A Lover's Mentality Page 4

  “We have come a long way, baby,” I say to myself. Just to let you know, our journey is still not at the end. I know our road will never end. Our life together may have just begun, but the decision of me keeping this baby hasn’t. With me deciding to go through with the abortion, I now know that I am holding on to this secret for eternity. I sigh as I place the picture back on my dresser.

  “You ready?” Kenya says as she walks into my bedroom.

  “I guess I am. I mean, I know once I get there, there will be no turning back.”

  “You know you don’t have to go through with this if you don’t want to, Mya,” Kenya says.

  Sighing, I get up from the bed and grab my overnight bag. “No, Kenya, this is what I want. I can’t deal with Shame and sharing the father of my child with his crazy-ass ex. I just can’t put my child through the bullshit, and I can’t put myself through it either. It’s not of its worth,” I say walking out of my bedroom ahead of her.

  Looking at me for reassurance, Kenya turns off my lights and TV and heads for the front door. “Well, I’ll be in the car,” she states, closing the door behind her.

  After we arrive in Atlanta, Kenya pulls up to the abortion clinic on Mercer University Drive; minutes after finding an available parking spot, we get out the car and walk up to the building.

  “You know you can always change your mind, Yemya,” Kenya whispers as we enter the lobby.

  “I didn’t make it this far for no reason, Kenya,” I say as I approach to the front desk. “I do appreciate you for coming and supporting me on making this decision.”

  “I’m just saying,” she states.

  “Really, I appreciate it and I’m going to go through with this, Kenya.” I stand at the open window waiting to be assisted.

  “Hi, can I help you today?” the blonde-hair, blue-eyed nurse says.

  Clearing my throat, I say, “Um, yes, I have an appointment with Dr. Susan McCullough today at 2:15.”

  “Name please?”

  “Yemya Smith.”

  “Okay. Date of birth?” she asks as she types in my information.

  “July 26, 1989,” I state as I watch her type in my birth date. “How long will the wait be?” I question.

  “Dr. McCullough is usually quick with her procedures. You shouldn’t have to wait no more than thirty minutes. How far a long are you, Miss Smith?”

  “Nine weeks.” As I say the words, I suddenly realize what I’m about to face. I’m in Atlanta in an abortion clinic registering to kill a baby that I’ve been carrying for nine weeks … a human being, a creation of Shame and I together.

  “Okay, Miss. Smith, just fill out this paperwork,” she says as she hands me a clipboard “And also sign this consent form. Dr. McCullough will be right with you.”

  “Okay thanks,” I says, as I take a seat in the waiting area. After filling out the paperwork, I sit next to Kenya for my name to be called.

  “Yemya Smith,” the nurse calls.

  Getting up, Kenya and I follow her into the rooms inside the clinic.

  I look around the room. Posters of women’s organs and information on a fetus hang on the walls. There are gloves and other medical items on the counters. A chubby nurse clears her throat and says, “Miss Smith, can you please strip down and put on this robe? Have you eaten today?”

  “No, ma’am. I haven’t.”

  “Okay, good. Dr. McCullough will be with you shortly to discuss any further information with you about an abortion. Is there anyone here with you who will be here after the procedure?” she asks, looking at me then at Kenya.

  “Um, yeah, my sister, JaKenya Griffin,” I say as I point to Kenya.

  “Nice to meet you,” Kenya states, shaking the nurse’s hand.

  “Great, well, Miss Griffin, when it’s time to take her to the back for surgery, you can take a seat in the lobby and someone will come get you when she is taken to recovery.”

  “Will do,” Kenya states. The short, stubby nurses leaves the room.

  I slowly start to peel away my clothes, folding them up and placing them in a nearby chair.

  Stepping toward me, Kenya bends down and rub s my belly. “Ugh, I can’t believe you are not keeping it,” she says as she places her hand on my bare belly. “Good-bye, lil one.”

  I sigh at the thought of going through what I’m about to go through. I fight back my tears, not wanting Kenya to notice my true feelings. Then she’ll try to talk me into keeping it for sure. Stepping away from Kenya’s hand, I pull on the robe and tie it up. “Kenya, please don’t do that.”

