Dazed and Confused

Gen X is often referred to as feral. We parented ourselves and younger siblings, we were left alone a lot, cooked our own meals, we played in “the woods”, and our parents had no real clue as to what was happening in our lives. This was certainly the case for me. My parents had divorced, my mom was busy working and trying to navigate a new life, and my dad was licking his wounds from said divorce. My parents were there for me when I needed them but unless I told them, which I rarely did, they didn’t really know when I needed them.

The Summer of 1987 I was left completely unchecked, which seems really counterintuitive since I had just spent several days in a psych ward. (1987 and Five Days in the Psych Ward) I think my mom felt guilty for her role in my being institutionalized so she thoroughly backed off.

As a 17-year-old I was thrilled to do whatever I wanted. Of course, doing whatever I wanted usually involved a kegger in the woods behind the baseball fields in Brown’s Point, riding around all night with way too many kids packed into a Honda Prelude, and having sex with The Fiero. Correct, The Fiero and I got back together after I found out he had cheated on me with The Friend.

Yeah…I know.

I was reckless and irresponsible. Best. Summer. Ever! At least it was until I found I was pregnant.

FUCK!

Seriously! What in the actual fuck? How is this my life?

I don’t remember how long it took me to realize I might be pregnant. I have no doubt I was in denial for quite a while before I finally told my best friend. I sure as fuck wasn’t going to tell my mom or The Fiero. Those scenarios had disaster written all over them.

My best friend gave me a pregnancy test and I remember sitting in her downstairs family room watching the minutes tick by on my Gucci watch. A little “Sorry we sent you to the psych ward” gift from my dad.  (Parenting in the 80’s was wild) It was the longest three minutes of my life. When it came back positive my friend and I decided it had to be a false positive and headed to Planned Parenthood for a “real” test.  

My brain blocked out most of the office visit except for the doctor confirming I was pregnant, followed by a full-on panic attack, which included fainting and vomiting all over the exam room floor.  When the doctor wanted to discuss my options, I told her there were no options…I was getting an abortion. Period. I must have been able to convey my determination to end this pregnancy because she told me the number of weeks I had left to get the procedure done, some information where I could find services, and sent me on my way.

Because everything is catastrophic when you are a teenager, I believed my life was over. My parents were going to kill me as I was sure to bring shame to the entire family. The Fiero was going to be pissed and break up with me, yet again, because he was a dick like that. My friends would abandon me and the slut-shaming would begin. Because that’s how it worked. High schools didn’t have day care centers. Teen Moms were not MTV celebrities. Only shame and guilt. But just for the girls…never for the boys.

I had already witnessed the turmoil pregnant girls go through at school. A cheerleader who was a year ahead of me was ‘in the family way’ and kids were brutal. The shit-talking, the dirty side-eye glances from teachers, and the parents with their pearl-clutching. I shared a class with her and one day I was watching her doodling in her notebook and wondered if she knew what people were saying. I hoped not because she was always super nice, and her family was nice. Her older sisters were once my babysitters. I don’t know what bothered me the most…The kids who talked shit when they themselves were sexually active or the teachers who should have judged a little less and advocated a little more. That was one brave cheerleader though. She and her baby bump walked those school hallways like she owned the fucking place and after her son was born, she showed off his baby pictures like every proud mama should.

But I was not that brave. No, I was not going to go through all that bullshit. An abortion was the only answer.

As expected, The Fiero was pissed. Super pissed. Honestly, if I could’ve figured out a way to not tell him I would have but I needed money and a ride. Did he break up with me? Of course, he did. He needed to punish me for fucking up his life. But not before he accused me of cheating on him because no way was that baby his. After he calmed down and decided being a teen father would only hinder his music career, he agreed to help me. I made the appointment and we barely spoke to each other for the next several days.

The clinic was near the airport in a seedy strip mall. It was sketchy as fuck but came highly recommended by those in the know. Today every time I go to the airport, I have to pass that strip mall and I always get a little nauseous. Inside it looked like any other doctor’s office with fluorescent lighting, cheap furniture, old magazines, and that smell. I am certain the receptionist could see I was terrified as she checked me in and told me someone would be right with me. I looked like a walking zombie just on the verge of tears. I couldn’t cry though because that would just make The Fiero furious. If he got angry, I was sure he would leave me there. A nurse called my name almost as soon as I sat down. As I was walking towards the nurse, I turned to The Fiero hoping for…something, but he was busy looking through a magazine. That dude gave exactly zero fucks. I followed this stranger, for what seemed like forever, until she motioned for me to take a seat in a small room. There wasn’t any equipment that looked particularly medical, so I wasn’t sure what we were doing. The nurse told me this would be my recovery room, handed me a valium and a tiny paper cup with water, and told me to relax because it would take a few minutes for the sedative to kick in. In the meantime, I was to read a packet of papers explaining the procedure and aftercare, sign a form consenting to the abortion, change into a hospital gown, and wait. Even though fear rushed through me, I did as I was told. What else was I going to do? I’m not sure how long I waited but it wasn’t long enough.

The same nurse came back into the room and told me it was time. Reality hit, possibly for the first time, and as she led me down another endless hallway, I started to cry. Not because I was sad but because I was terrified. Then I felt a wave of panic start to take over. Eventually we made our way to a room with a machine I intentionally tried not to look at and an exam table with stirrups. I was introduced to a doctor who barely acknowledged me. As I got up on the table and laid back, I could hear voices, but they sounded like they were in a tunnel. Panic. Someone tried to guide my foot to the stirrup when that primal fight or flight kicked in.

First, I kicked. Then I tried to sit up. I had every intention of leaving. The nurse tried to calm me down, but it was too late. Panic was now in charge and my thoughts started to spiral.

What in the hell am I doing here?

I am adopted. What if my birth mother had had an abortion? Adopted people can’t have abortions!!

Oh shit! This is a baby. I am about to kill a baby. I am going to Hell for sure.

I was out of my mind. Everything I knew and believed about science left me. I had to stop this. I yelled, “Do not touch me! Let me go!!” Very calmly I was led back to the recovery room and told I could get dressed. When the nurse came back, she told me I could reschedule when I was ready but had a very short window of time left and she walked me back to the waiting room. By this time, I was crying so hard I could barely breathe. I whispered, “I’m sorry” to her as I headed towards The Fiero.

I was crying so hard The Fiero just assumed I had gone through with the procedure and I made no attempt to correct him. By the time we hit I5 the valium fully kicked in and I fell asleep. I often wonder what would have happened had they waited just a few more minutes for the sedation to wash over me.

For the next couple of days, I pretended to have the flu. The Fiero didn’t ask any questions and I didn’t offer any answers. The only thing I knew for sure was there was no way in hell I was going through with an abortion. But…

I decided my next best course of action was full denial. Basically, lie to myself and everyone around me. Obviously not a great plan and one I would not be able to execute indefinitely, but it was all I could manage at the time.

The Summer of 1987 was when I first learned how to shut down emotionally in order to survive. The thing about operating for any length of time in survival mode…pieces of that pain, that loneliness, that fear stay with you forever and I don’t believe there is any way truly to free yourself. It’s like riding a bike. Once you learn how, your brain is always ready to throw up that protection.

So, there I was, pregnant and a liar. And I thought the mental hospital was bad.

And The Fiero…well he just continued to fuck The Friend behind my back.