在哈佛意外怀孕

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Pregnant at Harvard?

The Harvard Crimson, By ANONYMOUS April 28, 2015

I still remember freshman orientation, when the Office of Student Life had us all bond with our entryways by sending us on a dorky scavenger hunt through Harvard’s plethora of campus resources, from the Bureau of Study Counsel to the Office of Career Services to Room 13. In the Women’s Center, my friends and I giggled awkwardly at the rainbow condoms and joked about a brochure entitled “Pregnant At Harvard?” I never dreamed that it would be relevant to my life. And yet two and a half years later, I walked sobbing out of a clinic in Boston after having an abortion.

Okay. Rewind needed.

When I came to Harvard, I was very much the stereotypical Harvard freshman. I fit in well with the high school student body presidents, star soccer players, first violinists, and newspaper editor-in-chiefs. I’d never done drugs. The most I’d ever had to drink was a glass of champagne with my parents. I had a steady boyfriend of two years. Life wasn’t picture-perfect; it never is. But mine was almost scarily wholesome.

College was a whole new world in so many ways. I drank for the first time. I partied every weekend. My adoringly sweet high school boyfriend and I broke up right around Thanksgiving of freshman year. But I had a social life, good grades, and exciting extracurriculars.

And soon after, I fell in love with a boy who was perfect for me—the type of soulmate that everyone dreams of finding at Harvard. He was my intellectual equal and shared both my romance and my quirky sense of humor. And he made me feel crazily and unquestioningly in love. We could spend hours working on problem sets or hours tearing up a dance floor, we finished each other’s jokes, and we could look at each other and know exactly what the other person was thinking. More than that, we understood each other in a way that no one else ever had. He told me he wanted to marry me. The feeling was mutual, and I eventually ended up losing my virginity to him. Like life, relationships aren’t ever perfect. But we were the type of relationship that everyone wanted to have.

This past fall, something changed. We started having arguments about every little thing. I would say “I love you,” and then get angry and then confused and then sad. I still loved him, but something felt overwhelmingly different and I didn’t know how to express it in words. Eventually, he’d had it. He told me that I wasn’t the girl he fell in love with, and he broke up with me.

I spent weeks sobbing about losing the love of my life, the one person who had promised to always be there for me. I couldn’t eat, I couldn’t sleep, and I couldn’t concentrate. I didn’t know what was wrong with me. I eventually started having strange nightmares and vomiting up random foods. I realized I had skipped a period that should’ve happened before the breakup. But even then, I thought my sadness was the underlying cause.

Looking back, it seems obvious that my symptoms were classic pregnancy indicators, clues we all learn in ninth-grade health class. I wasn’t stupid. But perhaps I was in denial.

Even after two more missed periods, I still hadn’t realized that my ever-changing feelings were hormonally induced mood swings, that the vomiting was morning sickness, and that the changes to my body were a pregnant glow. It wasn’t until I was getting dressed and noticed a visible stomach bump in the mirror that I finally came to terms with the truth.

I took two pregnancy tests, just to be certain. I spent the night by myself, crying. The very next day, I skipped class and went to an abortion clinic, where I officially learned that I was almost four months pregnant. My ex-boyfriend had apparently broken up with a girl who was a month and a half pregnant with his child.

All I desperately wanted was to have my boyfriend back. I wanted him to hold me and let me cry into his chest, for him to tell me that everything was okay even though it wasn’t. But by the time I found out the truth, it was too late to get him back. He had started dating another girl two months after we broke up. I couldn’t tell him. I couldn’t tell anyone.

So I called the clinic and made an appointment for a week’s time. That week was the hardest of my entire life. I hid underneath baggy sweaters, convinced that someone would notice how round my stomach had gotten. I was pale and withdrawn, and skipped almost every class to cry in my bedroom. I woke up every day praying that I was having some extended nightmare. I wasn’t.

