I woke up in love with Dave and felt a heartful of delight over being with this man. Regardless of what has happened, I feel lucky and unsure about everything that relates to him. He is grumpy, unsociable, rude, obnoxious, selfish and other things, but obviously, as a general person in love, I clearly don't care. He seems to find me intriguing, or easy to understand (contradictory, but it's one or the other), he seems to love to sleep with me (I seem to adore sleeping with him), he seems to be ready for all sorts that I am not and vice versa.
I got pregnant during the time of the last posts; I had been feeling ill 'for no reason' for weeks until I went to a doctor. I weed in a cup, she said I was pregnant and was swift to congratulate (I was older than 16, after all). Possibly understandably I was about to burst out crying over her positivity and later on, speaking to another doctor, I was told "It's never a good time to have a baby. But they are such a joy." I was never sick, always nauseous, hated smoking (my favourite thing), drinking, eating, being awake and generally felt like my life had grounded to a strange halt in the valley of the shadow of death. Dave didn't understand; for weeks he thought I was acting, he felt I was being ridiculous. My life consisted of worrying about being sick, not passing my course and feeling like Dave could give a fuck and speaking about it in non-eloquent terms seems like such a naff little bitch. He didn't want to have the kid (medical professionals, stop calling it 'the Baby' with the capital letter implied) and I felt like perhaps I could convince him.
I miss feeling sick in the morning, I miss touching my belly, thinking I'd got fatter because of some wholesome family dream growing inside me or something. My heart shat quiet pellets of anger and desperation when I realised a termination was the 'only' option and nothing was very good with Dave. The clinic was hard, cold and had heart.fm on or something. I read a whole brochure on sexual health whilst shivering in what looked like a cool front room of a house, slightly too big to be cosy. Several timid women scattered around the waiting room, it slowly filled up as it got closer to midday. I had another heart-breaking ultrasound and I was off to another waiting room, smaller and even colder than the previous one (although there was an issue of Glamour on the table, which I flicked through, paying particular attention to D&G adverts with tall, lanky, angry looking women).
Leaving aside all the formalities and awkwardnesses of putting on sarongs, taking off pants and reading another issue of another awful women's magazine (girls who like to kill babies also like to read Vogue?) - I fell asleep surrounded by Eastern Europeans, with my legs high up in the air, arse exposed and all.
There is not a single nightmare worse than waking up in such pain and misery as I experienced; shaking, holding on to the hand of the girl next to me I cried for two hours in agony and desperation. Although the motif of being 'lost and alone' has become somewhat saturated with poor references, I have never felt such an overwhelming solitude and confusion in my life. The pain and hurt broke a part of my soul and all I could think of was what a shit time it had turned out to be. No Vogue or Company magazines were provided in recovery - presumably because they all knew how we'd be feeling.
I can't look at pictures of small children without thinking of the one I might have had - nothing makes sense and I want to cry but it's not really allowed; Dave doesn't think about it, nor could I ever expect him to fully care or comprehend. I don't want to see other people's happiness over what is the only real thing I want in life and had to turn down. My womb and heart are totally fucked over so I would suggest you use protection, meticulously.