In order to show one way to write an autobiography in a way that reaches your readers and touches their emotions, I have provided a brief piece about a particularly important part of my life.
After years of being told that I could not carry a child to full-term, that my chance of birthing my own biological child was one-in-a-million, I had resigned myself of a lifetime of regret.
Suffering from Polycystic Ovarian Syndrome since my teens, I was used to the physical, as well as emotional, pain that would not allow me to achieve my most important goal in life: to become a mother. While there are many other avenues to becoming a parent, I had always felt a particular connection to carrying a child and bringing he or she into the world, to being able to look into his or her eyes and see a little bit of myself staring back. As a consummate “overachiever,” I always had plans for a successful career, finding an amazing place to call home, and feeling happiness in the achievements I made over the years. Yet, as important as that was, and still is, to me, I always knew that the real life position I was meant to hold was that of ‘Mommy.’
Through my early college years, the stress of school, getting mugged, moving, and financial woes kept my mind occupied. However, once I got into my twenties, it seemed as though everywhere I turned, someone was pregnant. All of my friends seemed to be blessed with overly active reproductive systems, while I maintained my lifestyle as a lifelong student. I was upset, but not because they were having children. I was upset because they didn’t seem to realize how incredibly lucky they were. While it is supposed to be your given right as a woman to give birth, some of us are inflicted with struggles that make it incredibly difficult to carry out our biological duty. So to sit and watch my friends complain about their beautiful babies, to roll their eyes when they heard their child call out to them, to choose a night of drinking and partying over cuddle time and a story, made my initial jealousy turn into resentment.
After several years of this, I found myself infatuated with pregnancy. I wanted to know everything about it – not only the biological things, but how it actually felt to be pregnant. I would wander aimlessly around stores and find myself in the maternity section. If I saw a pregnant woman at the store, I would receive strange looks after being caught blatantly staring at her growing belly. I was the person to make faces and coo at every random baby I came into contact with, or even saw passing on the street. Sometimes, while at home, I would close my eyes and imagine what it would be like to feel a baby kicking inside of me or to hear a child cry and know it was mine. My body and soul literally ached for a child of my own.
I later began a relationship with a man I thought I would eventually marry. After six years, our relationship ended due to his inability, and unwillingness, to control his anger. After being physically assaulted and suffering as much emotional abuse as I could take, I mustered the courage to venture out on my own. That’s when I discovered that I was pregnant.
Even after having been told for years that I could not have a baby, I would always hope and wish for it, instinctively thinking I was pregnant every month. Yet, as each month passed, so did my unfulfilled hope. Imagine my surprise that, during the one month that I had not been attributing every twinge, headache, or feeling of nausea to pregnancy, I was actually carrying my own child
I went through a range of feelings. The first feelings were not happy ones, even after all the time I had spent salivating at the idea of becoming a parent. I was confused, shocked, angry, and resentful. I had just gotten out on my own, into my own apartment, finally had a job I enjoyed, was almost done with my undergraduate and making plans for my graduate degree, and I was single for the first time during my twenties. This was not how I imagined it to be.
I was angry that I knew my child would not have a suitable father, nor would he be involved. As a father to three daughters, my ex-boyfriend had made it clear that he would be involved if it was a boy, but really didn’t care if I had a girl. I had to make the difficult choice between begging for his involvement or carrying on alone, knowing that I needed the most stable home life possible for my child. While it killed me inside to know that my decision could affect my child’s life in a negative way, I know firsthand what it feels like to have a father that is involved, then randomly decides he’s had enough and disappears from your life. I decided that rather than bring an unstable, untrustworthy parental figure into the life of my child, I would protect him or her from feeling the hurt and abandonment that I felt when my father left. I know that regardless of anything else, protecting my child’s emotions is the most important thing in the world now, and I would do anything to save him or her from hurt.
A few months into the pregnancy, I am finally coming to terms with the life inside of me. I’ve dealt with the never-ending nausea, the pounding migraines, the insomnia, and the feeling of being alone in this because I know that in a few months, I will meet a person that I will love more than anyone or anything in this world. Now, as I feel the tiny kicks and movements of my baby inside of me, I am able to smile. I finally feel like a ‘Mommy.’
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