Reasons You Shouldn’t Fuck Kids


Reason #157: What if I found her?

As my regular readers know, my life of sex abuse began with a babysitter.   I was young, somewhere less than five years old.  My brother was also young since he is 2 and a half years older than me.  I don’t know if Mom put an ad in the paper or if she answered an ad, but somehow this babysitter came into our life.  Mom says she only hired her one time.  Mom said that the babysitter seemed ‘too eager’ to come back, and something about her made mom nervous.

I have no conscious memory of the babysitter, of what she did to us, or anything.  All I know is that from the time of my conscious memory, I slept with many blankets and was VERY afraid of intruders.  I was terrified of night time.  I still do these things.  My brother, on the other hand, has full conscious memory of the babysitter.  I didn’t even know there was a babysitter until a few years ago, when a therapist mentioned how unusual it is for a little boy to molest a child.  I thought about it, and I realized he must have learned it somewhere.  Then when I asked my mom about it, she said “Well, you did say how you saw him licking the babysitter”.  I was flabbergasted.  Apparently, at some point, I had conscious memory of the babysitter, because I am the one who told my mom about what she did to us.  Or did I just tell her what she did to him?  I don’t know.  I fear I will never remember.  One of the many reasons you shouldn’t fuck kids.

A few days ago, my mom called me and said that she has been cleaning out the garage.  She said she found a notebook from ‘those days’.  This notebook may or may not contain this babysitter’s name and phone number from ‘those days’.

Wow.

What would I do if I found her?  I mean, all these reasons – all of them started with her.  If she never fucked us, he never would have fucked me.  Maybe we would have been okay?  Who knows.  Maybe we wouldn’t have been okay.  My dad still would have been whatever he was.

If I found her though, maybe I would remember.  Maybe the parts of me that remember – the parts that seem to need my body covered in many blankets even in the hottest summers, the parts that are afraid of the dark, the parts that startle at the slightest sound, even when no one else in the room notices them – maybe those parts would join my conscious memory.

Perhaps the remembering of what she did to me would kill me.  Maybe my mind is being kind to me by letting me forget the evils that she perpetrated onto me and my brother.  Perhaps because I was young and unable to process this sort of human evil betrayal to my mind and body, perhaps my mind let me forget.  In which case I say thank you to my mind.

On the other hand, perhaps the remembering of what she did to us would make me whole.  Whole in a way I haven’t been since she came into our life.   Perhaps a complete memory would stop the intrusions and nightmares and fears and anxieties from living my life for me.  This is why you shouldn’t fuck kids.  It’s Saturday night, and all I can think about is what if I found the babysitter who molested me.



Reason #156: The other cop

When I was 25, I tried to get a restraining order against my Dad.

This is a painful post.  Maybe it’s still too recent.  It happened 10 years ago.  Iyanla Vanzant (the author of “In the Meantime”) says that you know you are in the meantime about something if you cry when you think about the incident.  Apparently, I am still in the meantime about this.

I had been ‘in hiding’ from him for about 10 years.  I never told him where I lived, made no gesture to find him or answer his letters, but he always seemed to find me.  He showed up at my door one day while I was at work.  My roommates told me about it when I got home.

I went to the cops.  My mom took me.  I could barely walk.  I was so scared.  The cops looked at me and kept asking me questions, but I couldn’t speak.  One of the many fucked up things about my panic – I lose my power of speech.  The cop looked at my mother and said “Can she speak?”  I stood there like a silent mute and said yes, I can speak.  And apparently I can cry too.

I had to explain to the cop why I was afraid.  My breasts.  My 15  year old body.  His moaning.   I cried while telling him.  This is why you shouldn’t fuck kids. 

The cop gave me the number to the domestic violence hotline.  I called them.  They explained to me how it all worked, what to expect in the trial, etc.  I asked them about my specific judge.  They said he has a history of not giving out restraining orders. 

I had already lost before I even walked in the door of that courtroom.  Nevertheless, I hired a lawyer.  She stood next to me while I stood in front of a judge and asked him to protect me from my father.  There we were in that courtroom, with me on one side, and my dad on the other.  And I couldn’t stop crying.  The idea that I had to ask a judge to protect me from my father was so deeply painful to me that I am still in the meantime about it.  At one point, the judge left the room, and I just laid my head on the table and cried.

The judge had already yelled at me “Some things belong in a home, not a court room!”  I wonder what was happening in his home that made him yell that, especially with such emotion. 

He didn’t give me the restraining order.   I walked out of there no safer than when I walked in.

