Reasons You Shouldn’t Fuck Kids


Reason #65: I’m Just Not That Into Me
March 30, 2009, 9:58 am
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As you know, the huz and I don’t fuck each other, and haven’t now for about two and a half years. We stopped seeing that marital counselor, and surprise surprise, we still aren’t fucking each other.

One of the things I generally complain about to the huz about is the fact that when we go to bed, he immediately falls asleep, whereas I think a few minutes of pillow talk and then sleep might be quite the asset to our marriage. I have also commented to him on the fact that he could at least make the move to kiss or hug me when we are in bed. I feel like I am always the one doing this to him, and it would be nice to feel wanted (in a safe and good way with my husband).

I have been panicked for days now about the huz’s upcoming business trip, and while I didn’t spend last night crying, I did keep going over and over and over again in my head the scary things that could happen while he is away. When we got in bed, my sweet husband reached out to me and tried to pull me closer. I am all caught up in being panicked about his business trip though, and plus I am irrationally angry at him for leaving.

So he reaches for me, and I said “Look, why don’t we skip the whole part tonight where you pretend you’re into me, and let’s just go to sleep.” Startled, he said “I’m not pretending, baby. I am into you.”

I thought about what my husband said. I guess the truth is, with this latest round of humiliation where I am scared to be alone, in a constant state of panic and tears, and then humiliated further by everyone saying no to staying with me –well, I am just not that into myself now. I hate this part of me that is so afraid of everything. I am pretty sure that were it not for the fact that three different people broke my trust in humanity by molesting me when I was a child, I would not have spent the rest of my life afraid of what the rest of humanity has planned for me too. Now that I am talking to other survivors on a regular basis through this blog, I know I am not alone in this either. This is why you shouldn’t fuck kids.



Reason #64: We Hire Babysitters for Ourselves

As you know, I have spent several days crying about the prospect of being alone because my husband has an upcoming business trip. I asked five loved ones to stay with me, and heard five kind no’s. I understand.

My mom is here this weekend, and it affords me the safety of clearer thinking. In a bold move of patheticness, I hired a babysitter to “help me with my son” while the huz is away. Now, while it’s true that I welcome the help with my son, the whole thing is such a pathetic fucking lie. I need her here so that I am not crazy and acting like a panic-stricken loon the whole time the huz is away. I would always do right by my son, which to me would mean acting like everything is okay so that he doesn’t have to worry. With the help of the babysitter a few hours every night, things really can be okay so that neither of us has to worry. So in a way, her being here would make everything better and she would be helping me with my son.

See what I did there? I am rationalizing PAYING SOMEONE TO FUCKING BABYSIT ME in adulthood. Pathetic. This is why you shouldn’t fuck kids.

It’s funny. When I was bulimic, I was always reaching new lows. There were always emotional places that my bulimia would take me that I would think to myself “That’s it. I could not possibly get any lower than this.” But like all addictions, I would go even lower. Like the time I excused myself to throw up in the bathroom of a McDonald’s when my best friend knew exactly what I was doing. Humiliating and an all time low. Until the time my mom walked in on me throwing up. That time I knew for sure it would be my last new low. Until the times I started throwing up into containers in my locked bedroom so that the sound of retching into a toilet bowl of water wouldn’t be heard by my mother.

See what I mean? Our shit takes us to new lows. This here shit, hiring a babysitter so that I am not alone – that is a new humiliating low. Before I was married, I used to take time off of my life when I knew I was going to be alone. By that I mean that I would go sleep over friend’s houses, go back home to live with mom during that time, go to aunts and relatives, etc. But now I am ensconced in a life that would be very difficult for me to just leave, with my son and my work and what not. So, now I need others to take time off of their lives to come babysit mine.

In my life, I have only ever met one other person who was as afraid to be alone as I was. When I asked my girlfriend about this woman who was afraid to be alone, my girlfriend said this: “Oh, yeah, one time her roommates didn’t come home on time, and they didn’t tell her they were going to be late, and she totally freaked out on them. She yelled at them for a long time.”

