Reasons You Shouldn’t Fuck Kids

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.

Reason #55: Pathetic
March 10, 2009, 4:22 pm
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I was home all day yesterday. Didn’t leave the house at all. I spent some of the day locked in my room, because I was afraid. I went up there to get something, thought I heard a noise elsewhere in the house, and ended up spending an hour locked in my room. This is why you shouldn’t fuck kids.

A few years ago, I used to get home before my mom and girlfriend. All three of us were living together. I guess my work hours ended earlier in the day than their work hours did. I would get home, experience panic about going inside my home because I was terrified that some lurking evil would be in there waiting for me, and decide not to go into my home. Instead, I would sit inside my hot car until either my mom or girlfriend got home. Many times I waited for up to two hours. In a hot car. Yeah. That’s not humiliating.

When my girlfriend or mom would get home, I would pretend that I had just gotten home too. Then I would get out of my car, and whoever had gotten home would say “You’re just getting home now too?” And I would inevitably nod my head and lie and say “Yes.”

I lied because the whole thing was and is humiliating. It’s pathetic and weird to lock myself in my room out of fear of imaginary things. And just as pathetic and weird to lock myself out of my house for the same reasons. But I know, and you, dear reader, know that this shit wasn’t always imaginary. I mean, someone, three someones, proved to me that there’s scary shit in and out of my home.

So I locked myself in my room yesterday. When the huz got home, he said “How was your day?” And I took a second to debate whether I should be honest or not. I wasn’t sure what to do. Do I admit my patheticness or do I just say “fine”? I thought about that Muriel Rukeyser quote that says “If one woman told the truth about her life, the whole world would split open.”

I looked at him and said “I locked myself in the room because I was afraid”. And I was immediately embarrassed and ashamed, and my world did split open. My sweet husband looked at me and said “Baby, you poor thing. That must have sucked!!”

It did suck, and the huz is a sweetheart for not making me feel like shit about it. I said “It’s embarrassing and humiliating to admit it.” He said “Baby, don’t be embarrassed. You were afraid.”

My husband once said “Fear is a learned thing. Children are taught to fear through things that happen to them. They wouldn’t be naturally afraid but for people teaching them to be afraid.”

People taught me to be afraid. And now I am afraid.

Reason #54: Trembling
March 4, 2009, 1:04 am
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Yesterday I was showering, and I thought I heard something, and I immediately froze and started shaking. Trembling seems to be the way I have been handling fear for the last five years or so.

This trembling shit started when my husband asked me to marry him. I was terrified of marriage (probably because of my parents). Still though, I loved my husband and I wanted to be with him. I said yes, despite my fear.

The trembling started on my wedding day. I was at the beauty parlor with my mom and aunt, and the hairdresser put the veil on my head. My hands started shaking. I thought it was weird, but figured it was hypoglycemia (low blood sugar) or nerves or whatever. Then my teeth started chattering. I said to my mom “Something’s wrong with my hands and teeth.”

My mom said “Sweetie, everything’s going to be okay. This is a good thing you are doing.” I had no idea what she was talking about. My husband is a great man, and I didn’t have doubts about that. I was trying to tell her that something was physically wrong with me. She could see I didn’t understand what she was saying though, and so she repeated it to me over and over. “Sweetie, you’re doing a good thing, you have nothing to be afraid of. You’re going to a good place, this is meant to be.”

I realized then that my mom thought I was afraid, and that I was trembling from fear. I thought she was stupid and wrong.

That night, our wedding night, my husband and I were kissing in bed. He was on top of me. I started trembling uncontrollably. My teeth started chattering so hard I couldn’t get the words out to say “stop”. This is what happens to survivors of child sex abuse. We get real scared and we start shaking. And even though my husband was “safe”, lots of fucking people in my life were supposed to be safe, like babysitters and brothers and fathers. And shit, if these trusted people weren’t “safe”, then who was this man, this husband, to be “safe”? I mean really, what the fuck does “safe” mean in a world where people fuck kids anyway?

In the midst of this bout of trembling and shaking, I realized that mom was neither stupid nor wrong, but instead (as usual) mom was right. My sweet husband could see what was happening and stopped. I said “something seems to be wrong with my hands and my teeth”, but my teeth were chattering so bad it didn’t come out very coherent. My husband said “Baby, it’s okay. We don’t do anything that you don’t want to do.” I cried then, because it was my wedding night, and for heaven sake – can I please fuck my husband on our wedding night for heaven sake?

We didn’t have sex that night, and we haven’t had sex a lot of the nights of our marriage because of this.

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