  “Do what? I was just telling the baby bye,” she says sarcastically.

  “You make me feel bad by doing that,” I state as I sit back on the hospital bed.

  “You will only feel bad if you feel guilty about doing something that you feel is wrong, Yemya. So do you?”

  “Do I what?” I ask.

  “Do you feel guilty? You are about to go through an abortion in a matter of minutes, Mya. There’s no turning back.”

  “I know that, Kenya. Damn, I thought you were here for moral support, not to nag me and make me feel bad. Yes, I feel guilty by me just—”

  Before I was about to get emotional Dr. McCullough knocks on the door and let herself in. Standing about five-eight with dark hair and a shade of emerald-green eyes, she looks as if she’s in her early forties. “Hi, Miss Smith, I’m Dr. Susan McCullough, and I’ll be the doctor doing the aborting procedure today. How are you?”

  “I fine,” I state. “This is my sister JaKenya Griffin.”

  “Kenya, please,” Kenya nonchalantly states.

  “Hi, Kenya” she says as she hold her hand out to shake Kenya’s hand. Then she sits on the stool next to me and looks over the chart. “Miss. Smith, it says here that this will be your first abortion. Is that correct?”

  “Yes, ma’am it is,” I say nervously.

  “Usually we wouldn’t want girls as young as you are to go through an abortion. Reason being, in your case, you haven’t had your first child yet. Are you sure that this is something that you want to do?” she asks.

  “I am positive.” I’m starting to get annoyed by being questioned on my decision. If this was something that I didn’t want, then I wouldn’t be here.

  After going over the procedure, Dr. Susan informed me on the pain medication and misoprostol in preparation of the procedure. Minutes after removing my clothes and putting on the gown that was given to me, I sat in the room contemplating. I thought about Shame and the things that I was going through in order to make our relationship work. Those gut feelings that every woman has made me feel otherwise. As much as I wanted to bring a child into this world, I felt as if I was going to be alone. Shame still has some growing up to do as a man. Having two kids and no future. It will only be harder on me.

  “I’m doing the right thing,” I whisper to myself.

  “You okay?” Kenya asks, looking as if she and read my mind. She gives me a tight hug. And that’s when my tears fell. “Let it out, baby girl, let it all out,” she says as she caresses my back.

  “I don’t want to go through with this, Kenya, but I have to do it for me,” I say in between my sobs.

  Walking to the nearby counter, Kenya grabs some tissues and hands them to me. “You are a strong woman, Yemya. You have been raped, you have been lied to, and you have been hurt. You have endured a lot as a teenager. Look at you now, 24, doing your own thing, beautiful, dynamic--- Mya you’re your own Queen who has overcame a lot which built you a lot of growth. Don’t you ever feel like your situations and decisions only bring you to mistakes. Let this better you. You hear me? This is coming from your sister. Regardless if you decide to keep it or not, God loves you.”

  I look at my sister as I dab my eyes with the tissue. I was prepared to make the biggest decision of my life without anyone knowing that I was pregnant. After today, I’m going to live my life as a different woman by letting go of my past. Past memories of being raped at ten, past relationships and oth
er bullshit a girl have to deal with to discover herself.

  Knocking on the door and then entering, Dr. McCullough asks Kenya to leave the room and states that she will let her know when I was in recovery.

  “You will lie on your back with your feet in stirrups and a speculum is going to be inserted to open the vagina. Stacy, who is our anesthetic, is here to administer to your cervix. This is a tenaculum,” Dr. Susan says as she holds the silver tool up for me to see. “It is used to hold the cervix in place for the cervix to be dilated by cone-shaped rods. When the cervix is wide enough, a cannula, which is a long plastic tube connected to a suction device, is inserted into the uterus to suction out the fetus and placenta. Do you understand, Miss Smith?”

  Nodding my head in agreement, I lie back with my legs propped up on the table feeling a sense of shame and guilt. I inhale deep. “The procedure usually lasts ten to fifteen minutes, but recovery may require staying at the clinic for a few hours. A nurse will notify your sister when you are in recovery.”

