The first trimester of my pregnancy would be the hardest of my life. Paul already insisted that I move in with him, but I had to tell everyone that I was pregnant before I could even do anything with the baby. I hadn't even gone to see the doctor about the baby, which probably wasn't a good thing. I was already two months into my pregnancy and hadn't paid one visit to the doctor.
Nerves hit me every time I even tried to bring up the topic of pregnancy with my dad and Keyanna. They both thought that teen pregnancy was a bad thing, but I at least I was almost not a teenager. My eighteenth birthday was only two months away, way before I would have the baby. Paul was already eighteen, turning nineteen. We were graduating in three months, and everything would be fine. At least I hoped so.
How could everything be fine? I was fucking pregnant. There was another person inside me, a person that I was responsible for. That meant one thing and one thing only.
I had to stop being bulimic.
No one had ever known I was bulimic, except for my doctor, who was far away. She had promised not to tell anyone unless it really and truly mattered. Well, I was having a baby. It mattered then.
I needed help, and I needed help fast. If this baby was going to live, I needed therapy, and I needed to eat. So who did I tell first? Paul or my family? Paul already knew I was pregnant, so it might've been easier to tell him and have him get me help. But he would freak out. I could go to the school and ask them for a good place to get help. Maybe just telling someone was all the help that I needed. Either way, I needed some help, no matter how much it hurt me. That baby was my life, but I couldn't stop this disorder by myself. It was too much for me to handle.
Paul and I were going shopping in a few days to get me some pregnancy clothes. Maybe I could tell him then, after dinner or before when we got a place to sit down. I would eat dinner, and try not to throw it up. It would be our little secret… hopefully.