Motherhood was Thrust upon me

Motherhood was thrust upon me. 

I was nineteen years old when I took a pregnancy test in the stall at the local bowling alley and it answered "pregnant" to the question "Am I?" 

Checkered black and white tile floors, mint green metal partitions between the toilets, spinning as my world began turning on it's head- the sound of rolling bowling balls striking pins and crashing into the galley as I wrapped the test like a cast, afraid that someone in the restroom might know my secret as I threw the wadded toilet paper bundle into the trash bin. 

Composed and numb, I found my way to my grey 1978 Chevy Caprice car in the parking lot. A bungee cord held the front hood down. Sometimes the key didn't work, so I kept twine wrapped around the side mirror and the window cracked to fish the line down and use the loop to pull up the funnel shaped door lock.

I lived at a house. A friend had given me a room after my recent suicide attempt. Just months before the two pink lines- I was being resuscitated in an emergency room and locked into a psyche ward for ten days. I was in no way ready to be a mother. 

Here we were. 

I was conditioned and ingrained from childhood that motherhood was what I wanted out of life. Being a mother was supposedly the noblest calling of all. I was taught that it was the dream, the final destination, the purpose of my being born a female. My greatest service to God was to procreate and raise good children. Boys who would go out into the world and make it better, and girls that would fulfill their dream of being a mother like I should. 

Motherhood was thrust upon me. 

I chose to have premarital sex. But that isn't choosing motherhood as some would argue. 

I was a teen. I was lonely, I was naive. I was lost. Sex was a comfort from feeling afraid and unwanted by the world. Sex was a way to hide from the realities of life and growing up- the fear of adulthood by simply feeling good. Having a boy look at me, desire me, be seen, be pursued. To experience pleasure. A simple refuge from being in the abyss of me.

I didn't comprehend what risk I was taking- although I knew it was one. Until you are a mother; it's impossible to understand the undertaking of what motherhood is. To me, the danger of having a baby only meant that I would finally mean something to someone. I couldn't possibly comprehend what being everything to a baby would mean. Food, shelter, comfort, guidance, emotional support; mother. 

Months before the test said "pregnant" I was so ineffective at managing my own life that I wanted to leave life behind. Now, not only was my life my own to carry- but another's. And this baby, whoever, whatever it was- was innocent. 

Motherhood was thrust upon me at the age of 2 years old. When I was no longer the baby, but overnight, became "Mama's Helper." From that age on, new babies filled the house every few years and I was in charge of one of them. The older kids took turns cleaning on rotation, diaper changing, gardening, cooking. Our needs became less important than the "little" ones and the "little" ones always came first if not last as well. Mom had enough to do with the "little" ones let alone manage the "big"ones.

I began to think my value was in being able to help. Being a good big sister was being a good helper to mom and caretaker of the babies. The chasm of sadness inside of me growing without me even knowing what it was, why it was there, or how it came to be. I wanted someone somewhere to take care of me. I wanted to be more than a number in a family of eight. I wanted to be noticed. I wanted not to wear hand-me-downs from my older sister who I hated and hated me. 

I began to fulfill the role of "protector" for the "little" ones. Watching over them, stepping in between a raging older sister who resented us all, unable to cope with her emotions any more than I could- never learning how to. She and I lost our infant-hood, our childhood and our cries were unheard. Our feelings unvalidated. We were just children. Expected to chip in, to make things easier for mom- not harder. Our family was the modern day Pioneer family, running a homestead, being a team, managing a household, chores and school. Emotions got buried, stuffed, and ignored. 

Until they couldn't be. 

A volcano will always erupt. It may not be soon or regularly- but the fire inside must find a way free.  

I sat outside the father of my pregnancy's house in the early hours of the morning. The street was black, a distant street lamp was too far away to highlight my car nestled beneath the maple tree across the street. After worrying, tossing and turning- trying to sleep fitfully, my silly plan was to drive over in the middle of the night- to wake him up too, to tell him I was pregnant, thinking he would grab me in his arms and tell me everything would be okay. Make everything better, reveal his deep and encompassing true love for me. But none of that happened. 

Instead, I pulled up to his house and recognized his old girlfriends car parked in the driveway. The house dark. The chasm, the grief of living in a world unwanted ached like never before. I returned back to the house I lived, burying my cries into thrift store bought blankets I clutched against my chest.

"He has a right to know." a friend told me. I had divulged to her that I planned on finding an apartment in a city an hour away, hide the pregnancy and find a way to adopt out the baby. She had a point though. He deserved to know I was carrying his baby. I gathered the courage to tell him. 

I did what I had done before. Middle of the night journey, dark street, solo lamp, maple tree. The girlfriend's car wasn't there this time. Quietly making my way inside to the sofa he had fallen asleep on, I woke him by touching his shoulder. He smiled groggily and hugged me. 

"I'm pregnant." I barely whispered. 

He sat up in shock. My heart pounding, the neon glare of the microwave in the next room inking green light towards us. Silence. Blood rushed in my ears as I heard my heart swoosh swoosh swoosh.

I couldn't see his face, I wasn't looking for it. My head tilted downward. "Well, we'll get married then." he said softly, and hugged me again. 

I partnered with other women to tell their stories of motherhood, the stories that aren't shared with badges and ribbons, in a book titled Unspoken Motherhood. Stories of PostPartum, Miscarriage, Child loss, adoption, and more. 

See it here:

Unspoken Motherhood