It was 1996 when I found out I was pregnant, I was eighteen years old. Conception shook me to my core, not only due to my tender age but because it had been at least seven months since I last bled. I was an undernourished ballerina, addicted to cocaine, living on cigarettes and coffee. I could not believe my body actually conceived, but it did indeed. I was at least eight weeks pregnant when I found out. I had suspicions because I started craving burgers, which was odd since I was vegan at the time, but what gave it away, were my growing plump breasts, which was the most obvious sign that I was carrying a child. Gratefully I had been clean and sober for a couple months prior to conception, except for the two packs of smokes a day and four cups of coffee. Fear took over me as I stood frozen in my bathroom, staring in utter disbelief at the home pregnancy test which read possitive. I feared for the child within me, my body was toxic as far as I was concerned, I felt broken and simply could not wrap my head around it. I did my best to reason, and what seemed most reasonable was to terminate it at once, time was ticking, I had to act fast. It was the most compassionate and responsible choice after all, I was a hopeless teenager without direction and in an abusive relationship. I just couldn’t bring a child into a dead end of a life, how could I mother when I was battling addiction and self destruction?
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