Unplanned

I thought you were supposed to feel elation. The deepest form of love in the human experience. Beauty and magic. A biological miracle. But I didn’t feel any of those emotions. I felt fear. From the moment I watched Star Wars, and Padme died in childbirth, I quaked at the thought of ever falling pregnant. The thought of pushing an eight-pound baby out of my body made me sick to my stomach. I felt embarrassed. Growing up in a conservative Catholic household, pregnancy was supposed to happen strictly between husband and wife. If you weren’t bound by the sanctity of marriage, it was an abomination. Even my entirely pro-life father suggested abortion. Like he wanted me to get one. I didn’t. I felt alone. Though half of the world has the opportunity to go through this experience, I had no one to talk to about it. Between my parent’s disappointment and the fact that I was twenty-one and unmarried, no one understood why I would want to “give up my youth”. I didn’t seem like the type to ever have children. And I wasn’t. And I didn’t want to. I needed to.

I didn’t tell anybody, and my father found out eavesdropping on a conversation between myself and my sibling. When he came upstairs with a red face on the verge of tears, I thought something horrible had happened. My mind was racing, the idea of my nana passing away came to the forefront. But no. The terrible thing that happened was the baby growing inside of me.

At my first ultrasound appointment, I was greeted by a high-school acquaintance's mother. She was the receptionist at the time. We had a pleasant exchange, and I went on my way for the procedure. Reality started to sink in. I hadn’t told anybody yet, and I didn’t plan on it until the baby was born. My shame holding me back. She ended up breaking HIPPA and telling her daughter about my condition. The news spread among my friend group and I felt that judgment. My mental health was already taking a toll due to the hormones and my undiagnosed bipolar. So, I cut everyone off. I blocked their numbers and all of their social media, and fell into seclusion.

Before I fell pregnant, I spent some time abusing substances. Two months prior, I got incredibly drunk at a local bar the week after my twenty-first birthday. I ended up trashing my entire apartment, breaking our four-hundred-dollar television, and splitting my head open in the process. I’m pretty confident I was drugged as I only had three drinks that night and at that point, I had a pretty strong tolerance for alcohol. I was taking LSD frequently, using it as an escape from reality. At least I was social. At least I had friends. It was the “normal” thing to do for a twenty-something college student, wasn’t it? At least my vices helped me fit in, even if I put myself in danger in the process.

At the time I was attending undergrad, pursuing my degree in English. The number of times I was told I would never finish because of this “mistake” is staggering. Yet, it only pushed me harder. During the time I was pregnant, I had actually received the best grades I had gotten since I started university. Yet, I was still hiding it. It was something that weighed on me daily. A constant fight in my brain. The ego and the id arguing about whether this was the right choice or not. I buried my body in baggy clothes. I simply looked like I was just gaining weight as the months went on. I would rather people thought I was fat than know I was pregnant.

I had to tell my professors due to the reality of my absences at the time of giving birth. In an art history class, we were discussing renaissance paintings and depictions of the Madonna. We discussed the meaning and detail. Emphasizing the power of a mother’s love. The professor pointed me out on discussion and told me I would soon experience this feeling. I sunk into my seat as the pit of my stomach flipped. Not from baby kicks, but from the humiliation I felt. I didn’t want to be seen or even perceived.

It was more than just religious guilt from the trauma I experienced in the church as a child. It was more than the fear of labor and death. Something felt so wrong about my body. I had always been a tomboy. I wasn’t afraid to get down and dirty. I had always played sports. I never wore dresses. Yet, I was performing the ultimate act of femininity. I felt disgusting and it was devastating. As my breasts retained vital nutrients and started growing in size, I found I mourned the smaller chest I once had. The thought of dressing up in my best clothes and taking photos on the beach showing off my bump made my skin crawl. In fact, I only have one picture of my pregnancy. A mirror selfie. One I took in the bathroom at my future in-law's home. I was living thereafter my parents kicked me out. I didn’t even want a baby shower. The thought of people touching my belly and congratulating me on this miracle made me want to disappear. There was a war between my body and brain. What was happening to me felt alien.

I became a hermit. The only support I felt I had was between my partner, my dogs, and his mother and stepfather who took me in when I needed it the most. Still, there were certain aspects of my pregnancy that people wouldn’t understand. Going through this experience, no matter how difficult and isolating it was, changed my life for the better. I don’t know where I would have been, I just know it wouldn’t have been healthy. All of the assumptions about me throwing away my life couldn’t have been more wrong. I was motivated by spite. My need to refute people’s perceptions propelled me to be a better person. I ended up graduating with my bachelor’s degree a year after I gave birth. I stopped abusing substances as a way to cope with life. I don’t even have the stomach for alcohol anymore. Though my mental health deteriorated, and the emotions associated with pregnancy and delivery sank me to rock bottom, it led me on a path of solving the problems in my mental health. I finally understood the chemical imbalances in my brain and learned coping mechanisms to make my day-to-day life easier. I understood more about my gender identity and the reasons for my discomfort. It allowed me to realize who I was and become the self I had shunned my entire life. My son gives me a reason every day to keep on trucking. I need to live my life for him. I need to set an example for how to be a good human being. My child pushes me to become a better person. If that was rock bottom, he is the rock that anchors me and keeps me afloat. I continue to pursue my education against the “odds” society places on parenthood. Even if it’s out of spite, I would not be as motivated as I am today. Not because I wanted to have a child, but because I needed to have a child. I needed to go through this journey to find myself and a place in this world. Sometimes going through hardships sheds light on the meaning of the human experience. Embrace the discomfort and come out on the other-side a better version of yourself.