Temporary pregnancy, permanent child

Today I really felt clumsy.  I kept dropping things, nearly falling over myself.  I’m not sure why, except that my body no longer feels like my own.  My weight has really started to pick up – I knew it would, but it’s still shocking to see myself in the mirror.  My interviewers today couldn’t tell that I was pregnant, but it was only because I had a suit jacket on.  If I so much as wear a normal shirt and pants/skirt, it’s now pretty difficult to hide.

The way I conceived wasn’t entirely consensual. It’s taken me a long time to admit that, because I felt ashamed and partially responsible. I know, intellectually, that those feelings are both wrong and unfair to everyone who has been raped or put into any sexual situation against their will. But I never thought it would happen to me, and I kept quiet.

My cycles hadn’t been all that regular to begin with, so missing a few didn’t really register with me. Missing 5, and realizing that I was putting on weight and the nausea I had been going through might well be morning sickness terrified me. So I spent a little while in denial. Then I thought there were really only two options – abortion and suicide. Believe me when I say I strongly considered both – I called for abortion appointments. I bought the things I would need for suicide. It wasn’t the pregnancy that was driving me to suicide, but simply the realization that my life had spiraled completely out of control and now I had to make a decision.

I realized, though, somewhere around the time when everyone I knew forgot my birthday entirely, that I had spent the past couple of years waiting for someone else to make my life better, and that it wasn’t going to happen. If I wanted to have a life, anything that I could be proud of, I was going to have to take control of my own life and do it myself. And while I was in the midst of this realization, I had another one – I cared about the baby growing inside me. It wasn’t just a parasite, something I had to endure.

I knew, from the beginning, that keeping my baby and being a parent was not going to be realistic. I had no home, no job, no savings, no car. I struggle with extreme, clinical depression and anxiety. My health is miserable. There are about 4 people in the entire world that I can look to for support, and if I was raising a child, that number would drop to zero – literally. It will be difficult giving up my child, and I certainly wish that I had gotten pregnant under different circumstances, circumstances that might have allowed me to be a parent. But I grew up in an abusive house and I know what it felt like as a child to be resented, unwanted, and blamed for all of life’s problems – I’m not willing to risk that outcome for my child. I’ve always loved the Don Henley song “Sometimes Love Just Ain’t Enough,” and I don’t know that there has ever been a more accurate use of that statement.

I chose adoption. I chose open adoption, so that I could know who my child’s parents were going to be, and so that after placement, I could continue to know my child. I can only hope that I’m making the right decision. And maybe someday, it will be appropriate to share this record with my child.