In the comments box below, in my post Time To Tell A Story (I'm Still Judgemental), a woman named "Jane" tells a story that many years ago, she too was an unmarried pregnant 16-year old:
If you were a woman of my generation and became pregnant as a teen (I, too, was 16), your baby was taken away without you ever seeing or holding him or her. You had no "choice" to "give" your baby up for adoption. Your baby was taken, you were told to shut up and never say a word about it and act like it never happened, and you were treated like a pariah by your family forever. This was standard operating procedure for Catholic homes for "unwed mothers".And that's why I'm pro-choice.
Because I know what it is not to have a choice.
A debate between she and I followed because of my lack of understanding what being pro-choice has to do with the circumstances of the adoption. During that debate, Jane states:
The reason you say what you say about knowing your child is still alive and with a family and how it's one big Hallmark Channel three-hanky Movie of the Week is because you had a choice. I wonder how you'd feel if you'd never been allowed to lay eyes on your child or hold your child? You would see that family as the enemy. As thieves who stole your child and destroyed you in order to snatch undeserved happiness for themselves.
Her words made me unearth some thoughts about my experience, and made me think my story was somewhat incomplete.
This is all very strange to me, because like I mentioned in one of the comments I haven't really talked about this in 15 years, and I don't know what is compelling me to talk about it now. Like I said, I have not kept it a deep dark secret or anything. But I certainly don't advertise it and I try hard not to think about it. Part of me thinks that I have tried to be this good, Catholic mother, and good, Catholic mothers do not have stories about getting pregnant out-of-wedlock at 15. The other part is much of these events are too painful to dwell on, and dwelling does nothing to help me get by day to day.
Lately, another part of is starting to understand that this series of events really affected why I feel and do so many of things I do today.
Fact is, in my retelling of the story, I did not mean to gloss over adopting out a child as easy because it was right and we all were so happy in the end. I was not happy in the end, but I think I made the best choice for my son, and that keeps me refelcting on it in a positive light rather than a negative one.
After I delivered my son, I got to spend three days with him at the hospital. Up until that point of my short life, they were some of the happiest I ever felt. Every friend I had came to visit me and see the baby. I had never been uncomfortable around babies because at the time my brothers were 5, 3 and 1. Baby care was second nature to me. I had a hard time listening to mothers education sessions between nurses and new Moms in other rooms as they taught the ladies how to change and burp babies. I remember wondering if the lady in the next room who was having a hard time of grasping the concept of changing a diaper without sticking the tapes to the baby knew what a blessing it was to go to a hospital, have a baby and bring that baby home. For her, the hospital stay was the start of her new life with her child and for me it was the end. I would have given anything to be in her position.
After I handed my baby over to his foster mother and went home, I never knew the an emptiness like I felt then. I was in a painful place that nothing, or anyone could make better. This was a true first for me. Things that were big deals to me before, like going out to breakfast were nothing.
I could have taken 6 weeks off of school, but I think I opted to go back 2 or 3 weeks later to keep busy. Life was spacey and weird. Everyone at school were still teenage high school students, and so was I, but I wasn't. People were mulling around about proms, games, and "OH-MY-GOSH did you hear about such and such?" I could no longer relate. I think this started a trend of cynacism that has stuck with me.
I tried to get back into the groove, and I did to some extent, but from then on, I felt like I was in a separate reality or something. I couldn't relate to anyone around me, and they could not relate to me.
I wanted to talk to people desperately about what happened, but no one wanted to talk to me about it. I remember I was working at the supermarket and a woman on my line, her husband recently died and she was telling me about her loss and her personal feelings, and I was a complete stranger. I thought she felt the same I did when I gave my son up, the need for someone to listen to you for whatever reason people need that. Well, that was how I felt at first, but no one wanted to talk about it. Everyone said "well that is done, just get on with your life" or "people don't talk about that kind of thing", so I swallowed it all real hard (and here we at least 15 years later).