous about college to explain my odd behavior.Â
When Sept. 6 rolled around, I was detached from reality. I anxiously waited to start the appointment, hoping that I could just get it over with and forget about what had happened. Even after all the videos Planned Parenthood provided, personal research into what a medication abortion would feel like, and my novice medical background, I still didn’t quite know what to expect from a medication abortion appointment. I prepared myself for a cold, sterile environment, judgment from health care workers and other patients because of how young I was, or even a refusal of services. My brain had gone through every outlandish possibility that inflammatory media coverage of abortions had convinced me could happen.Â
But that couldn’t have been further from my experience. I was welcomed by the most compassionate and friendly receptionist, who made me feel at ease for the first time in a week, to the point where I almost forgot why I was there. We chatted for a long time about her trip to Ireland, our Scottish backgrounds, and our favorite colors. I had decided to pay out of pocket for the $650 appointment, and while it almost cost me a full paycheck, it was a small price to pay for anonymity from my parents — but still, this wonderful woman showed me a way to bill through my insurance so no one ever found out, if I chose to go that route. She was the first adult who knew what had happened and helped me realize that everything could actually end up being OK. Â
I sat in the doctor’s office an hour and a half later, fully poked and prodded. The kind doctor had confirmed my pregnancy, and then helped me take the first medication, mifepristone. After being walked through what I would expect to experience next — including intense vaginal blood loss, vomiting, and severe cramping — I left.
Then, 24 hours later, I took four misoprostol pills, which would cause my uterine lining to shed. I swallowed them by myself in the basement, with my parents one room away, feeling anxious and alone. What followed was the heaviest and most painful period I had ever experienced: cramps; toe-curling, full-body muscle spasms; and such intense bleeding that it soaked into any couch or bed I sat on for more than 30 minutes, despite constantly changing my pads. But then I finally felt the first sliver of relief.Â
Through it all, Planned Parenthood was there. They had a health care professional call me every day for the following week to check in on me and see if I needed anything. They gave me mental health resources to help me cope with what had happened and explained what to do if something went wrong. Even though they already had done so much for me, they continued to support me through this process.Â
In the week leading up to my abortion appointment, my mind had been playing a constant loop of everything I’d have to do if I couldn’t get the abortion: tell my parents what happened, stay home, change my 10-year plan, carry my rapist’s baby, and say goodbye to any sense of a traditional college experience. But a week after the abortion, I boarded an airplane — still bleeding and forever changed, but able to start my undergraduate education like I’d always planned.
Looking back now, two years later, it’s difficult for me to imagine how different my life would be if I hadn’t had access to a medication abortion. Instead, I’m still pursuing my dream of eventually going to med school, while also getting to experience so many of the cliches that are basically rites of passage for college students, like pulling all-nighters studying, gaining the infamous freshman 15, and contracting frat flu every two weeks. I still think every day about the little protein sack my doctor showed me after the vaginal ultrasound, but I no longer obsess and stress over what might have been. Now, I’m just eternally grateful that I’ve been able to go through college without the burden of a pregnancy that had been forced on me in such a heinous, traumatic way.Â
As an 8-year-old, I never would have expected my future to include rape and an unwanted pregnancy. And now, as I start my third year of undergrad, I still don’t know what lies in my future. However, there is one thing I do know will never change: Whether in school, in the medical field, or anywhere else in life, I’ve made a lifelong commitment to helping ensure people won’t have to worry about their future because of other people’s disrespect for their bodies. I’m committed to protecting the dreams of 8-year-old me and fighting for the rights of 18-year-old me — and all those like me.Â
Whether someone was sexually assaulted or not, no person — of any age or in any situation — should be forced to give up their future because of an unwanted pregnancy. I already have to live every day carrying this traumatic experience with me; if I did not have access to an abortion, if my state had not decided that I wasn’t eligible for this form of reproductive health care — even as a survivor of rape — my life would have been ruined before I even got a chance to start it.Â
When I was raped, it felt like my life was over, but with the help of organizations like Planned Parenthood and access to a safe abortion, I now know it is just beginning.Â
If you or someone you know has been sexually assaulted, you can call the National Sexual Assault Telephone Hotline at 800-656-HOPE (4673) or visit hotline.rainn.org.
