This is a story I wrote while suffering from a prolonged stomach bug, in a deep post-breakup depression, during the administration of a Babbling Orange Buffoon. Sadly it feels more urgent today.
Labor Day
Liberty sat shivering in the examination room waiting for the doctor to return. She didn’t need to see the test results to know what was wrong. She knew the gurgling in her stomach these last few weeks was a serious bug she caught at that Labor Day barbecue.
“Those hot dogs were severely undercooked!” she petitioned her friends, her family. “Quit overreacting,” they all said.
“Girl, none of us got sick,” said her friend.
“It’s probably nothing, baby,” said her mom.
“You just ate too much,” said her dad.
“She’s embarrassed,” said her brother. “Because she let Justice take her—“ Liberty punched her brother before he could finish, though his blow was delivered.
She knew it was a mistake, rekindling the fire with Justice at that barbecue, a frantic decision. Old flames can only burn you. She’d been through this before. Worse, she broke her rule: never renege on a decision about a man.
Justice wasn’t worth changing precedent over. She knew that. Her friends warned her, too.
But it’d been so long since she was cared for, since she’d been shown affection, felt any warmth. And Justice, he looked so good, promised her the world, if only for the moment.
Years ago, when they first slept together, he hadn’t called back. The second time was the same. Why would Liberty think this time would be any different? Why was she always making exceptions for Justice? He only left her feeling broken.
Then again, what was so bad about getting in bed with Justice? That night, wrapped in his arms, lying undisturbed, she found comfort—comfort, a relief, no matter how temporary. Everything else slipped away. Vanished. She wasn’t approaching 30. She wasn’t losing control of her body. She was in Justice’s arms—warm and safe.
For a moment, she wasn’t alone.
But she knew better, knew she couldn’t count on Justice. He was selfish, deceptive, immature. Justice didn’t feel any of her pain. He laughed at her when he saw her eating the hot dog, dressing it with ketchup, mustard, extra relish. “I don’t eat any of that crap. I treat my body right,” he said. “And I can treat yours right, too, baby girl.”
Why had she been so stupid? So foolish? Why would she believe Justice?
She didn’t need him. Not then and not now. She didn’t need anyone. Not that anyone would care for her, anyway. Everyone was so busy with their own problems. No, she didn’t want anyone’s help. This nausea was hers alone. She’d deal with it on her own.
She didn’t need anyone to know the truth. That this sickness was no offspring of a single, poorly-made cut of red meat. It wash her punishment. The culmination of the many bad decisions. They led her here, to this cold, stuffy, sterile minute clinic. Stupid Liberty, coming to this out-of-network clinic, not having the energy to drive the distance to one that accepted her insurance. What would that cost her? When will you start treating yourself right?
Sitting half-naked in the examination room, the pain kicked at her insides. The more her mind watered the idea, the more it grew like a seed, sprouting inside her ’til it couldn’t be uprooted.
Stop. She had to put an end to this. Blaming herself for decisions she couldn’t change, that were out of her control—it was foolish, unproductive. You need to do something. Take matters into your own hands.
She knew what she had to do. She wouldn’t sit here any longer, waiting. She sprang up from the examination table, grabbed the first sharp object she could find—some sort of razory scalpel—and thrust it right into her belly button. She stabbed at her sickness, at her body’s failure. She stabbed and she stabbed until she was sure it was dead.
My heart goes out to the folx whose reproductive rights have just been confiscated, those that will be forced into parenthood and may not receive health care or (paid) maternity leave. My anger and disappointment goes to those close-minded, short-sighted, agenda-pushing, ambitiously cruel Robes—especially the men—whose actions are neither Supreme nor Justice. My hope, though genuinely tarnished, to the future of this country.
The National Network of Abortion Funds is a resource for those able to give and for those in need.
To anyone feeling as alone as Liberty, please consider talking to someone. Crisis Text Line is one such resource that’s free and connects you with a live, trained Crisis Counselor.
You are not alone.
Thank you for sharing this story and for speaking up, in this moment.