I’ve tried to remember where I was and what I was doing the first time I had “the thought,” which is to say I’ve tried to remember the first time I Googled “pregnancy termination.” The first time I considered aborting my yet-to-be-conceived child. The moment I decided I could — and would — kill my second born babe if he or she ever came to be. But I can’t.

I cannot place it. I cannot isolate the instant when I realized I couldn’t be a mother of two — when I realized I wouldn’t allow myself to be a mother of two. But sometime during the summer of 2013, before the air conditioners kicked off and the heat turned on, I came to the conclusion that if I ever conceived again, I would abort my child.

Make no mistake: This is not something I am proud to admit, and while I am pro-choice, for me abortion has never been an option. (Well, I never say never, but it wasn’t a genuine consideration. I was always certain I could — and would — handle an unplanned pregnancy differently. Plus, that is why I take birth control. That is why my husband wears condoms.) But here I was, a loving new mom, a glowing new mom, a #blessed new mom, and a mom who was genuinely considering killing her future child.

A mom who was considering abortion.

I was having hypothetical conversations with myself about how I would do it, how I would handle it, and how I would cope with my unborn babe’s death afterward, especially since I wouldn’t talk about it.

I knew I couldn’t talk about it.

Why?

Because the idea of having an abortion is, to many, shocking and blasphemous. The topic of abortion is polarizing and contentious, and the very mention of the word sends a ripple of unease through even the most laid back (and pro-choice) crowd. So instead of voicing my fears, I kept them a secret. Instead of sharing the anxiety I felt about an accidental and unplanned pregnancy, I stayed silent. And I let the voices in my head work things out.

I let the voices in my head fight it out, and what those voices told me was that I was a failure, as a woman and parent. They told me I couldn’t love another child enough. I couldn’t give another child enough, and — well — I wasn’t enough.

I didn’t deserve the daughter I did have, and I sure as shit shouldn’t conceive a second.

And at that time, those voices were right. Because in those early months of motherhood — during the entire first year of my daughter’s life — I was suffering and struggling. I was sick.

So sick I could barely function.

So sick I could barely stay awake and I could barely stand.

And so sick with yet-to-be diagnosed or treated postpartum depression that I could not properly care for my first born or myself.

I wasn’t in the right head space or emotional place to take on another child. I was mentally unstable and unable to bring another baby into this world. And I was suicidal.

I knew that, if I did take on another child, I would be making a mistake. I would be endangering their well-being, my daughter’s well-being, and my own well-being.

Make no mistake, I do not want to minimize how difficult it is for a woman to decide for or against an abortion. I do not want to minimize the feelings of those who have had abortions, and I do not want to minimize the value of a human life. And again, while I know the very mention of the word abortion can and will stir up a raucous debate (and hate), my intention is not to be a martyr or a pot-stirrer. I simply want to share my story.

I want to share these silent and scary thoughts — the thoughts I’ve kept secret for three years. The thoughts that still cause me to lose sleep at night and make me feel gutted during the day.

Because even today, three years later, I still cannot decide if having these thoughts makes me a terrible person and a shitty mom or a loving one. Do these thoughts make me a saint or a sinner? Am I selfish or selfless? And the truth is, I don’t know.

I really do not know.

What I do know with absolute certainty is that I was too sick to care for another human being. (At one point things got so bad, I begged my husband to commit me. I prayed God would kill me.) What I do know is that while I longed for another child, I made a choice not to have one for their safety. For their sanity. And because they deserved nothing but the best — and at that time my best wasn’t something I could give. Even if that choice resulted in termination.

Even if that choice resulted in an abortion.

But I also know I still feel the guilt from the womb I never emptied.

I still feel guilty for the life I considered taking.

And while this seems like a trite and insignificant analogy, I’m going to use it because I can’t think of another one. Because my own words are failing me right now:

If you were on a plane that was “going down” — the cabin was losing pressure and the oxygen masks fell from that damn bin above your head — what would you do? Would you cover your own face first or your child’s?

Would you save your baby or save yourself?

According to the FAA, you are supposed to put your own mask on first. You cannot help others until you first help yourself. (Sound logic.) But t if I had conceived and gone through with my secret plan — if I had aborted the child I never carried — who was I helping?

Who was I saving?

I don’t know.  I don’t think I’ll ever know.