Reasons You Shouldn’t Fuck Kids


Reason # 114: Trusting my husband of five years

The other night, my husband told me that when he was a child he had a pet goldfish who died and he made a tomb for it the way the Egyptians used to. I deduced from this information that he was, in fact, a serial killer. Here’s how I decided this: He’s generally very nice to me, and serial killers tend to have these double lives where their wives never know that they are out killing people. Yup, that’s how I got there.

So, when the time came for us to go to bed together that night, I wouldn’t let him in the bed. I made him stand by the light, and explain to me exactly why I should believe that he is not, in fact, a serial killer.

We have been married for five years and together for seven, but apparently that is not enough for me to trust him. When we were dating, he used to joke that we’d be eighty years old and still having this problem. I thought it was funny then, but now that this serial killer shit has happened, I am not sure it’s a joke anymore.

So, he stood there under the light for a half hour late at night explaining to me that he is not a serial killer, that I know where he is all the time, that I have known him for seven years and he’s never given me a reason to doubt him, that he doesn’t even kill bugs except when I ask him to, etc. I think it was that last part that finally convinced me. He really doesn’t like to kill things, and I imagine that if one is a serial killer, they derive pleasure from the killing.

It’s sad and pathetic to have this level of trust with my own husband, but I honestly believe that this one is a direct effect of the child sexual abuse and incest. It is not unlike people in my family whom I had known and loved for years to suddenly up and molest me. I mean, I loved my Dad for fifteen years before he turned on me. And my brother – I think I was eight? Or seven or nine, I have no idea. Anyway, my point is, I have only lived with my husband for five years. That’s not even as long as I lived with my brother and father before they decided that my body was theirs to use against my will.

Not trusting my beautiful husband who only treats me with love and respect. This is why you shouldn’t fuck kids.



Reason #113: Popcorn

Today the huz was telling me yet another story from his idyllic childhood. He was telling me about the different types of popcorn that his family had. It seems so simple, right? Something that any family could take for granted.

He told me that they used to have the kind of popcorn-popper that you put a little oil into it and then you have a cup for the butter on top, and as the popcorn pops in the oil, the butter heats to the point you can melt it onto the freshly popped popcorn. He also told me about the Jiffy-Pop, which he said was a lot more fun because he could watch the popcorn pop. Then he told me about the air popper, which he said he and his family all agreed sucked after eating delicious buttered popcorn.

The whole thing evoked such images in my head. Him and his father and sister watching while their mom lovingly popping corn for them. It’s one of a million stories that he’s told me that evokes similar images. And as always, I feel like Jenny in the movie Forrest Gump. The whole time he’s experiencing all this love in his family, there I am, just like Jenny, getting fucked by people who should be protecting me. This is why you shouldn’t fuck kids.

Inevitably, he said “Did you guys do that too?” I didn’t know what to say. Did we have the popcorn popper? Sure we did. But can I recall happy memories like that? No. Finally, I answered him, feeling like an asshole. I said “Yeah, we had that popper too.”



Reason #112: False sense of security

If I leave the house at all during the day, it’s a sure thing that when I get back I will be frightened. It also unfortunately means that the huz has to check long and hard in the closets, under the bed, and in dark crevices for intruders. The other day, I didn’t leave the house at all. When I was getting ready for bed, I thought to myself how great the night would be, how this would be the first night in so many where I wouldn’t be afraid.

I walked into the bedroom and the huz hadn’t gotten there yet. I immediately felt that familiar panic that sets in when we are going to bed at night. I sat there anxious until he got there.

I probably should have realized that since every night of the last 30 years (since that babysitter fucked my brother and I) has scared me, there’d be no reason for this one not to scare me too. I had a false sense of security because I didn’t leave the house all day. This is why you shouldn’t fuck kids.



Reason #111: There but for the grace of G-d

I was in a meeting today where someone said “I hate it when someone says ‘There but for the grace of G-d go I’, because it implies that the person that the bad thing happened to was not graced.”

Given my last post about G-d, I couldn’t help but think about her statement. The thing is, I am famous for that particular sentence. I am always saying “There but for the grace of G-d…”

I never thought about it the way that woman said it, but I can’t help but wonder what in her life might have inspired such a comment. She didn’t ‘seem’ like a survivor to me, but then what the fuck do I know. Everyone shocks the shit out of me.