  “Okay,” I say. “What are the side effects?”

  “Well, the common side effects that most women experience is cramping. You may feel a bit nauseated and a little faint, but it will eventually wear off.” Clearing her throat and sitting her chart down on the nearby counter, Dr. Susan prepares to get ready to prep me for surgery as she continues talking. “Then there are the side effects that are less frequent.”

  “And those are?” I ask. I’m afraid of what her answer would be. From the way it sounds, it sounds like my vagina is going to get slaughtered.

  “Well, these effects can heavy bleeding, damage to the cervix … We are going to scrape away the fetus. The head will be grabbed by the stirrups, and I will use the stirrups to crush the fetus’s head. Afterwards, we will suck away the remaining particles of the fetus.”

  Minutes later, Dr. Susan’s voice seems to fade away. I feel myself seep in and out of consciousness, and the last thing I remember seeing is bright lights …

  8

  “They say it’s better to forgive but to never forget those who have hurt you along the way.”

  April 2h, 2013

  I came to the conclusion that I feel like I can’t live without you. I know I said I was going to break things off with you, but that was only a threat. Shame, in spite of the struggles and hard times, I wouldn’t choose no one else to go through them with but you. Baby, I’m not going anywhere. I promise. You have my love regardless of what happens between us, and my heart belongs to you. I know that things can get crazy between us. I don’t want you to leave me, and I don’t want to leave you. Man, I swear this is the best, you’re the best, and it can’t get any better than this.

  Yemya

  Days after the abortion, my feelings for Shame began to return. I felt like I needed to reach out to him. I felt like the missing piece needed to be filled. At this moment, I feel myself relapse. Closing my journal, I decide to hit Shame up. I want to make amends with this relationship, especially after I underwent an abortion behind his back. He deserves to have a chance. In reality, I shouldn’t let what other people say determine my relationship with him. That can be a downfall, and I am slowly learning that. Everyone has so much to say about the next bitch and what she is doing to my man. Even my own damn friends are running up and out of the mouth with the he-say-she-say shit.

  Picking up my journal and cell phone, I head into the living room and sit on the couch. Scanning the room for the remote, I see it sitting on the end table near the loveseat. As much as I think about getting up to get it, I decide against it. Pulling out my phone, I call Shame, hoping that it won’t send me to voicemail. Just when I’m about to hang up he answers.

  “Hello?” Shame says in an annoyed tone.

  “What’s up, Shame?” I ask, hoping that the conversation won’t just stop right there.

  “Shit, Mya, just chillin’ over at Tony’s house. What’s up wit you?” he asks.

  “Nothing,” I say, propping my feet up on the couch. “I was just thinking about you … thinking about us.”

  “Thinking about us? You wasn’t thinkin’ ’bout us a couple of days ago when I came to yo spot and you had my shit bagged up.”

  Trying not to let the situation piss me off, I decide to make light of the conversation. “Look, Shame, you have no idea what it is like to have motherfuckas constantly in your ear telling you that your man is out digging in broads’ pussy.” I sigh into the phone.

  “The part I’m trippin ’bout is dat you believed it, Mya. That’s the first thing you do when you hear a messy bitch come to you on some shit? You quick to jump to conclusions!” Shame says sarcastically.

  “I don’t know what to believe, Shame,” I say, trying to sound reasonable. “I go days without hearing from you. Nights without you hitting me up to come over or say you are on your way. Not to even call and fucking say I love you! What the fuck you think I’m supposed to believe? Shit, you hit me up only when it’s convenient for you!”

  “You make me hit you up when it’s convenient … all dat believing in what otha bitches got to say is a turn off, Yemya. A turn off. I’ve been pleading my case wit you. Crazy part about it is dat you know dat I love you, and I tell you I’m dealing with shit with the female who is carrying my child. That’s it, Yemya.”

