I knew from a very young age that I didn't want to be a mother. Blame it on my childhood traumas if you will. All I knew is that I wanted to get out of Mississippi and start a life without the family that raised me.
I got pregnant for the first time when I was 22. I drove all the way to the abortion clinic by myself, but I sat in my car crying, with people throwing doll heads and screaming mean things to me. I sat there for about 30 minutes until I realized I couldn't get out the car. I couldn't get myself inside...so I left. I had my first and only child nine months later.
I got pregnant again when I was 25, and this time I knew I had to grow up and walk in, no matter what it took. When I had my son, I lost everything about myself. I hated being a mother; I hated playing with him, giving him a bath, or even feeding him dinner. I snapped out of that when I got pregnant again and realized what I was about to do. I saved up the little money I had, and my boyfriend took me to the clinic. He wasn't allowed inside, and I was completely alone. I wasn't allowed to have my cell phone and all I kept thinking as the lobby kept filling up was, “Oh my God...all these innocent babies." I started to think of their reasons, where they as selfish as mine? That I didn't want to be a mom to two kids? I couldn't see past all the women. I felt empty and humiliated. But I knew what I had to do for myself and for my son.
I still have nightmares about that day. I can still remember every second of the six hours I spent there—down to the stories the women told me, the doctor occupied with the basketball game, how alone I felt, even though we did everything but the actual abortion in groups. I remember everything.
I was in a dark place afterwards. I cheated on my boyfriend, and I acted out. I finally wrote a letter to my baby, and I told myself I had to let it go for my family. I did what I did for the reasons I thought were right, and I had to accept that... and then a year later here I am. Pregnant. This time hit me like a ton of bricks. I tried to hurt myself. I stopped eating, and I stopped sleeping because of the nightmares. Things finally got back to how they were supposed to be, and I knew better. But I was there again... How did I let myself get there again?
The second one was harder. I got fired from my job. I couldn't get off the floor, I stopped crying, I stopped answering people’s texts. I completely pushed all my friends away. I was bitter and mad that I was about to have another innocent baby on my hands, and I wasn't sure I was going to survive this one. Everything went dark in my life and I couldn't stop it... I had a choice, and I still chose me. I chose my son. I chose my happiness.
My feelings have changed. Raising my 4-year-old is the hardest thing I have ever had to do. No one loved me growing up—hell, I'm not even sure if anyone has ever loved me, period. But I love him. I cry all the time, because I let my other babies fall through the cracks, I blame myself because, after all, who do I blame?
I'll forever think about them. I do at least once a day. But I forgave myself, or at least I'm trying to by loving my son correctly. I got my tubes tied. But one thing I'll always regret is how much braver my babies were than I will ever be. I pray to a god that I'm not quite sure I believe in just to make sure they are okay and that, if He is real, that I'll be able to see their faces, and they will be able to forgive me for letting them go. I remember everything, and I always will.
I never looked for help... my help was my 4-year-old that need his mom to be okay, so that's what I did. Maybe years from now, when he doesn't need me as much, I'll seek help. I got lost for a very long time.... and I can't be that girl, that mother, anymore. So, I forgave myself.