Reasons You Shouldn’t Fuck Kids


Not a Reason, Just Letting You Know
May 26, 2009, 5:24 pm
Filed under: Uncategorized

I just wanted to let everyone know, I will be away from the computer till at least Sunday night (5/31), and unable to check my e-mail or blog until that time. Going away with the huz and baby for a little bit. 🙂



Reason #92: Always looking over my shoulder
May 24, 2009, 10:54 pm
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Tonight I was sitting on the deck with my husband and baby. My husband said “I love the way the sun is shining on the those leaves over there.” He was pointing to some leaves way up high on the tree.

I have always loved trees, and have always had great respect for them. But I guess the truth is, I never noticed the light shining on them until my husband pointed it out to me. I never looked at them like that. I was always too busy looking over my shoulder for who might be sneaking up on me, and concentrating on the way the light shines on the trees would be taking my attention away from the person sneaking up on me.

The truth is, if I were alone in our backyard today, I would still be looking over my shoulder. The only reason I got to see the way the light was shining on the trees was because my husband was there with me. Safety in numbers.

Not being able to see the light shining way up high on the tree. That is why you shouldn’t fuck kids.



Reason #91: We Tend to Kill Ourselves

You know that Mormon sect leader, Warren Jeffs – the shithead who is in jail for forcing his 14 year old niece to marry some guy. It turns out he molested some of his nephews. One of them (Brent Jeffs) was on Good Morning America, talking about how he and his brother were molested by Warren Jeffs. Brent’s brother couldn’t be on the show with him because he killed himself.

When I saw the picture of his brother, I cried. I always cry when I see people who feel suicidal or have committed suicide. I remember all too well what it was like to think that there’s no way out of this misery, that I would always feel this way. I think that most of us survivors flirt with suicide at some point in our survival. I am damn glad to have survived, but I take no pleasure in being the only one, which is why you shouldn’t fuck kids.

This entry goes out to all my fucked brothers and sisters. If you are considering suicide, stop for a minute and call 1-800-suicide which translates to 1-800-784-2433. When I was suicidal at 12 and 19, I truly thought I would be better off dead. I thought that my pain would never end, and that my whole life would be lived as terribly as the first 19 years had been. I was wrong, dead wrong. If I had killed myself, I wouldn’t have found my best friend and married him, had my beautiful son, and started this blog. I know that when you are in the depths of despair and everything looks like a big black tunnel with no end, everything can seem so bleak, and suicide seems like your best option. It isn’t. Your pain will end, and when it does, you can take what you know and use it to help other survivors. Together we can fight and win in this war against children.

Remember what Frank Warren of Postsecret says: “The children that the world almost breaks become the children who will save the world.



Reason #90: Low Self-Esteem
May 21, 2009, 10:36 pm
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A lot of people have low self-esteem, not just survivors. But it is consistently reported in studies that survivors of abuse tend to have lower self-esteem than anyone else. “Self esteem” has become such a buzz word these days, it’s hard to take it seriously. But low self-esteem is a lot, and it can lead to a lot, like suicide.

I had a bulimic attack today. First time in a while, and I am sure it had something to do with my dream from the other day where my father was raping me on a nightly basis and my mother didn’t save me. As always after forcing myself to vomit the contents of my stomach, I was feeling sad and I had this thought: “Of course you’re sad, you’re a worthless piece of shit with the self-control of a gnat.”

And then I thought about those words. Worthless piece of shit. I mean, really, come on – no one is a worthless piece of shit (except for people who justify the fucking of children, of course). If someone else spoke such horrible words to me, I would be sad for days. When I say them to myself, I accept it as truth and believe it.

When kids are fucked, we believe we are worthless pieces of shit. That babysitter, I am sure, didn’t give a shit about me. I was another child in what I am sure is a long line of children that she fucked. And somehow in my 35 years, I have come to believe somewhere deep down that I am worthless. This is why you shouldn’t fuck kids.



Reason #89: Bad Dreams

Everyone has bad dreams, so that alone wouldn’t be a reason not to fuck kids. But do ‘normal’ people have dreams where they are getting sexually abused? I don’t know. All of my relationships, girlfriends, boyfriends, friends, family – all of them who weren’t abused don’t seem to have dreams like this.

To my conscious knowledge, my father has never raped me or had sex with me in any form. He molested me, but penetration was not among the molestation.

