And my denial spawned denial around me. No one seemed to know I was pregnant; no one acknowledged my circumstances. So each day passed without the support and love of others, all to keep this shame concealed.

The loneliness grew as I did. And the loneliness became so immense that it obscured me. I didn't exist. I didn't.

I was alone and afraid. There was more than the fear of being discovered. There was fear of what I'd done, of what was happening in my body, of childbirth. The fear so great, I was beyond asking, beyond crying. The darkness was pervasive and blinding.

Two weeks after my due date, my mother had to come to Boston and had planned on staying with me. She knew nothing, so I lied and told her I would be out of town. I left her the key to my apartment and spent the first night sleeping in my office. Went to a hotel the next night. Those were the two loneliest days I have ever spent. Just 15 minutes from real help, and I could not ask. I was stretched emotionally beyond all rational thought.

I went back to my apartment after she left. I randomly selected and called a doctor. I explained I was nine months pregnant and could not endure one more day. My insular world had become a nightmare of insanity.

I went into labor that night. I called the police to take me to the hospital. I remember being in the labor room. I remember great pain and lots of drugs. I remember a shadowy figure giving me something to sign.

A few days later, my parents found me. I was in utter shock to see them. I said that I never want to talk about it, and we never did. Whatever support I needed was proffered, but I stayed confined in my silent world.

They took me home to recover for a couple of weeks, without words. Then back to Boston, a new job, blind pain and self-directed rage.

I had been anaesthetized for the birth, never saw my son. I was told by hospital personnel that I could not see him, could not know where he was. I was not told when he left the hospital or where he was taken. I only was told I had signed papers giving him to the adoption agency.

The agency would not let me see my child. They said I had no right, and I could not sign the final papers for six months. They had said that he had beautiful blond hair and blue eyes.

When I had to sign papers, after six months of silence, I cried for the first and only time.

Carol Herman is a birthmother.