Seventeen

At seventeen I was tearing myself up on some guy’s dick that was way too big, convinced I was dying. That’s what I remember about that age. I certainly never thought I’d get pregnant. Not a fucking chance. Even though obviously I could have.

You hear stories about teenage pregnancy and something in you shuts down. You tell yourself you were different—too busy with other shit, Barbies, cartoons, whatever. Pure bullshit. The truth is I was horny and reckless and lucky, all at the same time. And the way I needed that distance, that humor, between me and the girls who actually got pregnant—that’s just how I dealt with the fact that it could’ve been me.

Some people get pregnant at seventeen. Most don’t. The difference isn’t wisdom or values or anything you want to believe about yourself. It’s luck. Timing. Whether a condom broke.

Pauline got pregnant at seventeen. She’s twenty-two now and studying. I found that out and something shifted. Not the inspiring story thing—more that she just kept going. Didn’t become a cautionary tale or a triumph narrative or whatever. Just kept being a person.

You can laugh at that or respect it. Depends what you’re like. I think I respect it. Could’ve been me. Could’ve been anyone. Wasn’t.