Everything Feels Wrong

try telling me you wouldn't do the same

I have always referred to her as a her. Then, and now. I can't tell you exactly why, because I don't know. But I have.

I remember stepping out of my sister's car, and walking with her, hand in hand, up to the front door of this controversial building.

I remember walking in, and my sister giving our names to the receptionist. Apparently we had an appointment.

I remember being told to sit in an uncomfortable blue chair, before being called behind the front desk by a woman in an emerald green blouse.

I remember being asked if this was really what I wanted.

And let me tell you, being told that I had "so many other options" wasn't what I wanted to hear.

I had spent weeks coming to terms with this. I had spent weeks telling myself that this was the right thing to do, for myself, and for her.

It was not what I wanted to do. But it was the safest thing for me. And for her. I could not bring a child into the world, because I knew I couldn't take care of her. I couldn't make her life a good one. And even if this sounds selfish, I didn't feel like ruining my life a month before I turned fourteen.

So I stopped the woman mid sentence, and told her that this was happening, and that I'd made my decision.

My sister and I signed some papers, she paid, and I was guided down a hallway into a white room, where I was handed a paper thin gown and told to change.

Lord, were things going to change.