The holidays can prove to be so painful for so many people. The guilt of having more when some have so much less. Memories of better times, worse times, lonely times. Regretful times. I am in this group of people who find it excruciatingly difficult to get into the spirit most years.
Upon the end of my first real relationship, my devastation drove me to make some of the most dumb-fuck decisions of my life. I ran to the arms, and eventually the bed, of my closest male friend, Patriot. I paid for it. Dearly. If the whole situation wasn't irresponsible enough, we made it even more so during our "therapeutic sack sessions". After a long night of tequila shots with my best girl, Trinity, I hungover-ly mentioned that I was late on my period. So as normal girls do, we stumble our asses to the grocery store for some breakfast fixings and a piss stick. As Trinity lovingly makes me biscuits, I holler from the bathroom "Hey, what does 2 lines mean?"
So there I was. A heart broken, drunken mess. Young, impregnated by my fuck-buddy. Scared shitless. Of course, I immediately called Patriot. Well before breakfast was even finished. He was my one of my closest friends after all. He would figure this out with me right? Well, he actually did NOT completely freak out over the phone like I expected. Instead, he was totally calm and said "You know, when the phone rang, I had a feeling it was you calling for this reason."
I told my parents the day I found out I was pregnant. Being the rock stars they are they simply said "We love you and whatever you want to do, we will support you". Patriot on the other hand, came from a guilt ridden, strict, Catholic family and kept mum. We went back and forth over what to do. We both have pro-choice views
so we had options. We also felt as adults we should just put on our
big kid pants and become parents. After a couple of weeks of this back and forth, we decided that we were just too unprepared, would likely make miserable parents and each of us had big plans for our lives. We made an appointment to have a medical abortion. We would go into a clinic, undergo a few minutes of "are you sure" questioning, I would swallow a pill there, go home to take the rest of the pills and wait out the bloody results.
The evening before the appointment, I called Patriot in hysterics and he immediately rushed over. I was having doubts. So was he. We changed our game-plan entirely. He called his Catholic parents to tell them they would be Grandparents. Fast forward to 9 weeks gestation and only a few days before Christmas, I miscarried their grandchild alone in my apartment.
To this day, I think of the result as a blessing. A bullet dodged. Patriot and I are civil but no longer close and I am thankful I am not tied to him for the rest of my days. At present, I am not sure if I even WANT to have children. Ever. I am content with only having a dog to depend on me. I have had a lot of fun and many experiences that would have not been possible with a little one in tow. I am thankful with every ounce of my being that I don't have a 4 year old looking up to me, aspiring to one day make a mess of themselves just as mommy did.
There is still though, a feeling of inadequacy. Feeling less than a woman. If I am unable to accomplish the one and only task I was biologically put on this Earth to do, then why am I here? And of course, there is the sadness and a sense of loss from the trauma. Postpartum Depression is widely known and accepted as a real medical emergency. These women could be of danger to themselves and their children. Studies show the bonding of mother and child during breast feeding can help alleviate the symptoms. What about the women suffering with Postpartum Depression who have no baby to bond with? The body goes through the same hormone spikes and drops (maybe more so) during a miscarriage. I can say for certainty that even at 9 weeks, I felt mild contractions. My cervix hurt for weeks afterward. I technically, gave birth to an albeit tiny, baby. PPD was indeed VERY real in my case. I did not change out of my stinky bathrobe for nearly 2 months.
The world is sympathetic to women who lose their intended and welcomed pregnancies. But when it is a miscarriage of an unintended pregnancy, the woman is left feeling less deserving of the same sympathy and support. There is a fear of hearing "Well you didn't really want it anyway". And asking for support? Saying "I got drunk and knocked up during a slut phase." Forget about it.
The shame.
Patriot is now married with a healthy baby girl. I am happy for him. But seeing the random photo of the beautiful little girl on my Facebook news feed every so often, strikes a pang in my heart that only few people could imagine.
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