Of course I said “But why is she so afraid to be alone?” She said, “Oh, a gang of men molested her when she was a little girl.” What was funny about it was that even though my girlfriend was a survivor and knew I was a survivor, she said it like it was an afterthought, like that happens every day. (Which it does.)

Maybe all of us survivors should set up some sort of free survivor babysitting service for each other. I mean, we all understand what it is to be afraid, and we would never humiliate each other about it, so if we called up the service and said “Yup, gonna be alone on this date to this date, need some company,” the service could say “No problem, we have at least three survivors on call in your area. She’ll be here by such and such time.”



Reason #63: Still we cry
March 28, 2009, 1:33 pm
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Last night, I was again crying in bed because my husband has to take this business trip, and I can’t handle it. I keep trying to think up solutions to me not having to be alone all week, but so far every avenue has failed. I have now asked five people (some friends, some family) to stay with me during that time. I have been humiliated five times by asking, and five times more by hearing my loved ones say no in a kind way.

The thing is, they are all right to say no to this request. They all have lives that have things happening during that particular week, and thus they cannot take time out from their lives to come babysit mine. It’s not their fault.

As the last no came in yesterday, I found myself absolutely hating myself. I was filled with such self-loathing. Finally, thankfully, the huz and I went up to bed. When the light was turned off and the room was awash in darkness, I was safe to cry and feel all these horrible feelings. It was okay to admit defeat in the darkness, and even more okay to admit my feelings about being defeated my personal demons once again.

The huz heard me crying and pulled me to him. He put his hands on my face, and my tears wet his hand.

And he fell asleep. In the middle of my crying. Now, in his defense, he has been working crazy hours, and has been stressed about the nature of this business trip, and even more stressed about the effect this business trip is having on me. But still I couldn’t help but be angry. Irrationally speaking, this is all his fault with this stupid business trip. This is ‘irrational speak’ because it’s not really his fault, he argued against the business trip and lost, and his company won, and in this economy you can’t go trying to win wars with your job.

So there he was asleep and there I was crying, and I couldn’t help but feel even more humiliated. This is why you shouldn’t fuck kids. We cry so much our husbands eventually fall asleep to it. We can’t help but cry though, because our sadness is so big it’s like an ocean. Waves of it keep coming even when everyone else is ready for the waves to stop.



Reason #62: Business Trips

It looks like my husband has to take a business trip for about a week at some point in the near future. As always, when presented with the probability of being alone, I immediately begin strategizing. Who can I get to be with me during that time so that I don’t have to be alone? I even have a prayer about it where I liken the time spent to jail time. I ask G-d to make the time spent “easy time”, not “hard time”.

“Hard time” is spent in a constant panic, listening for every noise, counting the minutes till the huz gets back, constantly convincing myself that I am okay. It is my own personal hell.

I asked the usual suspects if they could come stay with me (i.e., mom and best friend), but both have to work. In this economy, it would really be a shitty thing to do for me to ask someone to take off of work just to come babysit me, a 35 year old woman.

I cried myself to sleep last night because I realized I was in my own personal jail. The more I thought about it, I likened myself to the time traveler in that book by Audrey Niffenegger — “The Time Traveler’s Wife“. It’s an excellent book by the way, if you need something to read. Anyway, in the book, the time traveler guy travels through time without warning or choice. He can’t help it, it’s just something his body does. He has no choice about where or when he goes either. He eventually lands in a structure that he never wanted to be in but always feared he would be. And that is me. I worry all the time about landing here, and sure enough, here I am.

This morning I was talking/crying about it with my husband, and I said “It’s humiliating. This whole thing is humiliating, being so afraid of being alone, needing people to basically babysit me while you are away.” The huz was kind about it, as he always is. He said “Baby, I wish you would stop thinking about it that way. This is a result of things that happened to you. Would you tell a guy coming back from the war in Iraq that his Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder is humiliating? Of course not. He has PTSD as a result of what he went through, and you have PTSD as a result of what you went through. It’s not your fault, it’s not anything you did, it’s just what is.”

My husband is a sweet wonderful man. But he is going away on a business trip. And I will be alone and scared and doing hard time. This is why you shouldn’t fuck kids. We become adults who are terrified of being alone. A simple business trip becomes a matter of panic of epic proportions.