  Feeling the pain hit my heart as Shame mentions his baby mama and his unborn pierce my soul. Tears trickle down my face as I think about the abortion procedure I underwent only days ago. As I cradle my now-empty belly, I think about the decision I made and the guilt slowly begins to sink in. I take a deep breath. I still don’t know what to think about us. I’m not sure if Shame is telling the truth. I decide against the feeling in my gut, pushing the guilt trip to the side, and go with the lust in my mind for Shame. “Look, Shame, I love you too. I have done enough thinking about us. I just be feeling like I needed to do what is best for me. I mean, I didn’t want to end up like some female falling into misery from lost love over a nigga.”

  I know I can’t let this relationship with Shame go so easy. I have to maintain my strength as a woman and take back what belongs to me. Question is, do we as women deserve better? Or did I get so comfortable to the point where I felt like I needed Shame? As much as I know that he is cheating, part of me can’t put it past him, and the other half wants to deal with him and the rumors. Shame is all I know as far as I’m concerned. The only dude I am fucking. I mean, I would talk to other niggas as far as being entertained. But as far as sex, I never let it go beyond a little phone conversation and text messages.

  “Mya, what do you want me to prove to you, baby? I’ll do it. You know I will. You know my baby mama jealous of us, but you let her get in the way of what we have. Look at us … we’re falling apart over nonsense shit you believe, and it’s pushing me away.”

  The tears fall from my eyes as I watch my relationship fall apart over what someone else has said. In all honesty, I want to blame myself. Not once have I caught Shame in the act. On top of that I only went by what people have to say. Not only that, but me not hearing from him on the day-to-day basis doesn’t make me feel better. I am all cried out. One minute he want’s to move to Georgia, or he wants to do better by me--- it’s just so much about Shame that I can’t seem to understand. His actions behind his words makes me question his love.

  “Shame, I know I promised that I was going to be there for you through whatever—”

  “And I told you dat I was neva gone hurt you, Mya. Dat I was gone take care of you. Do you promise da same wit me?”

  I think about Shame’s question. I think about the decision I made with the abortion. I owe it to my selfish ways to give us a try. Shame deserves to be let back in; I made the decision of killing what could have been our child without him knowing. I owe him that much because I can’t change my fucked-up decision. “Shame, I’m done hearing what these folks have to say. I’m focused on us. I accept your son, but you need to get things straight with your baby mama and let her ass know what’
s up,” I hear myself say. In disbelief of what I just said, I realize that my heart feels differently. I’m sure if I want to be with Shame or not. But my mind thought differently—the feeling of emptiness.

  “I’m talkin’ ’bout havin’ a family, Yemya. Movin’ away from dese problems; I’m talkin’ about us not worryin’ ’bout what folks have to say. I need you.”

  And I need my man. Instead, I have pain and suffering and fucking heartaches. I don’t want to give a fuck about no other nigga or what to these bitches have to say … the gossip shit can only be tolerated for so long. Yet the feeling of regret was evading my soul. Part of me really doesn’t want to be with Shame; the other half is confused. Confused on love.

  Feeling the conversation spiraling out of control, I decide to tell Shame what’s on my mind. “How do you think I feel, Shame? Everybody in our business, everyone seems to know what went on about something between you and me. I’m still so damn clueless to what is true or what are lies. Don’t nobody tell me shit, Shame! Nobody! They only tell me what they think they know.”

  “Yemya, what is it wit you? One minute you want to work things out and the next minute you want to go off on a nigga. I love you, girl, what part of that you don’t get?” Shame yells.

  “You love me, right? Your woman … your ole lady, right? Then tell me why the hell people keep telling me about where you at and what you are doing and with who?” The anger is starting to build within my soul; the emotions begin to pour out … the abortion, the cheating, the heartache. “I deserve more respect than what you are giving! Someone always running up to me about some dirt that you’ve done, and I’ve confronted you on the shit so many times and what have you done to change it? Every week it’s always something about you! If you gone cheat, learn how to not be so damn messy with it!” At this time, I wish it were true when they say that sex can make everything better. As much as I want Shame, the decisiveness part of him makes me hate him to the max. I think I’m that bitch, but I’m just the bitch who’s nigga is fucking other bitches, then coming home to me and wanting to fuck me like I’m just a leftover bitch. I am beyond pissed all over again.