PART NINE: THE PREGNANCY

DISCLAIMER: This entry involves experiences of bullying, sexual misconduct and/or assault, and self-hate and could possibly trigger a reader who may have (or is still) struggling with any of those issues. Please be cautious.

As with all of my entries and stories, each piece of writing I post here is from my personal perspective, experience, logic, and truth. I do not, and nor will I ever claim, that I know best, or all there is to know, about any topic or experience another individual may have experience(d). These are my words, my thoughts, my feelings, my truth.

When I found out I was pregnant, I was surprised to feel excited and happy, not scared. I imagined being able to actually feel a baby growing inside of me and relished the idea of it being mine, of loving it the way I’d never felt loved, and having it love me in return. Perhaps it was selfish and insane, but that’s the truth. I knew, without a doubt, I wanted this baby. But, I didn’t want to tell the father. And it wasn’t because I was afraid he would get angry. I was worried he would be excited. I was scared he would want to get married, and I didn’t want that. In fact, there was a big part of me that was hoping if I told him, he’d deny it was his and fuck off. Unfortunately, he didn’t. He asked me to marry him, and not in any romantic way. He just wanted to get married because he didn’t want his child to be a bastard. He actually told me that. I was appalled at the idea of marrying him and so told him there was no need to rush. He turned to me and said “Really? You’re ok with people thinking his mother is a slut?” I’d like to write that I was shocked and hurt by his words, but I wasn’t. I just found them ludicrous, almost to the point of funny. I mean, was he really trying to talk about honour and being a stand up person to me? I just stopped listening to him. His hurtful and hateful words just bounced off of me, as though the pregnancy was a thick suit of armour or something. His words no longer mattered to me at all.

The pregnancy was a very easy one. Yes, I was exhausted for the first three months, but then, it was smooth sailing. I loved being pregnant. Carrying him, I felt for the first time, like I was on a real path to love. I know that sounds crazy, and if my child ever came to me a teen, pregnant, and saying anything similar, I’d want to have a serious talk about reality vs make-believe, but it was how I felt. I couldn’t wait to meet what I was certain was my little boy. In my heart, I wanted to be the best mother to him and make him feel loved and valued, as I’d never felt.

During the last few months of the pregnancy, I was doing everything I could to prepare for the baby. I was attending pre-natal classes, taking my vitamins, eating healthy, sleeping a ton, and readying the nursery. I tried to keep believing things would get better with the father, but nothing ever did. He was going out all of the time, leaving me at home waiting for him. At one point, he flat out refused to have sex with me anymore. He claimed it was because he didn’t want to hurt the baby, but our pre-natal classes had taught us that wasn’t possible. I started to feel ugly and even more unloved, and I tried communicating that with him, but he insisted that had nothing to do with it. After so many weeks though, I found it hard to believe he wasn’t having sex at all, so I asked him. He smiled, but didn’t answer, and I couldn’t tell if he was just kidding, laughing at the audacity of my question, or hiding something. So, I made a comment that if he had been cheating, I would know. Without hesitation, he looked me dead in the eye and told me if he wanted to cheat, he could, and I would never know. Later on, I found out he was cheating.

When it was finally time to have the baby, I had my sister and best friend in the room with me. He was there too, but I didn’t want him to be. He was so embarrassing, making dumb jokes with the nurses, making asshat comments about my body and vagina and what it would be like after the birth. I desperately wanted to ask him to leave, but didn’t have the guts to do it. At one point, my sister offered to do it for me, but I said no. I didn’t want to put her in that position, though I know she would have gladly done so.

When I brought my son home from the hospital, he was my little miracle. He was such a good baby and I felt like the luckiest mom in the world. My aunt was staying with me to help me acclimate to new motherhood and all, but the father hated her. She would make him do chores, tell him to cook, or clean, or go pick up supplies, and he hated that. She was so great because she had no care in the world if he didn’t like her. She was determined to make him take responsibility, even if she had to force him. Of course, he used that as an excuse not to come around very much, but I felt it was more than that. He made all of the right faces when he held my son, those of elation, awe, and pride. But they’d quickly fade and I could see he was bored. And though he’d promised me that by the time the baby came he’d stop going out all the time, he failed on it. I was up with the baby everyday, sleeping only when he took a nap, or when my aunt would tell me to, and I was up more than five times a night to feed him. I was exhausted, and though I found single motherhood would be difficult, I didn’t care. I was exhausted, but happy.

A couple of months later, his father and I planned a picnic. I was still trying to fool myself into thinking we were this cute little family. I readied the food and packed all we needed, and he drove us to the park. We ate and barely spoke while my son lay down between us. I remember thinking the silence should feel awkward, but it didn’t. I wondered if it was because our relationship had finally blossomed to one where we didn’t need to fill the silences, or if it was because we had nothing to talk about. I looked across the blanket at him and I felt nothing. The voice in my head trying to convince me we were a happy family stopped, and I just wanted to pick my son up and walk away. We finished the picnic and a part of me knew things were over. I knew I was ready to say goodbye for good. I just didn’t know how.

For weeks I struggled with my newfound realization. The more time I spent with my son, without his father, the better off I knew we were. Suddenly, all the times his father had hurt, betrayed, manipulated, and gaslighted me were no longer acceptable, and I just knew I had to protect my son from him. I didn’t want my son to grow up to be like him. Nor did I want him to grow up thinking the way he treated me was acceptable. Unfortunately, I had no idea how to end it. When I’d tried the year before, it hadn’t lasted. And then I started to worry about the negative affect it could have on my son. What would it be like for him to be raised in broken home? Would it deeply impact his self-esteem? His self-worth? Even if I were to provide a strong and loving foundation, would his parents not being together counter-effect that and make him feel lost? I struggled with these thoughts every minute of every day. Meanwhile, I continued my relationship with the father. We were together but constantly at odds. We didn’t have big fights or anything, because I just kept my thoughts and feelings to myself, but it was clear neither of us were happy.

I was certain he was cheating on me as he was out with his friends every night into the late (or early hours). I wished so much that I could find some sort of proof, to use as reason to end things, but the truth is, he still would have worked hard to weasel his way back in. I was hanging out with one of the girlfriends one day when she informed me that the boys had been at a party last night where there had been some heavy drugs. The next time I saw him, I asked him if he’d taken any. I could recall when he’d gotten home that night and he had behaved strangely. After a lot of back and forth and fighting, he finally admitted to doing some. I thought I would be shocked and upset, but I wasn’t. I was almost relieved. I begged him to tell me why he’d done it and he told me that he deserved a break with all the stresses in his life. I wanted to laugh, but instead I shrugged and told him he should’ve thought about his son. I don’t remember his reaction because I didn’t care. It was firm and final in my heart. I had to end our relationship.

Stay tuned for PART TEN

Ⓒ May 2022. Beki Lantos. All Rights Reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form by any means without prior written permission of the author.