Last night, I dreamt that he was raping me on a nightly basis. I told my mom. She responded that I needed to be punished for talking about it. I screamed “What the fuck are you talking about?” and pushed her. She came to her senses and apologized. I said “I am not staying here any longer. We’ve got to get out of here.” She agreed and decided to help me leave/leave with me. While my dad was upstairs doing something, I began packing. I looked for my cell phone charger. I looked over at my mom and she had some boyfriend’s business card out. I realized then that even though she wanted to help me, she was going to look out for her own needs first. Then I woke up.

I think I understand the theme of this dream, as while the rape did not occur in real life, my mom’s response kind of did. When I told her about my brother, she stopped it immediately. When I told her about my father, her response was to “cover myself up around him”, as if what I was wearing would entice my father into molesting me. I am his daughter. I could have been wearing three overcoats and a snowsuit and he still would have wanted me to be his wife. Should it matter what the fuck I am wearing?? What kind of father is attracted to his own daughter?? Even if I was walking around naked, shouldn’t it have been his responsibility to say “There are boundaries in this house, and one of them is that we don’t walk around naked in front of each other. Please go put some clothes on.” I know I’ve said this before, but even if I had said “FUCK ME!” to him, he should have been repulsed by the idea and have said “This is inappropriate. Let’s get you to a therapist.”

After a few months of me trying to evade him, he finally threatened to kill her, and she left him. She only saved me because she needed to save herself. My well-being a byproduct of her failed marriage. I think that’s what my dream was getting at.

Fucked up dreams. That’s why you shouldn’t fuck kids.



Reason #88: The Gyno Visit
May 15, 2009, 12:08 am
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I went to the gynecologist today. I had my son in 2007, and that was the last time I saw the gyno. Oh, I’ve made countless apointments since 2007, it’s just that I’ve chickened out every time.

This time though, I kept talking myself into keeping this appointment. Even when I started to cry on the way to the appointment, I told myself that going is the right thing to do. I told myself that I would tell the doctor to tell me what is going on before she does anything. I told myself that this doctor is nice and I trust her, and she has always treated me well. And then, as always, I thought about why I am afraid of the gyno. I thought about how I don’t like hands touching me there. I thought about why that is. I thought about my brother and his hands there, and how it made me feel so horrible, and how I would look at the wall and pretend I was the wall the whole time he was touching me.

I thought about how I could be courageous like SwordDanceWarrior and just explain to the doc that “I am a survivor of childhood sexual abuse and it freaks me out to have people touching me there”. I thought about how she would react to that, with a concerned look or whatever. I thought about that look and how that look happens to me sometimes, and how that look is better than the other kinds of looks, the ones that look at me like I am lying or crazy.

These thoughts repeated themselves over and over again in the last few weeks as I hoped for my period to come the week of this gyno visit. A period would mean another cancellation and rescheduling. It wouldn’t be my fault then, it’s mother nature’s fault. Fault is real big for us survivors, as we constantly need everyone to tell us it’s not our fault. And seldom do we believe them.

It’s not my fault. It was never my fault. I know that for sure now. I am old enough and have had enough therapy to understand that whatever shit the abuse was in my life, the one thing it for sure wasn’t was my fault.

Here is what is though. I should be able to see a medical doctor without all this beforehand and afterhand hoopla. Non-survivors go to the gynecologist and just plain don’t like it. Survivors go to the gynecologist and have panic and crying and intrusive thoughts and flashbacks and fucked up shit. We know for sure that people are willing to touch us in bad ways. And while I understand intrinsically that the gynecologist is ‘safe’, aren’t brothers and fathers and babysitters supposed to be safe too? This is why you shouldn’t fuck kids.



Reason #87: What are you thinking about?
May 13, 2009, 12:09 pm
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The huz and I have a nightly routine. We put the baby to bed, and then sit on the couch watching shows we recorded on our TiVo for the rest of the night until we are almost passed out from exhaustion. It’s not a great thing really, but I think we both find comfort in the routine.

When we are both almost asleep, we go upstairs to bed. When we get up there, the huz lays down and is instantly sleepy. I am in a dark room and instantly more awake than I was all day. I look around the room and begin my nightly ponderings. Did we lock the door to the house? Did we lock the door to the bedroom? If someone got into the house, would he come upstairs? If someone gets into our bedroom, can we get to the baby in time? What exactly would we do? How would we handle that situation?

Every night, the same shitty thoughts in my head. When the huz reaches for me in those first few minutes, I can’t respond because I am panicked. I try and move his hand so that I can concentrate on the answers to these horrible questions. Last night, I lay there staring in the dark, and the huz quietly asked “What are you thinking about?” I patted his hand and didn’t answer.

This is what I am thinking about, and this is why you shouldn’t fuck kids.




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