I headed to the clinic a week later with just a book, a water bottle, my Harvard ID, and a locket containing a picture of my ex-boyfriend and me. The procedure didn’t take long. It wasn’t even that physically painful. But when it was over, I screamed. I couldn’t stop screaming. As I write these words, it has been over a month since the abortion—and on the inside that screaming hasn’t stopped.

This isn’t Mean Girls—I’m not going to tell you, “Don’t have sex. You will get pregnant, and you will die.” But what I will say is that, yes, there are nights when I wish I could die, when I look in the mirror and hate myself with every fiber of my being. There are nights where I stay up holding the locket, the one piece I have of both my ex-boyfriend and my child, and just cry hysterically. There are nights where I try so hard to convince myself that life is worthwhile by talking myself to sleep with thoughts of stargazing and dancing and laughter, but no matter what I think about I can’t get rid of an all-encompassing sense of pain.

And part of what makes it so hard is there is no one to help me deal with that pain. I wish that I had support. I wish that someone would tell me I’m not a horrible person for making the choice that I did, or say that they sympathize with my agony. But I can’t tell anyone, even my family, about my abortion or my child. I did end up telling my ex-boyfriend. I wanted him to realize that we’d never actually been broken. I sobbed into his chest and confessed everything. I told him about my guilt and my pain. He still didn’t take me back. He told me to tell him if anything was seriously wrong, but he didn’t support me when I needed him and reached out for help. Maybe now I’m just too messed up for him, or anyone else, to deal with.

It is frightening how hard it can be to find support at Harvard. I was shocked by how easy it was to hide my pregnancy. No one, not even my roommates or best friends, noticed how I suddenly started wearing exclusively baggy clothing, or how I kept cancelling plans last minute so I could cry in my room. No one noticed that I was vomiting on a near-daily basis, though I passed it off as “a winter bug” for weeks on end.

We’ve talked before about how here at school, we’re so wrapped up in our own lives that we forget to pay attention to others. We ignore the little signals from our friends that something could be amiss, even if we don’t realize that we’re doing it. I think I truly wanted someone to notice that something was wrong. I wanted someone to ask if I was okay, to tell me that I wasn’t acting like myself—because, really, I wasn’t.

We know there are a million campus resources, no matter what you’re going through. But sometimes when you can’t see a light at the end of the day, actively reaching out is impossible to do. You want someone to come to you.

And it’s easier to take the issue and shove it under the rug. I’ve tried to cope with my situation by distracting myself with other boys; my ex uses his current girlfriend to pretend that everything is normal. Sometimes reality is too hard to deal with, and finding any escape seems like the only plausible option. This—telling my story—is a way to say that no matter what you’re going through, even if you can’t reach out for help at this point, you’re not the only one. You are not alone.

If you saw me today, you’d never guess what I’m hiding. You’d see me heading to class with an oversized backpack, or studying in Lamont, or dancing at a final club, or laughing in the dining hall while surrounded by friends. I look happy. But on the inside, I’m still screaming. The odds of getting pregnant while engaging in the safe sex that my boyfriend and I engaged in are one in a million. Then again, so are the odds of getting into Harvard.

I wonder if that “Pregnant At Harvard?” brochure is still sitting untouched in the Women’s Center. Maybe I should’ve picked it up freshman year.



Editors’ Note: We made the decision to run this op-ed anonymously due to the private and intensely personal nature of its content. It is our hope that this piece will bring to light issues that affect members of our community.

Readers should also note that online commenting has been disabled for this piece in an effort to help protect the author's identity.

