Friday, August 5, 2011

Oh god.

My mom found my condoms.

I was sitting on my bed talking to a boy when my mom picked my lock, walked in, bothered me about something trivial, didn't leave when I asked her to, didn't leave after I told her she makes me unhappy, called me awkward in front of him, didn't notice that I wasn't laughing at her stupid jokes because she was laughing too hard at them by herself, and noticed the box of ultra-thins on the floor.

"What's this?" she said.

"I'm nearly a legal adult. Go away." I said.

She looked shocked. He held onto my arms to calm me down. I looked my mom in the eyes and saw shock. I saw fear. I saw disappointment. I didn't look away. I'm not afraid of you, I tried to say with my eyes. I'm smart enough to make my own decisions. I'm not a baby anymore, my eyes screamed at her. Go away. Let me think for myself. Quit shaming me for something that doesn't really matter. It's none of your fucking business mom, my eyes shouted at her. Leave leave leave leave leave.

She threw her arms up and walked out of my room, shutting the door behind her.

What the hell do I do now, I keep asking myself. I don't want to talk to her about this. I don't want my mother to shame me for having sex. I don't want to listen to her lecture me about how big of a deal it is and how it will ruin my life. Sex is not that big of a deal. She's wrong. Being a virgin doesn't make you a golden moral beacon. Being sexually innocent makes you sheltered, not a better person.

I'm not a bad daughter. I'm a bit lazy, sure, I could keep my room cleaner, do the dishes more often without being asked. I could try harder in school, I could talk back to her less and I could give her the benefit of the doubt when she says something that makes my insides rot at the corners. I'm a bitch sometimes and I fight with her because we live together and piss each other off. But I'm not a bad daughter. I do what I'm told. I listen to her talk about her problems because she has no one else to tell. I work hard at my relationship with her even though she annoys the shit out of me most of the time.

She means well. She loves me. She doesn't want me to get hurt. She means well when she tells me to stop acting like a whore. I don't listen to her but I know that she means well. That's what I keep telling myself. My mother is biased. She associates sex with corruption. She thinks it's bad. I'm 17. I used a condom. I tried to talk her into getting me birth control but she would not budge. I'll try again. She'll probably let me. I don't know if she loves me more than she loves her morals but I hope she loves me enough to take me to a doctor and help me to be safe.

I don't want to think about what will happen if I get pregnant. My mom won't help me. Maybe I won't even tell her. I'll find somebody else to. That would kill me inside. I wish I could trust her. I wish I could talk to her about these things. Or about anything really. She isn't a good listener. She doesn't care. She remembers to take me to therapy sometimes though. When I seem like I really need it.

Oh god. I need it now. What if I'm pregnant? What if the condom broke without us noticing? What if I have a disease now? I told her I wanted to see a doctor two weeks before it happened. Then a week before it happened. Then a few days before it happened. She didn't care enough to. She didn't think it was necessary. What if I'm in trouble now? I am so fucking scared. I need an STD test, a pregnancy test, maybe an abortion or medication, and definitely the fucking birth control shot. And weekly therapy. I need her to care enough about me to help me. She doesn't though. I love her. I forgive her. It's okay mom. I know it's not your fault. Your life has been hard and you've been strong enough to push through. I need you now but you can't help me. I love you anyway though mom. You'll never read this. I'll try to get what I need without your help. I'm sorry I couldn't wait another year to lose my virginity but it just happened. And I was scared and now I'm fucking terrified but I don't regret it.

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