It was the summer of 1986, and I was 18 years old.  I lived in a one-bedroom apartment with my mom and little brother.  My mom was a single mom, and she had her own crazy social life.  We were more friends than mother-daughter.   I found out I was pregnant, and my first thought was that my mom would be angry.  My boyfriend and my two close friends knew I was pregnant.  My boyfriend supported me. 

There is a lot about this experience that I don't remember.   I am not sure how I got to the clinic or who went with me. I went to a clinic where they did a pregnancy test, and I was given a one-day pass for Medicaid. I wouldn't have to pay a dime for this procedure. I don't remember too much except wearing a gown, going in a room, lying on the bed, and a lady telling me that they were going to put a mask on me and count backward from 10.  Eight was the last number I remember and, when I opened my eyes, everything was over. 

Nothing about this seemed traumatic, but when I got home, as I laid on my bed, I remember a very deep sadness.  I would wake up in the middle of the night crying and feeling lost. Soon after that I would have anxiety attacks and fear dying and going to hell. I had no relationship with God other than the occasional church visit or desperate prayer once in a while. For many years I suppressed the memories and refused to think about it, until I felt the need to tell my grown children my secret.