Reasons You Shouldn’t Fuck Kids

Reason #12: We Can’t Sleep
September 30, 2008, 10:20 am
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I rememer reading once that for a survivor, a darkened room is terrorizing.  When I first read that, I remember thinking Yes, yes!  That is me!

I have had trouble sleeping ever since the babysitter came into our lives 30 years ago.  For thirty years, I haven’t slept a peaceful night.  That’s a long time to go without good sleep.

I also once read that less sleep decreases not only the quality of your life, but the quantity of your life.  That is, people who get less sleep each night tend to die off sooner than the ones who get a lot more sleep.

This is why you shouldn’t fuck kids.  We never get to sleep again, and eventually this will possibly kill us.  You want that shit on your head?

Reason #11: We Lose Our Memory, but our Body Remembers
September 22, 2008, 6:56 pm
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When I was five or less, a babysitter came into our lives, and molested my brother and I. I have no conscious memory of this, nothing I can point to and say “Ah-ha! There it is!”. I have no conscious memory of being touched by her, or of touching her. No memory of her at all. No memory of what she looks like, her name, or how long she was our babysitter.

How do I know she molested me, you ask? Well, there are several clues. For one thing, she molested my brother, and he remembers it. Plus, he then molested me, several years later. Kids don’t generally molest other kids unless someone fucked them first. The other evidence is how I am afraid of everything. Apparently that started right after this babysitter came into our lives. I became fearful, started wetting the bed, began sleeping with my mom, and putting the covers over my head so as to “hide” in the bed (I still have some of that shit – bedtime is REAL interesting in our household). I began having unexplainable fears, like those of the dark, and of social events, and pretty much everything. And then there’s the last piece of evidence. I told my mother about it about a year after it happened. Apparently, I said something like, “I saw my brother licking the babysitter.” I have no conscious memory of saying this, and no conscious memory of the event.

I have almost no memory at all before the age of five, yet I have strange things about me that are just unexplainable. There’s a certain song that whenever it comes on, I panic and freak out. Whenever I see a woman that looks a certain way, I can’t breathe, and I start to tremble. And the ten reasons before this reason, and the hundreds of reasons that are coming after this reason.

This is why you shouldn’t fuck kids. We lose our memory, and then no one believes us when we speak the truth.

Reason #10: We Have No Idea Who is Kissing Us
September 19, 2008, 3:16 pm
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Last night, my husband leaned in for a kiss. And we started kissing and kissing. I got wrapped up in it, in the feel of his lips, in the passion of kissing, in the beauty of kissing my sweet wonderful husband who I love so much. It’s been so long since we have done that, since I have felt like that. Maybe this could even lead to some sex.

And then I got lost in the physical feeling of being kissed, of kissing someone. Wait, I am kissing someone. My lips are on SOMEONE. Who is this? WHO IS THIS? Someone’s lips are on me! Who is this? WHO ARE YOU, WITH YOUR LIPS ON ME? G-d dammit, who is this? I open my eyes frantically trying to remember, is this my husband? How old am I? What were those fucking techniques the therapist taught me? Look at my hands, look at my hands, hands always show your true age. I can’t see, G-d dammit, I can’t see, it’s dark in here. Please stop. I am afraid. Please stop! I can’t speak. My voice is lost like it was all those many years ago. And I abruptly pull away. My husband says “Baby, are you okay?” And I can’t answer him, even though I hear him, because I am too far away to stop what is happening inside me now, and I can’t bring myself back even though I am trying so hard.

I am lost now in a terrifying world of my brother’s tongue on my vagina, of my father’s head on my breasts, of the feel of hands on me. I am afraid. What is happening, what is happening?!? Please sweet husband, please bring me back. I am scared where I am, and right now it seems like there is no end to this, and I am a little girl again with hands on me and I don’t want them there. I never wanted them there in the first place. And then, terrifyingly slowly, I come back, and I am an adult in my adult body again and I am staring at my husband who has waited for me ever so patiently. But the moment that started all of this is just so completely lost. And I get upset and start crying, because I want to just be able to fucking kiss my husband without my brother and father and babysitter entering my head and fucking with me again, even though I am not in that little body anymore.

This is why you shouldn’t fuck kids. We have scary flashbacks of what you did to us, and it feels like it is happening to us all over again. It’s not enough you have to fuck us once, you have to fuck us for the rest of our lives too?

Reason #9: We recreate the abuse again and again in our lives
September 15, 2008, 1:07 pm
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In two weeks, it will have been two years since the last time my husband and I have had sex.  I once read (I think it was in the book “The Courage To Heal“, but I can’t remember) that some survivors of child sexual abuse marry these men who only want sex like once or twice a year.  When I read that, I remember thinking, “That won’t be me.  When I get married, it will be healthy and we will enjoy sex.”  Famous last words from someone who was still a virgin. 

My husband and I dated for two years before we got married.  We didn’t even kiss until our fourth date.  I was almost 29 when I met him, by the way.  On every date, I was scared that he was going to want to get intimate.  Bless his sweet wonderful heart, he never forced the issue, and was incredibly patient with me.  I was almost 31 when we first had sex, which was about six months after we got engaged. 

