I write this as I’m sat in my bed on a sunny Friday in October. In any other circumstance I’d ensure I was outdoors, avoiding all other responsibilities and admin I had looming over me. The kids are both at school; about to break up for the 2 week October holidays, and ordinarily I’d be enjoying being able to be as selfish as I wanted to be with my time.
But today’s different. I’m sat in my bed, waiting on some pills to kick in, which are meant to simulate cervical contractions. Some take them to bring on labour, some take them for medical abortion, and some take them to help pass a missed miscarriage.
I’ll explain everything but first of all I need to rewind a little.
Last month, I was told that there were “nudes” of myself circulating on Whatsapp groups between a number of “men” in the Dundee area. Everything that I’ve been told is frustratingly half assed. “I need to tell you there’s nudes of you and everyone’s seen them, but I can’t tell you where I heard this”. And then after speaking out about this I receive more messages from “men” saying things along the lines of “yes I’ve seen them, I’m on Whatsapp groups that they’ve ben shared on, but I’m not giving you any names or numbers because they’re my mates and I need to protect them”.
It’s an odd one isn’t it? Why are there nudes of me; a married mother and small business owner in the local area being shared? I’m well used to getting trolled and reading awful things about myself, but I did wonder why in recent months, there were an increase in comments saying things such as “everyone knows she’s on OnlyFans”. My sister in law who works in a law firm even told me that someone had come up to her at work and asked her if it was true. Now I can quite confidently say that if I was on such sites, I would be promoting these, and indeed telling everyone, because I would be wanting to make as much money from them as possible. But, sadly for everyone, I am not on any such sites. A quick Google search of my name, alongside “OnlyFans” took me to several websites. These websites had used images of me that I had uploaded onto my Instagram page; pictures where you can see my whole body in a bikini or a low cut top (which I absolutely have the right, and want, to share if I wish) and these photos appear alongside the words “Click here to f*** her in AI” and “click here to strip her naked”. There was also one website that said it had videos of me performing acts with multiple men. Videos that I had never seen or heard of before, but there was my face, my body, my tattoos and my name next to these words.
I continued to ask for help as to who was sharing these images, however, no leads. And nothing I can do about these websites which are seemingly based in countries such as Korea.
I was mortified, humiliated, sickened and filled with shame. All because “men” were sharing these images, but I had never shared these images with these “men”. Yet why did I feel the shame? I couldn’t go into my places of work, I couldn’t go to the shops, I couldn’t go to the school to collect my kids, because I felt everyone had either seen or heard about these images and videos, and were either laughing at me or looking at me like I was a disgusting whore.
I spoke about what had happened on my page, in a way to protest my innocence, and try and use my voice in some capacity. The feedback and response was overwhelmingly positive. People giving me support, reminding me the shame is on these “men” and not on me; reminding me I haven’t done anything wrong. But ONE “man” decided to comment, to tell me it’s my own fault. I dress the way I do, I sell Boobie Biscuits at my shop, I bring it on myself, and that I deserve this. I am holding other women back, by merely exercising my right to dress how I want, and not to wear a bra. The Boobie Biscuits I sell are to raise awareness for breast cancer, and reminder to check for lumps. We have literally raised thousands of £s for Breast Cancer charities off the back of selling these. Yet I am the problem.
I couldn’t take the pressure. I wasn’t eating, I wasn’t sleeping. When I went to wash my hair it was coming out in clumps in my hands. I didn’t have the energy to engage with my children, or friends or even Sam in conversation. I felt like a shell, and what made me feel even more angry was that these people had stolen my confidence. It takes a lot to make me feel bad about myself; I pride myself on the fact that I LOVE myself. But that was gone, These “men” had stolen that.
One of my sister in laws is French, and that week she was going to Nice to visit her family, and taking along Sam’s brother, and their two kids. Without much persuasion we joined them, and rented a house close-by to where they were staying. A few days later my best friend flew out with her family and stayed in the house we’d rented.
My God I needed that week. I needed that week, but I also wasn’t taking care of myself. On top of the Vogue cigarettes; nick named “Ozempic Fags” due to the fact they’re so skinny they don’t even count (they definitely do, so don’t start smoking Kids), and all the rose wine, I still couldn’t bring myself to eat much, and sleep would come to me for a few hours, before I’d be laying in bed wide awake thinking about how half of Dundee think they’ve seen pictures of my fanny.
In this time of absolute mental breakdown, I somehow continued to feel very sexually attracted to my husband. I say “somehow’ because most people in a state of depression aren’t able to tap into their sexual wants and desires. I went the other way. I couldn’t get enough of Sam. This had started when we were still in Scotland and continued for a good few weeks.
When we returned home from France, it just so happened that 2 days later, my best friend and I had a girls trip booked to Florence. So why not continue this trying to boost me back up Euro-trip, by putting a load of washing on, repacking my suitcase, and fucking off again.
Again, more wine, more Ozempic Fags, and more late nights. We laughed, we cried, and I was still struggling to eat. To such an extent that said best friend, sat me down one night at 1am to tell me how worried she was about how little I’ve been eating and conversations had been had about how it needed to be more. I’ll always love her for telling me straight. She loves me and was caring for me. That same night I’d tried to force myself to eat more, to make a point. But on my way home, I felt a surge in my throat, and the warmness in my mouth, and I found myself bringing all my dinner back up again. Was it my stomach not being able to handle so much rich food, or looking back, was it something else?
