I Never Walked Into an Abortion Clinic…My Experience With Online Ordering

I never walked into an abortion clinic, forced to pass protestors shouting and holding signs. I’ve never experienced a sidewalk advocate whispering prayers over me, my baby, or any of the other women lining up to be freed that day. I was never given a clipboard or asked to sign a consent form. I have never experienced sitting in an abortion clinic waiting room, hearing my name called, or witnessing my baby’s heartbeat flickering on an ultrasound screen.

Instead, I walked to my mailbox to claim the package of pills I ordered online earlier in the week. I grabbed a glass of water, filtered and clean, of course. As if that could wash clean, the reality of what I was about to do. 

I had made my decision to have an abortion earlier that week. It felt like the most logical, noble, and humane decision for all involved, especially me. After that, my actions and behaviors felt increasingly robotic, sterile, less sacred, and more depraved; I could have ever imagined myself becoming. Throughout the week, I had grown comfortably numb, and by Friday, I was completely detached.

Lining Them Up

Five tiny pills. White. Chalky. Silence.

That day, my kitchen became the pre-op room, with all its necessary instruments, my bathroom the procedural room, and I the abortionist.

The weight of my decision did not overwhelm me; it seeped in slowly. No one warns you of the daily torment that awaits you following your abortion at home.

The First Pill

Mifepristone.

I read on Google that Mifepristone blocks progesterone, the hormone that sustains pregnancy. That word…sustains…cut me.

I held that first pill longer than I should have; it just seemed to be too small for the power it held. I grabbed a glass of water, swallowed, and waited….

No cramping. No bleeding. No confirmation. Twenty-four hours of silence crippled me.  I became completely undone by the gravity of my decision, as I felt I might suffocate to actual death. Doubt began to set in:

What would happen if I didn’t take the second set? Could I stop it? What if I made a mistake? What if things had been different?Is it even working? Do I want it to?

The Second Pill

Misoprostol.

Four more pills. Under the tongue. Thirty minutes. Then swallow.

I read the instructions repeatedly.

I tucked the pills in. Set the timer.

I went to the bathroom and stared at myself in the mirror, and just wept. I couldn't believe that this was happening and that I was responsible for it all.

The pain came faster than I had anticipated. It was deep, not at all, like I had read about on Reddit. It felt like my body was begging me to make it stop. 

The cramping, they said, and light bleeding. Perhaps that’s the experience of some people, but not mine.

When I started to feel lightheaded, I grabbed a towel, spread it out, and sat there, leaning against the toilet. I can’t tell you how much time passed. 

No one told me how loud grief sounds when there’s no one to bear witness to it with you.

After

I didn’t sleep a wink that night, just lay there watching the clock. I kept feeling chills, so I checked my temperature and Google: Signs of hemorrhage, incomplete abortion, and signs of infection.

Every few minutes, I whispered to myself, Is this normal? But no one answered. I grieved alone because I chose to do so alone. It was my choice and mine alone, I told myself. 

Eventually, the bleeding stopped. There was no goodbye or formal ritual. No closure. Just silence again, the kind of silence that follows you from room to room.

I started filling the house with noise, videos, music, and anything but quiet.

I kept moving; kept talking. Stayed busy. But the ache stayed, numbness eventually set in, and the silence caught up with me.

Confession

I used to believe that silence was a sign of strength. That if I didn’t name it, it would die. But it didn’t. It grew. I waited for freedom. But freedom without healing is, in reality, a form of bondage. There’s a strange grief in being both the one who chooses and the one who mourns.

If your bathroom holds memories you wish you could erase, you’re not alone. If silence has become your prison, there’s still a way out. We carry what we did. But we are not what we did. You are not your choice.

If this story reflects something you’ve never shared out loud, consider this your invitation. Be free. Live whole. Contact Reliance Center to speak with someone who has been there and cares. Whether you regret your choice or are filled with relief, you deserve someone in your corner. You deserve not to be alone anymore. 

So make another choice. Choose to reach out, seek help, and begin your healing journey. We’re here for you when you need confidentiality, compassion, and above all, for you. 

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