—John A. Griffin and Molly L. Roberts, Editorial Chairs

—Steven S. Lee, President

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在哈佛怀孕，其实是这样一种体验 | 《在哈佛意外怀孕》的背后

2015-05-16 北美留学生日报

写在前面： 最近一篇名为《在哈佛意外怀孕，是怎样一番体验？| 没有人告诉你的名校生活的阴暗面》 在各大留学公众号上被各种转发。大家皆对名校中的人间冷暖唏嘘不已，更是有朋友批判文中女主角“不愿承担因自己的行为所导致的责任”。

编者最初也是为故事中的女主角感到惋惜，心里也不断地想，倘若她当初谨慎行事、出事后积极寻求帮助，又何来尝到苦果之后的这一番长吁短叹呢？这事也就给自己提了个醒儿，没多想就让它过去了。

可是没过几天，和Serene一起吃午饭的时候，她问我有没有读到最近被疯转的《在哈佛意外怀孕》，还说让我去读读英文原文。Serene说，作者能勇敢地写这篇文章就是想把她的经历讲给大家听，告诉大家“你不是一个人”。

作者写道，"This –telling my story—is a way to say that no matter what you are going through, even if you cannot reach out for help at this point, you are not the only one. You are not alone."

听了Serene的话，我又跟她一起重新阅读了一下这篇文章，发现在文章的结尾，她写道，"I wonder if that 'Pregnant At Harvard?' brochure is still sitting untouched in the Women's Center. Maybe I should have picked it up freshman year.”(也许，那些小册子至今仍静静地躺在女性健康中心的架子上。有时我会想，如果再让我回到大一，再让我看到“在哈佛怀孕？”的手册，我一定会把它从架子上拿起来。) 是啊，与其说原作者在这里长吁短叹，不如说她用她自己失败的经历来告诫也许有相似经历的女孩们，希望她们不要害怕，因为她们不是一个人；希望她们不要像她那样悲观，傻傻地在那里一个人承受，而不寻求帮助；希望她们不要不重视学校这些帮助女性的资源，对自己的健康负责任。

在和Serene讨论后，我们决定自己把原文翻译过来，让大家感受到原作者的声音和她最真诚的忏悔，也希望其他平台在转载文章时，可以负责任地“哗众取宠”。

以下为怀孕的哈佛女生在哈佛校报上发表的文章的翻译文。 ——文—— 我还记得在大一入学的迎新活动上，学生生活中心（Office of Student Life）的工作人员给我们派发各种学校的资源和信息，包括学生会、职业发展中心、Room 13等。其中一个是女性健康中心。

当时我和朋友一脸尴尬地看着那些彩虹避孕套，还一边取笑一个名叫“在哈佛怀孕？”的小册子。我从来没想过有一天，这几个字眼会与我有关。然而两年半后，我却在波士顿一家诊所做完人流，一边抹着眼泪，一遍想着自己也竟然能中了“在哈佛怀孕”的魔咒。

是时候倒带，回到两年前的这个时候了。

那时我刚来到哈佛，还是个很典型的哈佛新生。我和那些高中学生会长们、明星足球运动员们、厉害的小提琴手们和校报主编们都相处得很好。我从来没有嗑药，而记忆中唯一喝过的那次酒还是与父母一同喝的香槟。我有一个稳定的男朋友，交往了两年。生活并不算完美; 它永远不会是。但我却认为我的生活几乎完美。

从很多方面来看，大学于我都是一个全新的世界，全新的开始。在大学里，我第一次喝醉，每个周末都会去party，而在高中时期与我甜蜜一场的男朋友也选择了在大一感恩节期间与我分手。但我没有因此丧气，我有自己的社交圈子、好成绩以及丰富多彩的课外生活。

就这样没过多久，我又恋爱了。

这一次的男生在我看来是个近乎完美的人，他是那种每个哈佛女生都幻想拥有的灵魂伴侣。他和我一样聪明，浪漫，也能理解我的古灵精怪和常让人摸不着头脑的幽默感。是他，让我又一次深深地坠入了爱河。我们能花数十个小时一起做题，也能花数十个小时在舞池中寻欢作乐。我们可以接上对方的笑话，也可以只凭看着对方的眼睛，就知道对方的心思。要我说，更根本来讲，我们理解对方。

而我也知道，我们这种对彼此的理解程度是他人可望而不可即的。他曾问我愿不愿意陪伴他一世，于我而言，这种将自己托付于他人的感觉是相互的，也是共存的。于是，我把我的初夜献给了他，以此来纪念我们浓烈、炽热而永存的爱情。