Before meeting my husband, I had been in relationships where I decided it would just be my body, not my heart or head.  My body would be involved, but as long as my head or heart wasn’t in it, it was okay.  You see what happened there? I was recreating the same stance I needed to survive the abuse.  When I was a child, and the people in my life were molesting me, the way that I survived it was by ‘going away’ in my mind.  I dissociated from the abuse because having my head in that game was unimaginable.  Since dissociating during times when my body was being used sexually was my norm, that was the only way I understood how to be with someone sexually.  I thought that the only thing that men wanted from me was my body, that the only desirable part of me was my body.  As a child, all that was wanted of me was my body, why would it be different as an adult?

When we are surviving abuse, we learn a set of rules about how the world works, and we keep applying those rules again and again and again in our lives.  It is like raising a lion in a cage.  She learns how to live in a cage, and learns the rules of how to survive in a cage.  Then, she becomes an adult, and someone says “You’re free!” and releases her into the wild.  Well, even though she is a lion, she has no idea how to live in a jungle.  What in her life would have taught her how to navigate a jungle when all she had known her whole life was a cage? 

This is why you shouldn’t fuck kids.  We recreate our cages again and again in our lives, and because of those who fucked us, we are never really sure how to break free from them.

Reason #8: We Think It Is Our Fault
September 14, 2008, 4:37 pm
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For the longest time, I thought the sex abuse was my fault.  I thought that if I had said no one more time to my brother, or dressed differently in front of my father, then they wouldn’t have molested me.  Many therapists had to explain to me that there was nothing I could have done to change the course of events.  They also explained to me that even if I had ran around naked saying “fuck me”, it still would have been the adult’s job in my life to actually not fuck me.  Because fucking kids is wrong.

The part of ourselves that feels we are somehow at fault for these people molesting us is the part that needs to believe that bad things don’t happen to good people.  Bad things only happen to bad people, and good things happen to good people.  But the truth is, shitty things happen to good people all the time.  All children are good people, and yet adults keep molesting them. 

When someone molests us, it changes our whole world view.  Not only do we think all people are bad, we think that somehow we are inherently bad, and that because we are bad, this horrible thing happened to us.  This is why you shouldn’t fuck kids, it fucks with our innermost dialogue that tells us whether we ourselves are good or bad people.  We are good people, and bad things happened to us.  And the truth is, it’s not our fault.  But we think it is until you and many other people tell us differently.

Reason #7: We Get REALLY Scared of Bugs
September 10, 2008, 12:17 pm
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Yesterday, I saw a spider come down in the bathroom.  I immediately called the exterminator. My fear of bugs isn’t the normal ‘girly’ fear of insects.  I take it to a whole new level, thanks to panic disorder resulting from the trauma of surviving child sexual abuse.  So, when I see a spider, my reaction is to start shaking uncontrollably and hold my breath until I can reasonably think of something to do.  Then, with shaky hands, I reach out and kill the spider out of fear.  I take the life of the spider because I am so afraid of it, and then I feel guilty about it.  Frankly, just writing about that spider right now is causing me to breathe irregularly.

I don’t like things touching me without my permission. The thing is, something, someone, did touch me without my permission.  Hands on me, eyes looking at me, tongues touching me.  I don’t want some spider touching me without my permission too.  I decide what touches me now.

This is why you shouldn’t fuck kids.  We get all fucked up about things touching us, and it translates to everything.  Even bugs.  And humans.  My own husband couldn’t touch me for like the first two years we were dating. And the fucking exterminator is going to cost me $250.

Reason #6: We Form Obsessive-Compulsive Behaviors
September 7, 2008, 8:39 pm
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This post is #6, and it was originally going to be about memory loss.  But the memory loss one will have to wait because when I saw that this was the sixth post, I got all fucked up.  Someone once told me that six is the devil’s number, and that when you have three six’s in a row, that is for sure the devil’s number.  Since then, I don’t like anything having to do with that number.

You see, I have been on intimate terms with evil.  Fucking a child in any way, shape, or form is evil, and that babysitter fucked with me.  It’s evil because you know good and well that it’s wrong what you are doing, but you don’t give a shit, and can’t think past your own shitty needs.  And you hurt us with your needs.  Evil.

Since I have been on the receiving end of evil, I don’t want to visit it in any way voluntarily.  Hence my fear of the number six.  I do other obsessive-compulsive things too, like stepping into every room with my right foot.  Kind of a take on ‘starting on the right foot’.  There’s other shit too.  I count things, I reach for things with my right arm only, I dress the baby with his right arm first, I watch tv to make sure that the guy on tv steps into a room with his right foot.

See what I mean?  This is why you shouldn’t fuck kids.  We get obsessive and compulsive about everything, because we are so afraid that if we do something wrong, something bad will happen to us like it did when we were younger.  If I step into a room with my right foot, it won’t have been my fault if something bad happens in that room, because I consciously chose to walk in there with that foot.  The right foot.  We keep searching for sense and meaning for those evil acts, as if something I do or did could have prevented what happened there.  The truth is, she was intent on molesting us, and I don’t think there was anything I could have done to prevent it from happening to my brother or I.  But I will continue to step into rooms with my right foot, just in case.

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