I was 14 when I got pregnant. I had just broken up with the father (16) about a month before I found out. He and I had been together since I was ten, and at that age, we thought we were ready for sex. When I went to his house, everyone was either drunk or stoned. I freaked when I found out. I didn't want to be stuck with this guy for the rest of my life. I didn't want a kid in that kind of environment. I was still a kid myself. There was a rather large bottle of muscle relaxers that his mom kept on her bed side table. In a split second, I made a choice. I sent my older cousin a text, telling her to come get me. I opened the bottle and dumped out a handful. I swallowed it, and dumped another handful. I remember going to sit in their living room down stairs to wait to be picked up, and sitting on the couch reading the "Big Book of Baby Names" that my ex's sister had. I don't remember anything else. When I woke up, my mom slapped me so hard, there was a hand shaped bruise on my face for a week. I was told what I did. I had almost slapped my mom. I had punched my cousin when she tried to put me in the car. My blood pressure had almost dropped to nothing, and I should have died. I would have, if not for Michael. I lost my baby, and I know that the only reason I'm still alive is because he left to keep me here. If I hadn't been pregnant, if there hadn't been another soul for death to take, I would be in the ground. I killed my baby, who would have been named Michael, after his father. I have to live with the guilt of that everyday, and it eats away at my soul.
Posted on 23.05.2012, 19:32:06 CET
Place: Kansas City, MO, USA