虽然大家都说爱情像生活一样，不会那么完美，但是我们的爱情却近似于完美，完美到每个人都想要拥有。 然而，我们这浓烈而稳定的爱情却在刚刚过去的那个秋天发生了改变。我从没想过我们竟然会为了一些鸡毛蒜皮的小事而陷入无止境的争吵之中。我会对他说“我爱你”，但随之而来的也是我无法控制的暴躁、迷惑、伤感。

我仍然深爱着他，但感觉却变了，是那种我身在其中，却无法用言语表达的改变。在这样反反复复的争吵之中，他对我说他腻了。他说，我不再是那个他曾经深爱的女孩。我们分手了。 在与他分手过后的几周里，我一直哭，因为我没法相信曾经说要与我海誓山盟死不分离的那个男人，曾经那个我以身相许的那个男人竟然会离我而去。

在那几周里，我没法下咽、没法入眠、更是一度精神恍惚到没法集中精力思考任何事情。我也不知道我究竟是怎么了。再接下来，我开始做奇奇怪怪的噩梦。我开始反胃，常常刚吃进去的食物就被我呕吐出来。我发现我的月经不再向我报道。但那时的我，沉浸在离别的伤感中无法自拔，以为我的悲伤时导致我反常的生活状态的根本原因。

当我在写下这些时，才意识到当时我的那些症状都是在九年级健康课中学过的，明显的怀孕预兆。

我不是忘了，也不是不会去判断，只是可能潜意识中，我在否认，否认我怀孕的可能性。 即便是我两个月没有来月经，我都没有丝毫怀疑我那反常的情绪是孕期产生的荷尔蒙所带来的，我毫无规律的呕吐是“晨吐”，以及我身体的变化是怀孕的自然生理反应。直到有一天我换上了一件比较紧身的衣服，我才注意到我那微微凸起的小腹和我可能怀孕的这个事实。

为了确保准确性，我用了两次试纸（阳性）。我将我自己独自关在房中，哭了一整晚。第二天，我翘了课，去了人流诊所。直到那时，我才知道原来我已经怀孕4个月了，而与我男朋友分手的时候，我腹中已经带着一个已经一个半月大的宝宝了。

那时我唯一的想法就是让我男朋友回到我身边，与我再一次相爱。我想让他拉着我的手，我想在他怀中痛哭，我想让他亲口告诉我一切都会好起来，哪怕我自己也知道这只是一场梦。但一切都来不及了。那时，他已经有了新的交往对象。我很想把怀孕的消息告诉他，可是我不能。我甚至不能告诉任何人。

后来，我自己打电话给诊所，预约了一周后的人流手术。那一周是我人生中最艰难的一周。我故意套上了宽松的毛衣，以防别人注意到我隆起的小腹。我脸上没有丝毫血色，也没有精力上学，我几乎翘了所有的课，待在寝室里一个人哭。每天早晨起床，我都希望这一切只是一场噩梦。可终究噩梦还是降临在了我身上。

一周后，我拿着一本书、一个水壶、我哈佛的身份证件和带有我和前男友照片的连心锁去了诊所。手术过程并不复杂，我也没有感到明显的疼痛。但是当一切都结束时，我在医院疯了一样的大喊、尖叫、变成了撕裂般的吼叫（我写下这些文字的时候已经距我做手术有一个月之久了，可我内心的尖叫依旧久久不能散去）。

这不是Mean Girls中的场景。我不会跟你说，“不要跟人发生性关系，因为你会怀孕，然后你会疯掉。”但我要跟你说的是，“是的，很多夜晚我都有过死的念头，我恨镜子里的那个我，我恨我的每一丝头发，每一寸皮肤。很多个夜晚，我都会紧紧握住我和前男友的连心锁，然后嚎啕大哭。很多夜晚我都会说服自己生活其实是美好的，我会试着想起天上的星星、舞池里的少女和无尽的欢笑，但是无论我多努力地说服自己，我没法摆脱那刻骨铭心的痛。