Reason #61: Mustaches and Beards
March 25, 2009, 2:38 pm
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I met my husband online almost 7 years ago, and we got married about four and a half years ago. Since we met online, we didn’t actually see each other in person for a while before meeting for the first time. In preparation for our first meeting, I asked him if he had any facial hair. He didn’t know it, but this was one of many many tests that I gave him during our courtship.

I have an inner dialogue about men with mustaches and men with beards. It’s my own theory as to the kinds of men that choose to have each type of facial hair. (By the way, my husband was clean-shaven at that time. During our dating, he went through a period of goat-tee, which I have no theory on.) Anyway, he told me he had no facial hair, and asked me why I had questioned him about that.

I explained my theory to him. Men with mustaches can be jerks, whereas men with beards are generally good-natured people. I know there are exceptions to this rule as I have met men with mustaches who are not necessarily jerks. But generally, there are men who have mustaches and are pricks, and there are men with beards and they are kind.

See how that works? In my head, all men with mustaches suck and I don’t like them, and I am inwardly afraid of them right off the bat. I am willing to take each one on a personal basis obviously, but still in my head they suck until they prove me otherwise. You know why I theorize about certain types of men? You guessed it. This is why you shouldn’t fuck kids. We find all sorts of ways to shun people who have even the remotest possibility of hurting us. Sometimes they don’t even have the remotest possibility of hurting us, and still we shun them in our heads before getting to know them because we know the possibilities of what can happen. Because these possibilities were actualities that did happen to us already.

When I explained this whole theory to the huz — (not the ‘why you shouldn’t fuck kids’ part, just the facial hair theory)– he said “My dad has had a beard his whole life.” Sure enough, when I met his father, it was like kindness and gentleness radiated from that man. He is absolutely one of the nicest men I have ever met (with my husband being THE nicest). 🙂 Now his father having a beard and being a nice guy doesn’t prove my theory, but I’m just saying when you look through the men in history, look at who has had a mustache or beard and how their personalities were. Hitler (mustache). Santa (beard). You get the picture.



Reason #60: Deaf Dog
March 22, 2009, 2:46 pm
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About 13 years ago, I went to the local animal shelter and adopted my dog. She was about 9 months old then, which makes her almost 14 years old now. Whereas she used to be full of energy, she is now deaf and slow-moving.

Although having a canine companion is nice, I am someone who has a dog mainly for security. I heard that someone is less likely to break into a home with a barking dog than another, because they figure why go through the hassle of messing with the dog before getting to what they want? Wouldn’t it be easier to just hit a house with no dog, like the one next door?

So you know how my anxiety has been so high lately? I realized – I bet some of it is the dog! Now that she’s deaf, she doesn’t hear me come in the house. If she doesn’t hear me come in, she isn’t going to hear someone else come in either. Since the whole point of me owning a dog is for protection, her being deaf doesn’t accomplish those means.

Now, the huz is the one who walks the dog and keeps her bowl of food and water always filled. (I take care of baby needs and he takes care of pet needs, for the most part.) Also, we haven’t paid nearly as much attention to our doggie as we do to the baby ever since the baby was born. While we want to pay attention to the doggie, we just don’t have it in us after all the baby needs are met. So this poor dog has really gotten to be second fiddle around here. The cat, of course, could give a shit about any of this and pretty much acts like we are all annoying her just by being alive.

When I explained the problem of our deaf dog to the husband, he said “What do you think we should do?” I said “Well, I think maybe we need a new dog.” Here’s how the rest of that conversation went:

The huz said “What would we do with this one?”
Butterfly: Uh, keep it??
Huz: Baby, we aren’t treating this one right. We can’t get another one.
Butterfly: You’re right, you’re right, I know you’re right. I’m just not sure what to do though.
Huz: Well, do you know anyone that would want her?
Butterfly: That is not how we treat dogs just because they get old, for heaven sake! She has been with me for 13 years. Come on.
Huz: Okay baby, then we will keep her. But seriously, we can’t have two dogs that we don’t pay enough attention to. It’s bad enough we do that to one dog.
Butterfly: You’re right. This, of course, is why you shouldn’t fuck kids. I need two doggies and even that won’t make me feel safe.