My period was due the day before we flew to Florence. Rachel laughed at me for getting dressed in a brilliantly white maxi dress one day; not knowing if “today was the day” it would come. I wasn’t really giving it too much thought. To be honest my cycle had started to shift in the last few months; with period due dates getting a little later each cycle. I’m 37 and didn’t want to admit it, but perhaps this is perimenopause. Things are changing. I also considered the possibility of the fact I wasn’t eating enough and my body simply didn’t have the calories it needed to let my period come.
I returned home, burnt out but happy to have had that time away with my friend. Sam continued to be there for me, knowing I was still quite anxious and upset with everything going on. I was back for about a week, before thinking “right, where is my period?!” I was convinced there was medically something wrong with me, but knew that before any doctor would explore that as an option, they’d want to see a negative pregnancy test. So off to Boots I went, and purchased one.
We’re currently in the process of buying a new house, and the Mortgage Advisor was due to come to our house that day at 2pm. At 1.45pm I quickly wee’d on the stick, not for one minute thinking the result would be anything other than negative. I set the timer on my phone for 5 minutes, and left the test on the side. I walked past the test again about 2 minutes later and glanced at it, only to be stopped in my tracks by a very bold, very dark line. Pregnant. Undeniably pregnant.
That made for an interestingly awkward meeting with the Mortgage Advisor!
When we got a minute to ourselves later in the day, Sam and I could finally talk about how we felt about this news. I instantly said no. I’d abused my body for the past month. It wasn’t a healthy or happy home for any baby. Not just the rose wine and the “Ozempic Fags” but the anxiety, the lack of nutrients and the lack of food of any kind really. I couldn’t even entertain the idea. With my previous 2 babies I knew from the minute I’d tried to conceive, I was off the wine, resting, taking folic acid and eating whole foods. The worse those 2 got was a bit of Diet Coke and too much coffee!
So again, I continued to live my life. It wasn’t anything like in France or Italy, but I still had fun. The next day I was driving round a field in a rage buggy that was missing a calliper, therefore rendering its’ brakes as pretty much useless.
I’d called the clinic for a termination the day of the test. Sam was wanting to keep the baby but I kept coming back to how I’d not been in a healthy place either mentally or physically for the past 6 weeks. Obviously, because he’s an amazing man, he listened to me and told me he would support me in whichever decision I made.
The clinic said the next step would be a phone call in over a weeks time. The phone call came. The midwife explained the process. She explained how I would need to look out for the foetus myself to confirm it has passed, if I was going to do this at home. That information floored me. I started crying again. Could I really go through with this? The midwife offered for me to come in for a scan and see how I felt. Sam and I spoke again in the days between this call and the scan. We went forwards and backwards with what we wanted, but ultimately came to the same decision; that we were going to go for it. Fuck it, let’s have this baby. Life’s hectic, why not create more chaos?! We’ve just bought a new house and we have bedrooms to fill! We held each others hands, we were scared, but we were excited.
I went up to the hospital on the Wednesday for my scan. Sam had to meet a joiner at a new cafe we’re opening, but that was fine. This was not my first rodeo, I could go for a scan on my own. I lay on the bed and had the ultrasound on my stomach. In my mind, I was dating at 2 months pregnant, from my maths. The lady performing the ultrasound wasn’t saying much. She kept looking deeply into the monitor with a look of worry on her face. She asked me: “have you had any bleeding?”. “No” I replied, worried because why would I have any? Everyone knows you don’t bleed when you’re pregnant.
“I’m so sorry but I can’t see a heartbeat. Your baby hasn’t made it”.
It turns out what I have experienced is called a “missed miscarriage”. This is where your baby dies, but your body doesn’t realise, so you continue to feel, and believe that you’re still pregnant.
I was returned to the waiting room before I could speak to another midwife about what happens next. Crying, I followed her into another room where she talked me through the next steps, which are actually the same as a chemical abortion. You take the same pills, which cause the cervix to contract, and therefore expel the pregnancy.
The next day my body started to bleed on its own accord. Small cramps and then having to go to the toilet to let it out. But not enough to get everything out. So here I am, sat having taken 6 Misoprostol tablets, waiting for my body to expel what could have been.
I am not sharing this for sympathy, or to be dramatic. In writing this I just hope that it could help anyone else who has been through or is going through the same process. I for one, was very naive when it came to terminating a pregnancy, and also regarding missed miscarriages. It can feel isolating, and you can feel guilty. I feel guilty for not looking after my body, whilst having to navigate a brutal assault on myself online. I feel guilty for wanting to terminate, and then for changing my mind. From what the midwife told me, my baby stopped growing a couple of weeks ago, so around the same time I took the test. It was over before I even knew it was begun.
If anything, I just want this chapter to be closed now so that I can move on. I feel shame and I feel guilt. I’m so grateful for the love I do have in my life, and for Sam and the girls. But please remember when speaking to people, you never know what’s going on in their personal lives. Always be kind.