I have been feeling guilty ever since I wrote my last post about G-d, because I have always been someone who has tried to bring people closer to G-d, not farther away, and I worry that my post will bring someone farther away. To me, that is akin to taking away hope from someone, and I think hope is so important, dare I say the most important thing.

The thing is, it’s okay to speak up about your feelings, especially to or about G-d. G-d is G-d, He can handle it. My husband once said to me “Imagine an infinite amount of patience and an infinite amount of love and an infinite amount of wisdom, and you’d still have only a glimpse of what G-d is.” (Mind you, he said that when we were dating, now he doesn’t believe in anything.)

Feeling guilty about speaking out against G-d, feeling worried that I might take away someone’s hope because I know I what it is like to only have hope or only have G-d to comfort me. The only reason I feel guilty about this is because of my firsthand experience surviving the process of healing from child sexual abuse and incest. I am not done healing, by any means. I keep a fucking log of reasons why you shouldn’t fuck kids, each one detailing a moment in my life where this abuse has fucked me up. I remember, and sometimes visit, the dark hole that seems endless. This is why you shouldn’t fuck kids.



Reason #110: We Lose Our Sense of a Greater Good

Today, my son’s occupational therapist came in wearing a shirt that said “We are in G-d’s favor” (except G-d was spelled with the “o” in the middle). That shirt gave me pause for thought. First of all, wearing a shirt like that means that one feels totally safe in the world. I mean, I can’t imagine wearing such a sentiment on my body because it’s inviting G-d to say ‘No you’re not. You’re not in my favor, actually.”

I have so many of the things I really really wanted out of life – a baby, a husband, a home. I thought ‘Maybe I am in G-d’s favor.’ But then I thought about what happened to me before I met my husband, before I became an adult. Was I not in G-d’s favor when I was less than five years old and that babysitter decided to fuck my brother and I? Was my brother not in G-d’s favor?

I had always had a good relationship with G-d until I started coming to terms with the abuse. I can’t help but wonder where G-d was during all that.

But then I think about all the good things that I have gotten – my husband, my baby, my home – I mean, none of this would have been possible without G-d, right? My husband doesn’t believe in G-d because it can’t be scientifically proven. I am not sure I need proof. No one believes me when I say my dad was a weird pervert, and there’s no real proof of that except my words. The huz is willing to take my word for it on my Dad, but not on G-d.

I think belief in G-d swings on a pendulum for most people. We believe sometimes, we don’t other times. But for survivors, it’s a whole different flock of geese. We know for sure that evil exists and can hurt us, and we can’t help but wonder where G-d is during our pain.

Now my belief in G-d borders on fear because I now believe that G-d will not stop bad things from happening, though I believe that G-d will hold my hand through it. I think. And that’s the fucked up part. Whereas the thought of G-d was always a comforting thought, it’s now mired in fear. And I think that’s fucked up, because if anyone should be fearful of G-d, it’s people who fuck kids. I mean, shit, if anyone’s going to hell, it’s people who fuck kids. They rationalize it, but deep down they know they’re doing wrong.

I am afraid of G-d. This is why you shouldn’t fuck kids.



Reason #109: The Beach House

A few months ago, the huz and I visited my aunt at her beach house. We brought the baby and had a lovely time. Last night I was talking to the huz about it, and was saying how we should go back. Then I was thinking about it as we were drifting off to sleep. Could I go there myself? I thought about it and realized I wouldn’t enjoy it without the huz, and in fact, I would be scared shitless there.

Out loud I said “I couldn’t go there myself.” The huz asked me why not. I said “Well, the door to the house is in the middle, and then my aunt’s bedroom is on one side and my bedroom is on the other side. Intruders would come to my room and my aunt wouldn’t even know.”

The huz tried to argue about the logistics of that statement, saying that the intruders would go to my aunt’s door first since it is closer to the front door. First off, how can you argue logically about fear that is not logic-based? In my head, I am an eight year old girl about to be sexually abused again, not a 35 year old woman in my aunt’s beach house in a safe community. Why would the intruders go to her room when clearly they are waiting to take me unawares, against my will?

I have had to tell him before that it is stupid to argue something that is fear-based with logic or rationality. Fear is not rational. It doesn’t listen to rational arguments. Instead it is fed by scary images and thoughts that come from real situations that have already happened to me. Where was the logic and rationale when that babysitter was fucking my brother and I when we were scared and alone and our mom wasn’t home?

