I’m reluctant to say what else was going on in my home life at this time, because I don’t want to place blame on anyone for the decisions I made. I’m going to delve into it a bit, not to excuse, but the climate in our household was chaotic in 1984.
A month or so after I met my love bomber, my older brother made the decision to move out of the house on his 18th birthday, in May. He was graduating from high school later in the month. My brother had always worked through high school; starting in fast food at age 14, he would wake up long before school started to work the breakfast shift. After fast food, he worked for a pizza buffet restaurant.
He had decided to attend the local community college after graduation, which my mom had agreed to pay for, but his decision to move out angered my mother to the extent that she reneged on the arrangement. I believe this was a rift that would propel him to stay separated from the family for years to come. I believe this was not a one-time betrayal in his mind, but by that time, a long list of betrayals stemming from our mom and dad’s divorce years prior.
He began working for an insurance company after graduation, where he would continue to work for several years. He’d made it out. I was happy for him because, in my mind, he had to save himself. It did affect me more than I realized at the time, but no ill will was ever felt towards him for leaving when he did. I just longed to go with him.
By 1983/1984, it was evident that my mom and stepdad’s relationship was in trouble. More than once, I was told that my brother and I were the reasons for the difficulties in their marriage. Our little brother was 4 or 5 at the time, and we loved him dearly. If I felt that my mom was mentally stable enough, I would have felt great joy for him growing up in the household that he did. Our stepdad was a great role model for his son, and they spent a lot of time together, which seemed to disturb our mother a great deal. She later stated that was one of the reasons for their divorce a few years later; that our stepdad spent too much time with their son.
There were many wounds that had not healed, and more wounds being added on top by all parties. I contributed to that by my actions in my relationship with the love bomber. I contributed to the difficulties my mom and stepdad were facing, and I didn’t know how to help myself. My anger toward my mom was palpable, but I was not allowed to express it. I felt terribly alone, but if I cried, I was ridiculed. If I spent too much time in my room, I was not participating in family life, which also angered her.
At the beginning of August in 1984, my mom took me to the Dr where it was confirmed, I was around eight-weeks pregnant. A termination of the pregnancy was scheduled later that week. I don’t remember a lot about that week, but what I do remember is my love bomber and I, his parents and my mom and stepdad sitting in a room discussing the situation. I could feel the disgust coming from many angles. I remember my stepdad telling my love bomber that regardless of the decision to terminate the pregnancy, that that should not diminish the commitment he made to me, to be with each other. So, three weeks before my sophomore year in high school, I had an abortion. It was a difficult decision, but I started to pick myself up, brush myself off, and decide to make smarter decisions in the future. My love bomber was tender and loving for about a week afterwards.
Two weeks before school started, my love bomber called to break up with me. He stated he had heard some stories from a friend of his, what I did after a party two years prior. What I thought was a night of painful stupidity and drunkenness, allowing myself to be used by someone who went to his school, ended up being the “reason” for him not wanting to continue a relationship with me. I begged him to not leave me alone in the mess we had created. There would be three more times I begged, once over the phone and twice in person, but to no avail. I was as surgically cut out of his life with finality, and great resolve.
I don’t know how I made it through that time, let alone picked myself up enough to start school. When I was asked by a boy why I was crying in class the week school started, I told him my boyfriend and I broke up a week or two ago; he started laughing. He thought it was funny that we broke up a week or two ago, because he had seen my love bomber out with another girl weeks before that. I felt like throwing up.
Then the rumors started. The least innocuous rumor was that I had had an abortion. That was true, and although I was hurt others knew about it, I was already preparing myself for the fallout from the time the decision was made. The most hurtful, was that I intentionally took drugs to “kill my baby”.
I went through the motions every day; going to class, going to work after school, cheerleading, and holding on for dear life. Hostile school environment, hostile home environment. I felt I had nowhere to go and nowhere to turn to.
My life as I knew it, was over.
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