The truth is that this house could be filled with big scary barking dogs, and I would still be afraid. This is why you shouldn’t fuck kids.



Reason #59: Gasping at the F word
March 21, 2009, 2:54 pm
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As my regular readers know, we have just fired our marital therapist (not for lack of need, but for her own lack of sense). Anyway, I still need to see a shrink for my own panic shit, and we still need to see a marital counselor. We can’t afford to see a shrink for me and a counselor for us though.

I was thinking about how that conversation with the insurance company would go:

Insurance Agent: I see here that you have two different therapists helping you.
Butterfly: (nodding head) Yes, that’s right.
Insurance Agent: Why do you have two different therapists?
Butterfly: Well, you see, one is for me, and one is for my husband and I to see together.
Insurance Agent: You can’t have two therapists. Insurance companies don’t pay for two therapists.
Butterfly: Well now that’s why you shouldn’t fuck kids. We need two therapists to help us survive.

Then there would be a gasp on the insurance company’s end because I said the word “fuck”. I mean, what is it with that word? It’s okay to say it at home, but out in public we all pretend we don’t use that word. And people go out and pretend they are good decent people, and then they go home and fuck kids. I figure as long as people are fucking kids, I am going to go ahead and use those words to describe it. It’s not a pretty word to hear, and it’s even less pretty to live through it.



Reason #58: Getting up before you are ready
March 19, 2009, 10:10 am
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Last night, the huz and I were so tired. You know that kind of tired, when you are soooo looking forward to bed because you just can’t wait to sleep. The kind of tired where sleep sounds more inviting than sex (which for us is every night, but that’s another post).

This morning I woke up at 5AM because I had to pee. The huz gets up every day at 5AM to work out. I go pee, he goes to work out, and I am left with a decision about going back into the dark room. The baby sleeps in our room with us (that’s another post too) so we try to keep it dark in there. We notice that he sleeps longer/better if it is dark, like most humans do. I try to go back in the room, but I am immediately panicked about the darkness.

I turn on a light. A small light. The baby stirs. I shut the light off. I start breathing funny. Those of you with kids know good and well that you NEVER wake them. Their sleep is like the holy grail of time – it is sacred.

So now I am standing in the dark room unsure what to do. I lay in bed, all kinds of horrible scenarios running through my panicked mind. I tell myself “I am safe, the husband is downstairs, no one could have gotten into the bedroom in the three seconds that it took for him to walk downstairs and I came out of the bathroom. It’s okay.” But I don’t believe myself, and I continue to be afraid.

I turn the tv on, but mute it. The flickering light might wake the baby. I am taking a chance here and I know it. I let the light bathe me in relief from my fear for a second before I turn it off to face my fear again. I try to fight it. I keep my happy thoughts nearby. My fearful ones keep returning and I keep battling them in a bid for sleep.

I lose the fight, get up, and go on the computer. And here I am. I would rather be sleeping than typing in some shit about why you shouldn’t fuck kids, and this is precisely why you shouldn’t fuck kids. I have been sleeping/waking like this for 30 years.

That babysitter fucked me 30 years ago when I was five years old. I wonder how her sleep is.



Reason #57: How Many People Does It Take to Fix a Butterfly?

The other night I woke up at around 4:30AM. I just lay there in the bed wide awake. And it hit me – I hate our fucking therapist. As you readers suspected, she just wasn’t right for me. We went in for our first together session after our “separate sessions“, and she said “How did you feel our single session went?” I said “Uh, this is awkward, but to be honest, I felt like you opened a big can of worms and then left me to deal with the worms by myself. With like a minute left to the session, you were still bringing up new shit about my sex abuse. Then the session ended and I was left with a big pile of shit.” I explained how the dog stuff was upsetting, and how that happened to be one of the few things I had never previously discussed in therapy.

Dear readers, you are going to love her response to this. She said “I think you were upset because I was and still am angry at your mom.”

Isn’t that great? She’s angry at my mom. Well then, why don’t we stop the session so that we can focus on her feelings? The poor thing, having to sit there with her anger at my mother over what my brother, father, and babysitter did to me.

