Her name was Sally. Probably not. She was fidgety and because of that I doubt she gave me her real name. Her hands were very animated, voice riding up and down octaves, and head bobbing as she spoke. She seemed uncomfortable leaving any space unfilled, any moment unnarrated. Like she was hiding something.

She was, of course. It was why she was there; the reason why she had crossed the threshold of this crisis pregnancy center as a woman in her late fifties, clearly not pregnant herself. She had read about our peer counseling services; about how we provided support groups for women who had experienced abortion. She wasn’t sure she needed that. She said that she needed someone to talk to, so she thought she’d check it out. And there she was there—checking it out. That was how she talked: In choppy sentences, repeating herself, question marks and exclamation points punctuating each remark. I felt tired just watching her.

Over several weeks, I met with Sally alongside a fellow peer counselor who had experienced abortion, and I watched them identify and relate to each other as though I were an audience member at a very believable play. On my way to our sessions, I would pass a clinic that provided abortions. A small group of very committed individuals would always be standing outside, waving signs bearing pictures of aborted fetuses and Bible verses warning of damnation. They would snarl at the women who entered the building, hurling insults at them as the women walked past their signs. I was a pro-lifer repulsed by the thought of abortion, but I wanted to punch them. I didn’t.  But I wanted to.

Read the rest over at The Body Politic!