Chapter 30

Final Year of High School (5 Years Ago)

Leila's POV

DIARY ENTRY

August 17, 2010

Dear Diary,

Okay, I know it's weird. I never wanted, liked, or even knew about the baby growing inside me until it was too late. But still, I felt bad. I had ended a life. No matter what they would call it, it was still a child—my child. I didn't even wait to ask the father if he wanted to keep it before I selfishly ended its life. How cruel and heartless am I?

I knew I had made a mistake the moment I asked for the ultrasound. But I couldn't help it—I had to see it one last time. I even made the mistake of asking for the sex. It was a baby girl, a beautiful, perfectly formed baby, although smaller than usual. I couldn't believe it—a tiny human being that I was supposed to protect and nurture, and I had taken that away. Thinking about it drives me crazy, even now.

Men don't understand what it's like. After the deed is done, they can just walk away, scot-free, without a second thought. Meanwhile, we women are left to live with the guilt and pain of an abortion. Sometimes, they can be so insensitive or downright pathetic, completely unable to take responsibility for their actions. The word "abortion" has become a terrible one for me, bringing up a lot of painful and horrible memories.

There were some cringe-worthy posts I read online about it, and they were just awful. If I had seen them earlier, I might never have gone through with the abortion. But it's all just excuses, isn't it? Deep down, I knew my dignity and the benefits I was enjoying were too much to give up for a child I couldn't even care for.

The fact is, without my parents, the world is a big, scary place, full of people who don't give a damn about anyone else. And in such a world, I'm too soft, too much of a coward to survive. I can't even accept responsibility for my own actions. I'd rather blame someone else—anyone else—than myself.

What kind of mother can't accept responsibility and apologize to her dead child for killing it? Such a person doesn't deserve to be a mother at all. "Fetus"—what a convenient word, just an excuse that monsters like me use to exonerate ourselves.

Those supposed fetuses can feel. They can feel the pain of being torn to shreds. That's the worst form of murder. We were murderers of those defenseless creatures we were supposed to nurture. And I'm no different.

After the abortion, I became excessively withdrawn. My whole being was at war with itself. Part of me kept telling me I did the right thing, that I would have only brought my child into this world to suffer. But convincing myself didn't work. I began staying away from my friends for real this time and threw myself into my studies like my life depended on it. I hardly partied anymore. 

But that didn't mean I didn't need my fix. I needed it to escape my pathetic life. I was always high so I wouldn't feel the pain and guilt of ending an innocent life due to my lack of morals. It was my way of escaping reality, a reality that I had created and could no longer bear.

The drugs only helped as long as I was under their influence. Once they wore off, the pain came crashing back, stronger than ever. One night, I overdosed on the pills. Luckily, my friends found me in time and rushed me to the hospital, using another false name to cover up my tracks. Again, the lies and the secrets kept piling up. After that, I knew I had to find another way to get relief when I wasn't high, to avoid dying from an overdose.

That's when I started cutting myself. The pain was deep in my mind, something I couldn't reach or control. But cutting myself made the pain more physical, something I could see and feel. It became a sort of atonement, as if by inflicting pain on myself, I could somehow make up for what I had done. I may look alright physically, but inside, I'm nursing this huge sense of guilt and insecurity that never goes away.

I remember the day I found out I was pregnant. It was like the ground had been ripped out from under me. I couldn't believe it, I was only 17. How could this happen to me? I wasn't ready to be a mother. I wasn't ready for any of it. The fear and panic that washed over me were overwhelming. I didn't know what to do or where to turn. I felt completely and utterly alone.

I didn't tell anyone at first. Not even my best friends. I was too ashamed, too scared of what they would think. I kept it all to myself, hoping that somehow, it would just go away, that it wasn't real. But the reality of it wouldn't let me rest. I couldn't sleep. I couldn't eat. I could barely focus on school. All I could think about was the baby growing inside me and the impossible choice I had to make.

When I finally told the father, he was no help at all. He was just as scared and clueless as I was. He didn't offer any support or comfort—he didn't even seem to care. That only made it worse. I felt so lost, so desperate. I thought about keeping the baby, I really did. But in the end, I knew I couldn't do it. I couldn't be a mother. I wasn't ready. And I was terrified of what my parents would do if they found out.

So I made the decision to end it. To end her life. I made the appointment, walked into that clinic, and did what I thought was best. But I didn't feel relief when it was over. All I felt was emptiness, a void that nothing could fill.

After that, the guilt and shame consumed me. I withdrew from everyone, even my closest friends. I couldn't face them, couldn't face myself. The guilt was overwhelming. I felt like I was drowning in it, like I couldn't breathe. I tried to keep up appearances, to pretend that everything was fine, but inside, I was falling apart.

That's when I turned to drugs. They were the only thing that made the pain go away, even if only for a little while. But I was playing a dangerous game, and I knew it. The drugs were taking over my life, and I was losing control. But I didn't care. I didn't want to feel anything anymore. I just wanted the pain to stop.

I'll never forget the night I overdosed. I had taken too many pills, trying to numb the pain, trying to escape. But instead of escaping, I ended up in the hospital. My friends were frantic, trying to save me, but they didn't know the full extent of what I was going through. They didn't know about the guilt, the shame, the overwhelming sense of loss that was eating me alive. All they saw was a girl who had made a mistake, a girl who was spiraling out of control.

After that, I knew I had to find another way to cope. The drugs were too dangerous, too unpredictable. So I turned to something else—something that gave me a different kind of release. I started cutting myself. At first, it was just a small scratch here and there, a way to release the pent-up emotions that were threatening to overwhelm me. But it quickly escalated. The pain of the cuts was a welcome distraction from the pain in my mind. It was something I could control, something I could focus on when everything else felt like it was falling apart.

Each cut was a reminder of what I had done, a way to punish myself for the life I had taken. I knew it was wrong, that it wasn't a healthy way to cope, but I didn't care. I deserved to suffer. I deserved to feel pain. Because I had taken an innocent life, and nothing I could do would ever make up for that.

Physically, I looked fine. I smiled when I was supposed to, I laughed at the right moments, and I went through the motions of my daily life like nothing was wrong. But inside, I was a mess. I was drowning in guilt and shame, and no one could see it. No one knew the truth. I was alone in my pain, and it was tearing me apart.

I tried to talk to someone about it oncea counselor at school. But the words wouldn't come out. How could I explain what I was going through without them judging me? Without them thinking I was a monster? So I kept it all inside, burying it deeper and deeper until I could hardly breathe.

The worst part was seeing other girls at school, pregnant and happy, excited about becoming mothers. It made me sick to my stomach, knowing what I had done, knowing that I could never be like them. I would never get to hold my baby girl, never get to see her smile, hear her laugh. I had taken that away from myself, and I would have to live with that for the rest of my life.

There were days when I wanted to end it all, to just disappear and escape the pain once and for all. But I couldn't do it. I was too much of a coward , too afraid, of what would happen if I did . So I kept going,day after day trying to hold it together, trying to survive.

I know I can never ever talk to anyone about this , but maybe writing about it may help a little , even though it doesn't take away the guilt, I don't know if I'll ever be able to forgive myself. I was alone and desolate in this grief and I felt I was losing something significant but I didn't know what.

Until then Diary, I'Ii keep trying to hold on , even though am barely hanging on by a thread that might snap at any moment.