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I don't know why, but I feel compelled to write about my experiences as a teenage mother. Before I start though, I want to say, do not feel sorry for me. Do not feel sorry for my daughter. We have a wonderful life and I do not regret one moment of the past 18 years. If you must feel sorry for someone, feel sorry for the man who gave her to me, but will never have the privilege of knowing her.
Now, do I start at the end and then go to the beginning or start at the beginning and leave you guessing. I like option two, after all, if you know how a story ends, what's the point in reading it?
When I was an infant, my father abandoned his family. The whys are not important, only the result are. As a result, I grew up in a home with just my mother. We had a decent life but there was always something missing in me. I always longed for the love of a father, wanted my father to come in on his white horse and tell me he didn't mean to leave, he was sorry. That never happened.
As I grew older, I still longed for that affection and as a lot of teenage girls do, I found teenage boys and they are all kinds of full of affection. I wanted boys to like me, I needed it. When I was 16 my brother moved back into the house with us and with him brought many visits by his many guy friends. I'd known most of these boys since my toddler days, but never really had any interest until in them until this time. I laid eyes on Scottie and you could probably have seen the little hearts and flowers floating above my head. And most importantly, he was interested too.
This between us developed as they do and it didn't take long before I was pregnant. I denied it, I hid the truth and just flat out refused to accept that my period being late was not just some fluke. I lived my life just as I always had. Got up in the mornings, puked my guts up, went to school, puked my guts up, came home, puked my guts up, did homework, watched tv, chatted with my friends on the phone, all the while, trying to ignore what my body was telling me.
I was doing good at hiding it too. Until one day, my mother, on the search for a piece of paper, found a diary I had written and realized what she too was trying to ignore/avoid. She checked me out of school and took me to the health department. And man she bitched and yelled and ranted and raved the whole way but the moment the doctor let us listen to that heartbeat, she shut up. After that, there was no more yelling, bitching, raving. It was just pure acceptance and pure terror for both of us.
That afternoon, we went to Scottie's house to speak with him and his mother. I talked to him outside while my mom spoke to his mom inside. He said he would do whatever he could to help, etc. His mother busted out the door and started slapping him upside the head out in the middle of the road once she found out. To be honest, that was pretty damn funny.
That night, he called me. He had talked with his mom about everything and she was willing to pay for it if I would have an abortion. I was 19 weeks pregnant. I said no thanks. I did not speak to him again for at least 3 years and have only spoke to him a very few times in the past 18 years. My brother took my side and no longer spoke to Scottie, as did most of their mutual friends. Scottie's siblings were no longer allowed to speak to me and he and his family took the stance that it was not his baby.
Wow this is longer than I thought it would be. I must get back to work so, toodles until another day.
Now, do I start at the end and then go to the beginning or start at the beginning and leave you guessing. I like option two, after all, if you know how a story ends, what's the point in reading it?
When I was an infant, my father abandoned his family. The whys are not important, only the result are. As a result, I grew up in a home with just my mother. We had a decent life but there was always something missing in me. I always longed for the love of a father, wanted my father to come in on his white horse and tell me he didn't mean to leave, he was sorry. That never happened.
As I grew older, I still longed for that affection and as a lot of teenage girls do, I found teenage boys and they are all kinds of full of affection. I wanted boys to like me, I needed it. When I was 16 my brother moved back into the house with us and with him brought many visits by his many guy friends. I'd known most of these boys since my toddler days, but never really had any interest until in them until this time. I laid eyes on Scottie and you could probably have seen the little hearts and flowers floating above my head. And most importantly, he was interested too.
This between us developed as they do and it didn't take long before I was pregnant. I denied it, I hid the truth and just flat out refused to accept that my period being late was not just some fluke. I lived my life just as I always had. Got up in the mornings, puked my guts up, went to school, puked my guts up, came home, puked my guts up, did homework, watched tv, chatted with my friends on the phone, all the while, trying to ignore what my body was telling me.
I was doing good at hiding it too. Until one day, my mother, on the search for a piece of paper, found a diary I had written and realized what she too was trying to ignore/avoid. She checked me out of school and took me to the health department. And man she bitched and yelled and ranted and raved the whole way but the moment the doctor let us listen to that heartbeat, she shut up. After that, there was no more yelling, bitching, raving. It was just pure acceptance and pure terror for both of us.
That afternoon, we went to Scottie's house to speak with him and his mother. I talked to him outside while my mom spoke to his mom inside. He said he would do whatever he could to help, etc. His mother busted out the door and started slapping him upside the head out in the middle of the road once she found out. To be honest, that was pretty damn funny.
That night, he called me. He had talked with his mom about everything and she was willing to pay for it if I would have an abortion. I was 19 weeks pregnant. I said no thanks. I did not speak to him again for at least 3 years and have only spoke to him a very few times in the past 18 years. My brother took my side and no longer spoke to Scottie, as did most of their mutual friends. Scottie's siblings were no longer allowed to speak to me and he and his family took the stance that it was not his baby.
Wow this is longer than I thought it would be. I must get back to work so, toodles until another day.
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