Why I didn't sleep

Have you ever had somebody completely crazy yelling at you and you had no way to calm them down, make them stop, or get away from them?
She wasn’t exactly yelling at me. I was neither the source nor the contributor to her anger, just the way she let it out it seemed. She was venting at me, venting to somebody who was completely passive and had to listen to her and couldn’t do anything about it no matter what she said. There was fire in her words, rage, pure evil. Venom dripping from every syllable her forked tongue produced and I was a witness to it all. I was very uncomfortable.
Pain, she said. She spoke of pain. Pain inflicted on her by others that she had no part in. Pain she did not bring upon herself in any way. She spoke of injustices that had befallen on her, many of them and unspeakably horrible ones at that. I have no way to measure the feelings that she felt at the time or the pain that she went through and its not my place to judge but the way she spoke of it made me so jumpy, so nervous. I’m sure my discomfort came through in my voice, although I didn’t speak much. I just let a few words squeak out. “Oh god, that’s terrible.” I’d hear myself say. “You’re so strong. I’m so sorry that happened to you.” I heard myself agree with her even though I wasn’t quite sure what I was agreeing with, it just seemed as if it was all I could do to get her rage to fizzle out a little.
She talked about violence. Pain, she said. Pain is not what I deserve, I cannot deal with any more pain. I want others to feel pain, she said. I want to make them hurt worse then I have, physically and mentally, I will do all I can to make them pay. Revenge, she said. She was vengeful. If the opportunity arises, they will pay, I will have my revenge. Her eyes looked smaller then normal and dark but full of fire at the same time. They were shaped in such a way that they were pointed at both ends, like darts. Like daggers. She talked of torture, of murder. She talked of blood, gore, severed limbs, slit skin and punctured flesh.
She spoke of hellfire and warfare all reigning down on the person to have contributed to her mighty suffering. I nodded my head up and down.
I would feel no remorse, she said. Hate, I deserve to hate. I am justified in the way I feel. I believe that was the only part that I agreed with. One is always justified in one’s feelings and talking about them is wonderful. I have none of the answers and if I judge, I do it unfairly. I sin, I am as bad as many if not worse than most. But the way she spoke of it, of her Pain, of her Hate, of the wounded, limping end she lusted for so much, I couldn’t stand it. I didn’t do anything about it at the time, what was there for me to do? I didn’t want to make her feel worse. I didn’t want to upset her in any way. I just sat there. I rolled over on my belly like a dog. I had no idea that this was inside of her but she showed me all of it. She pulled out the ugliest, rotten, blackened hidden away parts of her being. She tugged them out of herself like a weed, bringing up the roots to be sure she didn’t miss anything, and smacked me with them over and over again.
I did not sleep well last night after this event took place. Tossing and turning on my side trying to quiet the visions of Hate, Pain, and Hellfire. I felt weak but who wouldn’t? What could I have done? I closed my eyes and held my arms straight down at my sides, forcing myself into a restless sleep.
I remember that after she had finished speaking and her breathing seemed to become steady more steady, I asked her how she felt. She said good. She had let everything out. I was shaking but it was dark and although I could sense all of her movements and tensions, I don’t think she noticed. Maybe this will be good for her. Although clearly it wasn’t good for me, I think she is worth the sacrifice. Unstable as though she may be, I like her. She’s interesting. If this happens again though, perhaps I’ll try to only be around her when I am stoned.

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.