The author is pictured at age 12, around the time that all the chastity drama began in her family.

My first sexual intercourse, just before I started college, was unplanned. It would have been largely forgettable if we’d used birth control.

Looking back, it’s hard to admit to my own foolishness. I’d had the same boyfriend for 18 months. While our Catholic upbringings were a factor in this long period of chastity, my unpreparedness was also due to my mother’s admonition that a girl using birth control is sinning by anticipating sex.

Five years before, my parents relentlessly belittled my older sisters after finding out that they were sexually active. Our household exploded in screaming and lectures on the “type of girl no decent man wanted.” Drawers were regularly searched.

“I’d feel better if you weren’t using birth control and got pregnant,” our mother yelled. “At least your intentions would be good.”

My sisters gave our mother’s advice all the consideration it deserved, but as a slowly maturing 12 year old, I took it seriously. Desperately wanting to please my parents, I took their words as a viable ethical position.

If you believe in deeply personal journalism — the kind that connects us in our hardest, most honest moments — please consider becoming a HuffPost member today.

By the time I was 17, my parents’ dysfunctional marriage had become a vicious, albeit silent, war. My philandering father often stayed out all night. My mother lost so much weight that her co-workers thought she had cancer. Yet she would stand in the doorway when Mitch dropped me off from dates, making sure I didn’t linger in the car parked in the driveway. She had begun emptying my drawers.

I matriculated at the University of California, Los Angeles, a few months after my 18th birthday and about a month after I first had intercourse. I ended up on a waiting list for student housing. Since I lived too far away to commute, I stayed for the first quarter in the home of well-to-do family friends, taking a public bus to school.

The family’s eldest daughter, Laura, was a high school senior. Grateful that she’d agreed to share her room with me, I was also indebted to her for her understanding of moral ambiguity. “I’m on the pill,” she said. “You can think about whether sex is right or wrong, but use birth control while you decide.”

Meanwhile, my irregular periods were usually about 45 days apart, but I hadn’t menstruated in over two months. A few nights later, Laura crept into the kitchen to empty and wash a glass mayonnaise jar. The following morning, I peed in the jar, placed it in a brown paper bag and carried it on the bus, perfectly upright, hoping it looked like a bag lunch and that it wouldn’t leak or break.

I waited two days for the negative results. I’d set up a simple cipher for the conversation with Mitch because I’d have to call him on a very public pay phone. He was a sophomore at a college across town, far enough that there would be a charge for “local long distance.” I brought a coin purse full of quarters and dimes.

When Mitch answered the phone, I said, “I’m not going to the mountains.”

“Wait,” he said. I could hear him moving across the room, pulling the phone cord into the........

© HuffPost