It Happens to "Good Girls" Too!

At 16, a 'good girl' became a mother... here, she shares her story.
"TAMPA -- I love you."

I remember uttering those words for the first time to the guy I was with. I was 15, in love, doing well in school, had an after-school job and not a care in the world.

I was also sexually active; I had been since I was a freshman in high school. I vividly recall the first guy I slept with -- tall, strapping and popular with the ladies, and for some reason, he liked me! Or so I thought. Even when he told me, "If you get pregnant, you will have to deal with it," I looked at him starry-eyed and did not utter a single word.

I hated the way I looked. I lived in a home with eight other people, and the idea that this tall, good-looking guy wanted me instead of the other girls, well, that was worth anything. I equated his touch with specialness, his kisses with love. When I was with him, all the loathing I felt about my appearance and the sadness I felt at home disappeared. I wasn't just one of those other girls. After all, he said he loved me, and he wouldn't have sex with me if he didn't, right?

Well, I did have to deal with it. I became pregnant by that first guy, and family pressures led me to have an abortion. Lesson learned right then and there, huh?

Guess again. Next was the guy I really thought I was in love with. This "first true love" dumped me for a cheerleader in my class about three weeks after we slept together. About nine months later, I was a junior in high school, with straight A's and in honors classes. I still had my after-school job and yes, I still was sexually active. My latest boyfriend was this guy I had met about two months before through a friend of a friend.

Lesson still not learned. Here I was once more. Kisses, touching, words of love. One day I don't get my period. No big deal, I think; I am very physically active. I'm just late, is all. One day turns into a week, and then two and then three. I had now officially known my "boyfriend" nine weeks. Do I tell him? Do I go to the doctor? What if my family finds out? I finally break down and ask a friend to go with me to the drugstore, too terrified to ask my very old-fashioned grandparents for help. Our house was a house where you didn't ask and you weren't told. After all, they were raised that way, so why not raise us that way too?

We went to Eckerd's under the guise of needing a pair of pantyhose, and with great embarrassment, I asked the pharmacist for a test. I ran home with the sacred box hidden under my shirt and locked myself in the bathroom. Those three minutes were the longest, most painfully anxious moments in my young life. I couldn't bear to look at first and then, slowly; I turned my head and saw the bright pink "X" staring me right in the face.

At first I was disbelieving. I think I sat in that bathroom for an hour, just staring at this white stick with the big pink "X." My heart was in my throat, my pulse was racing, my stomach was doing flip-flops. Instinctively, my hand went toward my belly. I removed my top and stared at my flat stomach in the mirror and tried to fathom its getting big and round.