In the beginning

We met during the early summer of 1980 when I was sixteen years old.

He was like Adonis or some attractive mythical figure who complimented me and showered me with gifts. I forsook the affections of other boys and broke some hearts in the process.

I was smitten with this attractive young man. We made love in different places, under the stars all summer long and in his small apartment when autumn arrived and winter eventually blew in.

Over the next few months I discovered that he could be gentle and he could also be cruel.  He expected me to be loyal yet he cheated on me. His image soon lost its lustre as I was gradually exposed to his behaviours, his lifestyle and new source of income.

I was a high school girl whose classmates had boyfriends.  I wanted to fit in. I was afraid of being alone.  Mother warned me about men when she found me in tears one day after we had an argument. In her jaded view about relationships and sex, she offered, “Men can be soft when they are hard, and hard when they are soft.” That was awkward advice to receive from a good Catholic Mother but it still rings true today. 

My boyfriend and I thought we were being careful yet knew that passionate moments could have influence over us.  My family’s religion prevented me from consulting with the small town doctors about birth control. Back then, you couldn’t do anything without it showing up on your parents’ OHIP statement. We didn’t have free clinics either. By the time I gathered up the courage to check, it was too late. My family’s religion had its influence on my morals, so I wouldn’t even consider getting an abortion.

I no longer could fit into the form-fitting jeans that complimented my teenaged figure. One afternoon in the spring of 1981, as I reclined in our front room, I felt a flutter of movement in my belly. I felt a combination of wonder and fear. Something was growing inside me.  Soon I would have to tell my parents. I was scared.

My Mother eventually discovered something was wrong due to my increased appetite and preference for loose-fitting clothes. My fears of my parents finding out were soon realized. Catholic guilt did well to make me feel ashamed about what happened, for what I had done to our family.

My parents were already making plans with the Children’s Aid Society. A social worker visited our home one night to interview us and discuss options; one of them was to give the baby up for adoption.

Just after I finished my Grade 12 exams in June of 1981, I was spirited away to the Toronto area, to a home for pregnant girls. I spent five months there – five months weighed down by a growing belly, feelings of loneliness and despair. I met many other girls in similar circumstances, learned their back stories, their dreams and worries. I made one lifelong friend.

My boyfriend telephoned me once in a while. He even came to visit me, giving me some glimmer of hope. That hope soon faded.

That summer my pregnant, protruding companions and I witnessed the fairytale wedding of Prince Charles and Lady Diana Spencer on television. We know how that eventually turned out.

More to come in a following post.  Thanks for reading along.

T