This is why I write.

I've been searching for other teen mom's on Blogger and have thus far come up empty handed. I wish there were other girls like me, trying to break the mold of what society believes being a "teenage mother" represents.

I don't want to be stereotypical, but I mean, we've all thought about young mothers in an unfavorable manner. If you face the statistics, most teen mothers are poor and uneducated, living off the welfare system and working at dead end jobs. And, from experience, most other girls put into my situation rely on others to raise/support their child.

You hardly ever see thriving, sensible teenage mothers plastered on your television screen. You see sixteen and seventeen year olds trying to get pregnant. There are times when I want to call up Dr. Phill and say, "Hey mister, now listen here. Just because some girls are having sex with homeless guys in hopes of getting pregnant doesn't make us all losers! Okay?!"

I understand that it's difficult for girls to find a cozy medium between "teen" and "mom". If you lean too far to one side, it's strictly diapers, nap time, and a feeling that you lack any sort of self. But too far to the other side, and it becomes reckless, drunken nights that leave you feeling guilty. I can't even say that I have it all figured out yet, because I don't.

Often, I feel that I'm alone in my struggles. Like I'm the only one who is unsure of myself and the life I lead. It doesn't help making myself so vulnerable, so raw. What you are reading is the truth. It isn't some act I'm putting on so I look like a better mother. I'm not some sympathy-seeking reject looking for reassurance nor guidance. I'm simply putting myself out there because I wonder if other people go through the things I do. If they have the same feelings and doubts and experiences. And if they do, I hope they read this and know they are not alone.

This is why I write.

I write to change people, to uplift them and give them hope. I write because even if I alter one life in the smallest of ways, I have accomplished something. (Okay, and sometimes I write just to release some of the whining and bitching from my head.)

I love you.

Six billion people in this world.
Six billion souls,
and sometimes,
all you need
is one.

I remember the first time I met him. I was 15 and had just lost my virginity. I guess you could say it was a "blind date". We somehow found each other through mutual Xanga friends. (Yes, it was THAT long ago.) I picked him up at K-Mart.

He was wearing his "The Used" shirt that he loved so much. He was tall, skinny, with eyes that told a story. I could stare into those eyes forever. From the moment he first smiled at me, I knew I was in love.

I'm still in love.

Despite the fact that this was years ago. Despite the fact that we have both grown into extremely different people. Despite the fact that my feelings might not be returned. I feel that it is time I admit to myself. And the world. That I still love him.

Positive.

It's 2:20 in the morning, and I have no idea why I'm still awake. I have been having a hard time sleeping. It's almost as if something is stirring beneath me, wanting to be released. But every time I try to free the words from my brain, they disappear.

Lately, I've been trying to figure out who I've become. It's hard to remember being the girl I was before I got pregnant. Senior year I was simply defined as "the girl who got knocked up in high school". (Though, at least I DID get my diploma.) It's almost unbearable to think of how much I have changed, to think of how much my life have changed in these short two years.

Wow, it's almost been two years since I got pregnant.

I remember the day I found out I was with child. It was a Tuesday, and Matt had stayed the night. I woke up, remembering the dream I had and felt my stomach drop. It was just a dream, right? In it, my teacher had mentioned my growing stomach and curiously asked if I was pregnant. I thought about the facts: there was a belly bump I couldn't suck in or hide and constant nausea that never got better.

I ran downstairs to take a test leftover from an earlier pregnancy scare. "Positive" it read, clear as day. I didn't mess around with the lines bullshit. I sat on the toilet seat and called Matt.

"Hey, um, I think I'm pregnant," I told him. I never was one for small talk. After I assured him that he didn't need to come back to my house, I called my sister. We met for lunch and bought a five-pack of pregnancy tests.

Positive.
Positive.
Positive.
Positive.
Positive.

Shit.

I quickly sent my best friend Meghan a text asking her to meet me at Birthright after school. Because even though test after test was telling me I'm pregnant, I needed somebody else to sit me down and say it. This was a bad idea.

Birthright is a religious version of Planned Parenthood. You walk in and the Virgin Mary stares right at you screaming "WHORE!". I fill out paperwork, they administer my seventh pregnancy test, then sit me down in a private room for the results.

"God has blessed you with a miracle."

I'd be lying if I said I didn't want to punch her in the face. I was 17 and barely a senior in high school. Describing my situation as a "miracle" seemed insulting at the time. But for an entire hour, this former nun wouldn't shut up about the "miracle" (or "miracles", since I told her the story about both of my parent's being identical twins.) that was growing inside me. She even showed me a replica of what my "miracle" probably looked like at the time. I grimaced.

"It has a tail!"

Fuck and run.

I kind of assumed that my first blog should be about Oliver. That it should explain the story of becoming a mother, and my day-to-day life of raising a child at 19. I guess this is my biggest problem with life--I'm always a mom and never a teen.

So this blog is going to be about me. In a way that I've probably never been seen before, and in a way that you might not approve of. But it's honest and real and...slutty.

I was fairly young when I started masturbating. Though, at the time, I didn't know what I was doing. I just knew if I rubbed myself against something, electricity ran through my body. It felt good. Looking back, it was one of the few times I can remember actually being happy.

Somewhere along the way, I began to mistake this feeling for love. I had the naive logic that if I showed a guy that I could give good head or was great in bed, he'd fall in love with me. And at the time, I thought I was smarter than the other girls. I thought that I had found the secret to a boys heart: his cock.

(God, I hate being SO vulgar.)

I've never had sex with a guy I didn't want to have a relationship with. But I've had plenty of sex with guys who didn't want a relationship with me. Of course, no man will ever tell you up front that they are only looking for a quick fuck. Like that would be more painful to deal with than wondering why he never called back. Being me, I even ask. And I believe him when he says "I had a nice time. You were amazing. Text me."

I sit here and I understand how pathetic I am. I'm ashamed of my foolish behavior. I mean, I am a mother for god's sake! I should know better than allowing these guys to fuck and run. Because I shouldn't be having sex with them. I. GET. IT. It's not like that thought isn't in my head all day long. It's not like that voice inside my head doesn't scream "DON'T DO IT."

Hope.

It only takes a sliver of hope for me to think things will be different. That HE will be different. But he never is. And then I just end up hating myself more and more. I know something is wrong with me, and it takes everything I have not to feel unlovable.

This is probably something people go through earlier in life. In high school, I was always in one serious relationship after another. And then I got pregnant. I'm just getting back out into the "dating scene" and acting like a 16 year old. The thing is: I'm not sixteen anymore. I'm not that girl. I'm not this girl.

I'm very intelligent, incredibly witty. You won't see me on the cover of Seventeen anytime soon, but I am beautiful in my own way. I am passionate, caring, loving. Deep down, I know that I deserve more than what I'm giving myself. I deserve a man who will treat me right. I deserve to be loved.