We cried, we prayed and we accepted that every decision is our own and we knew that it was our right.
My mother told me I should save my virginity for my husband, that was the proper Christian thing to do. Being a rebellious teenager I lost my virginity at 15 because I thought “what if he makes weird noises or what if he doesn’t wait for me too?” My first time sucked, but I did use condoms. My first love and I used condoms until we broke up. The first time we had makeup sex was Christmas Eve and I was 16, no condom, no birth control, irregular periods since I was 9, and the naivety of a teenager thinking there was no way I could get pregnant one time without protection. We were so sure he pulled out. Weeks later I was emotional, my breasts had grown (but all the women in my family have large breasts), I was PMSing (maybe my period is on the way). February 13th I was convinced to take a test, my breasts were so sore if someone bumped into me I would cry, if someone ate the pineapples I hid in the freezer I cried myself to sleep. Constant bathroom breaks? Maybe it’s a UTI. The day before Valentine’s day, the test was positive and I cried all night.
I confirmed the test in the nurses office of my high school where they told me I was 11 weeks, but it was impossible I hadn’t had sex until that Xmas eve. 7 weeks pregnant looking up options and praying that God would guide me. My boyfriend at the time asked how would we provide for this child? What about college? The nurse told me there were daycares and college programs to help teen moms. How could I tell my mother? I couldn’t. I made the appointment and there were people outside with pamphlets on how this was a sin. I told them I’ll keep this baby I’ll try my hardest, I really wanted to. I was taking care of my three younger sisters, never had to want for anything, middle class African American family with absolutely everything I asked for. Spoiled and naive, pregnant and naive. Four days after my 17th birthday in March I had it. I prayed so hard for my soul, for this baby who I couldn’t give up for adoption, who I couldn’t raise because I wasn’t mature. I wasn’t even really religious, but it felt right.
Volunteers and older women with multiple kids surrounded me with love and reassurance when I was in recovery. We cried, we prayed and we accepted that every decision is our own and we knew that it was our right. My body, my choice. I regretted that for a long time, but after college I didn’t. Best decision I made for both me and my bf at the time. I told my mom after and she said she would have forced me to keep it. Ignoring my mental health, my wants, my needs for to provide a safe home for a child. If I could go back in time I would do it again.
