It’s not that I’m slutty. I don’t sling it out all over town on a Friday night, too drunk to worry if the man safely fumbled a condom onto his semi-erect penis before our half-assed whiskey sex that’ll inevitably end with an apology and a “This doesn’t always happen.” Nope, I have a boyfriend that, when we do sleep together, is a safe endeavor. We’re monogamous, and firmly committed to our possible future together, one that doesn’t have me include birthing some babies before our time, which I can tell you isn’t in the next year. I’m 30, well-educated and know the ramifications of my actions. And I know that mistakes happen.

Thursday the FDA approved Plan B, a series of pills that prevent egg fertilization in the womb, allowing it to be sold over the counter. This is a huge deal, one that has not come without much controversy as many abortion opponents felt it was a form of abortion. Taking three pills within 72 hours of having sex is not akin to having an abortion, and it is about time the government fully recognized this fact. Having this success of access to what is no more than extremely strong birth control comes late for many.

When I was 24, I had an abortion. It wasn’t a decision I wanted to make but it was necessary in order for me to have a life that didn’t have me in a trailer somewhere in North Georgia waiting on child support from a man who has consistently remained unemployed in these past six years, who was sleeping with multiple women at the time and, despite his claims he loved me, was argued into driving me to clinic, calling me a murderer all the while saying he would not take care of a baby as he didn’t ask to be a father.

I was an idiot to have slept with him, but I did, and when it happened, that magical baby moment, I knew it, and at that time, me having no insurance, instead relying on Planned Parenthood for my yearly visits, there were few options for recourse. I didn’t live in a town with heavy access to Plan B, nor did I have a doctor to phone in a prescription. I had to wait until the nurses at Planned Parenthood were back in the office, and when they were, it was still almost impossible to get Plan B. By the time I was allowed access, too many hours elapsed, and there was little recourse. A few weeks later, I had a positive pregnancy test.

If I would’ve had access to Plan B, I would’ve gotten it, preventing the egg inside from being fertilized, and would’ve never had an abortion, one funded by the other waitresses at the dive restaurant where I worked because the guy refused to pay half and I pulled in all of $250 a week in tips. If I could’ve avoided the sheer terror of having an abortion, I would’ve. It’s not fun. But for a single girl with no family, no support who was already so sick daily that she had to often call in, there didn’t seem to be many options. Many say adoption but that’s way easier said than done. I had terrible health. I was a full-time student, living on federal loans, and would not be able to support myself while carrying a child that would’ve likely prevented my attending school, or success at the subsequent career that has followed.

I am not trying to paint a sob story, and I’m not trying to pretend I’m some hero of abortion rights. I’m not. I shudder when I think of that day in the clinic, surrounded by other somber women who hated themselves for the decision they made, all the while forced to watch Bring It On in loop on a TV out of our reach to either turn it off, or at least turn the volume down.

The other women there, none of them used abortion as birth control. And most used birth control. If they’d had another option, one like Plan B, they wouldn’t have been there. None of us would’ve, I think.