The more I thought about it, and mind you, it took me all this time to figure this out, I got PISSED. Seriously, who the fuck does she think she is? I am not aware that she is allowed to have a feeling about my mother. And if she is, why is she bringing it into our session? Is it meant to spur my anger towards my mother? Maybe she thinks I am protecting my mom? Let’s say that’s the case. Let’s say I am protecting my mom, because who knows, maybe I am. THIS IS MARITAL THERAPY. We aren’t here to talk about my anger with my mom – we’re here to talk about how my protection of my mom might be affecting the fact that my husband and I aren’t fucking. And frankly, I don’t think that’s the reason we aren’t having sex.

Her “anger” was an inappropriate response for a therapist. Readers and blog commenters, you had it right all along. So, I sat the huz down (later in the day when he was awake), and I told him how I felt about the therapist. He said “No problem baby, we’ll find someone else. It’s not going to work if you hate her.” So we fired her.

In the meantime though, I made an appointment with a psychiatrist for myself. I stopped taking the zoloft a few weeks ago. Let’s be honest with ourselves – it wasn’t working for me. I was in a lovely mood all the time, but I was still experiencing anxiety and panic. I think I need more help than a primary care physician can give me, and I think it’s time to see a psychiatrist. Maybe he can find the right drug for me.

I am nervous about going to a male psychiatrist. I don’t generally seek out any males for any of my paid needs. My primary care physician, gyno, urologist, etc – all females. Even my hairdresser is female. Part of this is probably the feminist in me, in that if you can give money to female workers, you should. But the rest of it is about the sex abuse, and this is why you shouldn’t fuck kids. I don’t like being around men, especially in rooms alone with men. And that is generally what happens when you pay them to fix you – it requires time spent alone with them.

I dread the part where I have to tell him my fucking story. How many people do I have to tell what the fuck has happened to me?

It’s almost getting comical, really, all the people that I have hired to fix what has been done to me. It almost reads like a shitty joke: “How many people does it take to fix a Butterfly?”



Reason #56: My Fat Ass

I suppose I cannot blame my whole fat ass on the sex abuse. I mean, I am Jewish and come from a family of Jews. We Jews are not exactly known for our restraint with the food. Plus, my whole family is a bunch of fat asses too.

BUT. When my brother started molesting me, I did start eating in a conscious effort to change my body. I thought that perhaps if I ate enough and got fat enough, he wouldn’t want me anymore. When my dad started molesting me, I ate for the same reasons. Only his shit made me so sick, I would throw it all up. I couldn’t take it. I would literally have bulimic attacks anytime I thought about it. For years, I binged and threw up on his birthday.

This Monday, I had six weeks of solid dieting under my belt. I hit 10 lbs of weight loss. I got excited. I went shopping for a new shirt. I calculated how long it would take for the next five to come off. I thought about how great I would look. How I would fit into my skinny jeans again. How men would find me attractive. How being thin opens me up to the possibility of rape.

Just so we’re clear – I understand that women (and men) of all shapes and sizes get raped. I get that. In my mind though, if I am thin, it is easier to overtake me, to overpower me. The size of my ass is directly related to my own comfort level, both up and down the scale. It’s not rational, but frankly, fucking kids isn’t rational either.

I told myself that I was getting healthier, not thinner. Rape doesn’t have to happen just because I get thinner. I will never be a child again, and no one can ever do that to me again the way it happened to me those times with my brother, and my father, and that babysitter. I am an adult now. Getting thin is just about getting thin, and that’s that. And then I binged my brains out and threw it all up while crying.

This seems to happen to me every time I hit some sort of milestone on the scale, like 10 lbs or 20 or 25, etc. The whole process of weight loss is just so fucking frightening. As more weight comes off, more of my real body shows. I am so used to being hidden under layers of fat, and as the real me emerges from underneath – well, it’s terrifying, frankly. Last time my real body was shown, a babysitter took interest in it, a brother used it against my will, and a father stared at its growing parts. This is probably why I hide my body in layers of fat, and this is also why you shouldn’t fuck kids.




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