When I was 21 I had my first abortion. I was madly in love with the guy, but he wasn't reliable and already had two kids he didn't support. I was unemployed and partying my nights away in my first apartment.

I was 17 and blinded by love. I had always thought I would remain a virgin until marriage but I fell in love my senior year of high school and all my plans and principles flew out the window.

I was a 19-year-old sophomore dating another 19-year-old sophomore. I had a birth-control pill prescription but screwed up using it and got pregnant. It was 1983, and we were in school in Atlanta, GA.

There was a drugstore on The Drag that my roommate and I used for everything, but no way I was getting a pregnancy test there. What if I saw a sorority sister or classmate?

I lost track of the abortions I had — at least five — but thank the Goddess I could get safe, legal and affordable abortions when I needed them. I realize in retrospect that while I thought of myself as a strong woman in my 20s and early 30s, I was really a puppet to men who didn't value me as a person but just someone to get them laid.

My story is not the norm. It happened in December, 2013. I was thirty, engaged to be married, had a well-paying job and a lovely house with plenty of privacy in a nice neighborhood. For all intents and purposes, this time in my life should be when I have children. But that life is not what I want.