I would like to visit my aunt in her beach house. I really would. But the idea of spending a terrified night or two there staring at the closet, window, and door, and deciding which thing held the most fearful prospects as I lay awake instead of sleeping doesn’t sound like such a great idea to me. People go to beach houses for vacation. I would be visiting my nightmares. This is why you shouldn’t fuck kids.



Reason # 108: The inability to kiss my husband
July 3, 2009, 11:53 pm
Filed under: Uncategorized | Tags: , , , ,

The other night, I got to bed and the huz was already laying down. The room was dark. I took a deep breath and walked in the room. Since he was already laying down, it was kind of up to me to close the bedroom door. The hallway was light, and our room was dark. That fucking door was the only thing separating me from darkness and panic. But I also knew that sleeping in a room with the door opened and unlocked would give me a whole night of panic.

I closed the door and checked the lock. I checked the door and the lock again. I checked the door. Did I close it tight? Was it closed all the way? I checked the lock a few times. If an intruder got in, he would have to fight his way through the locked door before he got in the room. You know, sometimes the door feels like it is closed, but it isn’t really. Better check the door again. Since my hand is there, I might as well check the lock too.

“Baby, it’s locked,” I hear the huz say. I know it’s locked. But for whatever reasons I need to check, and I sure don’t like having an audience witnessing my michegas. Like it isn’t humiliating locking and checking and checking and locking as many times as I do each night.

Then I walk in the darkness to the bed. The huz is sitting up a little bit, letting me know he is awake. We’ve talked before about how it freaks me when he is already asleep and I have to do the nighttime darkness routine all by myself, so now he sits up a little bit to let me know I am not alone. When I type it out like this, I really realize how much shit this poor guy has to put up with. He has a heart of gold.

I am by the bed now. I am scared. I look around me. G-d only knows what is around me. It is dark, I can’t see. I quickly climb into bed, breathing a little harder now. I frantically look around, waiting for my eyes to adjust to the lack of light. I can make out shapes and that’s it.

I look around for a few minutes. “What are you doing, baby?” he asks. I can’t speak, I can’t be interrupted. This is important – I am the only one searching the room right now. What if the intruder is already in the room with us?? I scan the dark room with my eyes, looking frantically at the weak spots – the closet and the dark corners.

No furtive movements. Wait, what was that? I stare for a few more minutes. The huz says he has already checked the closets and under the bed and in the dark spots. He checks it in the dark though, and he doesn’t believe anything is ever there, so who can listen to him anyway? So I keep staring.

Finally, I feel safe enough kind of to lay down. I lay down next to him, with some space between us. He reaches for me. He feels guilty that we haven’t fucked in a few years, so he feels like he has to at least kiss me good night. His kisses have become more passionate lately. I would love to kiss him in light, but come on, it’s dark. I can’t see him in the dark. This could be anyone kissing me. I am freaked.

I try to kiss him back. I want to kiss him. I love him. But it’s too much, this darkness, me having to walk in the darkness, lock the door in the dark, I am too freaked. I can’t kiss. I pull away. He gets upset. He thinks I am mad at him, and gets mad right back. I start to panic. Who is this, who is this getting mad at me for not kissing? Is he going to force himself on me? He’s never done anything like that before, so there’s no reason to think he would now, but I am so scared now I can’t speak. Images of my brother on the couch with me flood my head. I said no then too. My no meant nothing then. I immediately reach for the light by the bed and turn it on. I am risking waking the baby with this big light on, but I can’t help it. I have to see NOW.

I see him, my sweet husband. I am 35, but I feel like I am tiny and powerless. And afraid. Very afraid. He is staring at me, wondering why I had to turn the light on. He begins to understand and says “It’s okay. Everything’s okay.” I can’t speak. This happens all the time when I get scared, I lose the power of speech. I want to answer him, but I can’t speak. My tongue feels heavy in my mouth, and I can’t remember how to form a word. I am frozen. Maybe if I freeze long enough all this will go away.

He says a sentence, a sentence that we have agreed on previously will be his sentence to use to bring me back. Back from wherever it is I seem to go when I freak like this. He says that sentence, and I recognize him for who he is, and I come back and I am just so grateful. Grateful to him for bringing me back and grateful to be back. I shut the light off and lay down again, this time terribly sad. I have fucked up our romantic time yet again.

Not being able to kiss my husband. That is why you shouldn’t fuck kids.




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