part 2

Every day, I get up, wishing I could be special to someone. Anyone. It’s been this way for a while, ever since I lost him. He who I was addicted to as if he cured some disease I’d contracted. In February he had me skipping lunches, the month before, I puked everything I ate. I started smoking again. I had quit for a long time, but life seemed sweeter with a cigarette held limp between my fingers or clenched tight between my teeth. I went from smoking only with him, to being a nicotine monster. It was an attractive look I’ve been told, but it’s caused a lot of pain.

All night my dreams keep me up, my past, my future, the lack thereof that pangs me. The events of the day, the ‘what if tomorrow is the same?’ the same endless bullshit that I'm surrounded by day in and day out simply because I'm a teenager, it all replays endlessly in my mind. I'm on my third pack of cigarettes this week, it’s Friday morning, and I'm a wreck. I was happier a week ago, when I could rub my belly and talk to myself without consciously realizing what was going on. I was uncontrollably happy, and I had no clue. The memory of whom I was before this happened is a mere shadow of the person I now am inside. Having seen those two little embryos, things are different. This little space of time that follows me around, that haunts me everywhere I go even as I try to move on with someone new, someone I can’t feel anything for. I cannot stop wondering what it would have been like to bear the child of someone I honestly care about. Someone to whom I'm just a friend.

It’s hard to justify the want for a child, especially acknowledging the ambitions I have, and all the other stock I have invested in my future, I know it’s stupid and I know I’d regret it, but I'm so alone these days. I was surrounded once, by people I was able to be completely open with about everything, now I'm a miniature fortress, selective about whom I trust, and people don't bother me about my problems anymore.

            It had been a long time since the relationship started, things weren’t what I’d call serious, but it wasn’t casual either. We’d been friends for a long time, and I trust him more than anyone, then we became something more than friends. Fast-forward a bit and I'm in a hot tub on a Friday night, over-thinking everything again when something stops feeling so simple. Suddenly all my milk and cheese whiz cravings, all my urges to hold my belly, my talking to my belly- to my ‘Nazi babies’ Lucifer and Gabriel, ironically telling him what we would name our children, it all made sense. I was shit scared and I wanted to hide from the world. Donna had been there, that night. She’d told me how we’d take care of everything, she’d made plans and set money aside instantly, and telling me it would all be fine. She took care of me. She mothered me. Donna is my angel in all this; I’d still be sitting in shock if she hadn’t been so quick on the draw that night. I prayed, I prayed to any god that would listen, begging, pleading for my fears to be untrue. I spoke words that I've never uttered to a soul that night, just speaking to my gods for what felt like hours. “Dear Maat, this isn't just, dear Hathor I'm not ready…” and the words came like vomit.

I regret these prayers, every minute of every day since the twenty-first. It’s unfair that the gods finally listened to me; it’s unfair that I thought I didn’t want this to happen.

Knowing I was pregnant that night, I slept so well, my body must have been glad I knew. Later, when my conflicted little soul climbed out of bed it played mother to eight of my friends, cleaning the kitchen, and making breakfast. I made pancakes and continued wondering what things would be like. I’d confided in one friend who had remained overnight, but it was safe to say she was avoiding me. Every hour at least one smoke break was implied, no matter the fights it caused, because it helped, at first.

I was already in love with my unborn child; I wanted to know what it felt like to have something growing inside of me, someone that would have to live vicariously through me for nine more months. I was already attached, even after so short a time. I've written this story eight times, and I still have difficulty saying “I got pregnant the first time I had sex and I suffered early pregnancy loss,” it makes it so final. Like I’ll never be able to carry a child to term. I blame it all on smoking too many cigarettes. I was on my second pack in three days; the night I found out I’d had thirteen, the morning after I smoked ten more. A few more hours and it was all over. At first I was overjoyed, ecstatic because no one had to know, but I was tired. I found out I’d lost two. Twins. I was drained of something and Saturday lasted forever.

Monday morning rolled around with tears, I’d realized just how much had been taken away. I would have been happy, I would have been loved, and I would have an unbreakable bond with someone who wouldn't leave me for years. By then I’d be ready. Unconditional love is what I lost.

            Swiftly my old friend Insomnia returned, my migraines, my inability to eat; I was an older version of myself. Throw in my new physical illnesses, constant doctors visits and frustration and I see that I'm in no place to be a mother. Madeline was right when she said “someday you'll want a child so bad it will haunt you,” she just didn’t warn me that the loss of one would bring it so soon.

I'm haunted everyday,

By the smell of ashes,

The smell of Jade,

The smell of him,

The lack of my best friend,

The loss of one because my secrecy alienated her.

Haunted because I'm admitting things so readily.

Haunted by my self-destruction and my self-loathing.

The wind,

The utter empty feeling I have while I lie there in his pajamas, waiting for sleep to take me, wondering if I love him or if it’s just a passing fancy.

Haunted by not talking to him, not knowing how his days are going, it’s like withdrawals, except, I've only got a slight cough.

[and that's the story of how I found out that I would always miscarry before my second trimester, forever]