让我感到更加残酷的事实是，没有人帮助我。我多么希望有人能支持我、关心我。

我多么希望有人能跟我说我不是一个做出这样事情的可怕的人。我多么希望有人能理解我的伤感和痛苦。但是我不能将我做人流手术这个事实告诉任何人，甚至我的家人。最后，我还是告诉了我的前男友，我想让他告诉我其实我们还没有分手。

我在他怀中痛哭，告诉了他这一切的一切。我告诉他我对他的愧疚以及失去孩子的伤痛。即使是这样，他还是没有回到我身边。我记得他曾经亲口对我说过，如果需要他，他会毫无保留地支持我帮助我。他亲口对我说过的。但可能现在的我已经不值得得到他的帮助了，或者是任何人的帮助了吧。（在被转发的《在哈佛意外怀孕？》一文中，作者转述故事的时候，提到女主前男友曾说“我也很忙”。但其实原文中，原作者并没有表明前男友说过的这句话。）

现在想想，在哈佛怎么都找不到援助其实是件很恐怖的事情。我甚至都为自己那么容易就隐藏住我怀孕的事实感到吃惊。没有任何一个人发现我突然开始穿大大宽松的毛衣，也没有任何一个人发现我总是最后一秒改变计划或者选择不赴约，所以我可以独自一人留在房间里大哭，更没有人发现我几乎每天都要呕吐。连我的室友和闺蜜也没能发现我的变化。

以前，我和朋友也讨论过，在大学校园中，每个人都以自我为中心，很少有时间精力顾及其他人的生活。我们会忽视朋友一些突然改变的举动，有时我们都没有注意到自己对身边细微变化的不敏感。

现在想想，当时的我应该是急切地希望有人可以注意到我的变化，注意到我的反常；我很想有人可以问我是否一切安好或是告诉我我像变了个人一样。（原作者自己其实也知道在大学生活中每个人都很忙，以自我为中心，没有时间顾及他人的生活。她只是没有想到，这种遭遇竟然能让自己摊上。原作者并没有像《在哈佛怀孕》一文作者一样写道“他们都懒得问她生活时不时出了什么问题”，更没有说“人与人之间小心翼翼的界限让他们不忍多问”。像“教授只是写信来威胁她，如果你不来上课，小心你的成绩”更是在原文中无处可寻。）

我也知道学校有各种各样的资源，可以帮助我解决各种各样的问题。可当我意识到自己的生活一团糟糕、未来一片渺茫的时候，寻求帮助便成了一件难上加难的任务。我想让别人来帮助我，而不是我主动去寻求帮助。 逃避，也许是一个更简单的解决问题的方法。我会通过找其他男孩帮我分心；我的前男友以他新的恋情来假装一切安好。有时想想，现实这样残酷，不如选择逃避。

但是，我想告诉你，虽然现实如此残酷，你不是一个人。我写下这个故事就是希望让你们知道无论你们经历了怎样的遭遇，甚至你们也像我那时一样不知道也不能寻求任何帮助，你不是一个人。还有千千万万的女孩像你一样有着相似的经历。

如果你今天见到我，你可能永远猜不到我到底在躲避些什么、又在隐藏些什么。你会看到一个天天背着重重的包去上课的我，或是在Lamont图书馆学习的我，或是在夜店跳舞的我，或是一个被朋友环绕着开怀大笑的我。我看起来永远那么开心。但是内心的深处，我依然在尖叫。采取了安全的避孕措施却依然怀孕的几率简直是微乎其微，就像那微乎其微被哈佛录取的可能性一样。

也许，那些小册子至今仍静静地躺在女性健康中心的架子上。有时我会想，如果再让我回到大一，再让我看到“在哈佛怀孕？”的手册，我一定会把它从架子上拿起来。

——End——