That night after having told my parents about my pregnancy, life didn’t seem worth living anymore. My parents were going to make me kill my baby and I wasn’t allowed to see the one person who understood what I was going through, my boyfriend. I just wanted to die. I had never felt so alone in my life. Feeling depressed and scared I went into the bathroom and silently cursed myself for having already failed my unborn child. I wanted my baby but at the age of sixteen I still didn’t have any say as to what could be done about my pregnancy. My parents wanted it gone or I would be homeless and my boyfriend would be in jail. People tell me now that my parents probably wouldn’t have kicked me out. They weren’t there. They didn’t hear my mom tell me how I had ruined her Christmas. They weren’t there to see my parents turn their back on me. Yes, I made a mistake. Yes, I was in trouble. I needed them. I needed them to understand where I was coming from. I needed them to see the fear in my eyes and tell me everything was going to be okay, but all I saw was disappointment.
I took some pills that night. To this day I don’t remember what they were. I went into the bathroom and swallowed as much as I could before my gag reflex made it impossible to swallow any more. My parents weren’t talking to me so it was easy to do without being noticed, then I went to bed. I’m not sure how long I was asleep but it couldn’t have been long before my dad busted into my room demanding I wash the dishes.
“And you better not break anything”, he said as he walked off.
Slowly I got out of the bed and almost fell back down as soon as I had gotten up. Using the wall for support I managed to pull myself downstairs and into the kitchen. I was dizzy but did they notice? No. They were too consumed by anger to notice anything but the shame I had brought into their house. Maybe it was God that made him come wake me. Maybe I didn’t take enough pills. Either way I survived to see another fourteen years.
Wow, I should have a thirteen year old right now. Isn’t that something?
The day after Christmas my mom dragged me to the nearest Planned Parenthood clinic where they confirmed my pregnancy. The next day she drove me to my boyfriend’s house were he was expected to give me the money for the abortion. I wanted to run into his arms and never let go, but all I could do was look into his eyes for a brief moment before getting back into my moms car.
I cried before, during, and after the procedure. It felt like the doctor had shoved a vacuum tube inside my vagina and was sucking my future away. I hated my parents more at that moment then I had ever hated them before. It would be another ten years before I would be able to move on from that incident.
Now today, my mom will say, “If you really wanted to keep your baby you could have kept it. It’s not my fault you had an abortion.”
B***ch! What a liar! That’s what I was thinking anyway.
We don’t talk about that day anymore. I’ve discovered that if I am to have any type of relationship with my parents I had to become the bigger person and learn to forgive. I have always taken responsibility for getting pregnant, but I do not now, nor will I ever take responsibility for the death of my baby.