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!"