Now that my dad and I are back on speaking terms, I asked him how he found me.  He told me he bribed a crooked cop to find my address.  Yet another person in a line of people waiting to fuck me so far in this lifetime.

I could talk about the judge being so nasty to me, when I was the fucking victim in that courtroom.  Or I could talk about my Dad thinking he was above the law, and being right.  Or I could talk about the crooked cop who helped a father that had already committed incest find his daughter who was in hiding.  I still don’t understand how this man sleeps at night. 

Instead, I would like to talk about the other cop – the one who asked if I could speak, and when he found out I could, he gently asked me questions.  And when I answered his questions, he believed me.  He truly believed me. That really meant a lot to me.  I’m sorry that I don’t remember his name – my eyes were blurred with tears the whole time I was talking to him, and I just can’t remember what the badge on his chest said.  However, I say this with deepest gratitude.  Thank you, Officer.



Reason #155: Sunk Costs

The huz and I were talking about a concept he learned called “Sunk Costs”.  Apparently, in Corporate America, this term designates the costs already spent on a project.  These costs are already sunk into the project and spent, and according to the experts, you should not factor these costs into whether or not you should continue with the project.  In other words, if you’ve already spent $155 dollars on a project, but you feel like the project is going nowhere, don’t spend another $155 on it just because you’ve already sunk money into the project.  I guess it’s kind of like what all our moms have already known: Don’t put good money after bad into a failing project.

While he was explaining this concept to me, I couldn’t help but think about the costs I have sunk into being a survivor.  Now, it’s not my fault that the abuse happened to me, and it’s kind of not my fault that I survived it.  Or maybe it is my fault that I survived it, since I had opportunities to kill myself and didn’t take them.  Actually, that is very much the point.  Suicidality was one of my sunken costs of surviving the abuse.  There are now 155 sunken costs into this survivorhood project called my life, and unfortunately, I fear there will be 155 more costs sunk into surviving.

Dissociating and surviving the abuse was one thing, but the truth is that surviving child sex abuse necessitates sunken costs.  I cannot help that I am afraid of the dark or that I can’t sleep in, or that I need three blankets and a sheet to sleep at night.  All the therapies in the world haven’t helped me with these costs, and I am at the point now where I don’t think I will ever have a time where I will live free of fear.  These are some of the costs associated with surviving my abuse, and I bet if you asked any survivor of abuse about his/her costs, she’d be able to list a bunch too.  The thing is, unlike a corporate project that you can abandon even though you’ve spent a lot of money on it, I am unwilling to abandon my life.

It kind of reminds me the book “Nuts” by Claudia Reilly. (This book was made into a movie by the same name, with Barbra Streisand. Great movie, and also, incidentally, the subject matter is an excellent example of why you shouldn’t fuck kids.)  In the book, the title character Claudia is a prostitute whose john tries to kill her.  She defends herself and ends up killing him instead.  When she discusses her thoughts on the matter, she says something like “He can take my body, my breasts, my vagina.  But G-d-dammit, he cannot take my life.”

I guess that is how I feel about the costs I have sunk into surviving this abuse.  It’s true that I have sunk a lot of costs into surviving child sexual abuse now.  And if I have anything to say about it, I’ll be sinking a lot fucking more.  Because I’ll be alive.  And that alone will mean I am one of the lucky ones.  That is why you shouldn’t fuck kids.



Reason #154: Not being able to sleep in
February 19, 2010, 3:42 pm
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My husband and I have a deal whereby he gets up with the baby on some days, and I get up with the baby on other days.  On the days he gets up, he knows to lock the door to our room so that I feel safe.  One time he forgot though, and I woke up and found the door unlocked and had a panic attack over what could have happened.  Ever since then, if I am not awake enough to hear the click of the door lock when he leaves the room, I have trouble sleeping.  Usually I just get up right after him and check the door lock myself and then go back to sleep.

Today, I woke up about 15 minutes after he left, and I wanted to sleep a little longer.  The huz had already left the room, and had presumably locked the door.  Wait, did he lock the door?  (Stare at the door from the bed.  I can’t tell from here.)  If I get up and check the lock then I might as well get up for good.  If someone broke in here, it would be my fault for not checking.  He probably locked the door, I guess.  Usually I wake up whenever he moves, so when he gets out of bed, I am awake enough to hear the click of the door.  Not this time, unfortunately.

In the end, I decided to just get up since I couldn’t sleep while worrying whether the door was locked or not.  This is why you shouldn’t fuck kids.



Reason #153: No one said a word
February 16, 2010, 1:32 pm
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One summer when I was 20 and pretty suicidal, I went with my aunt and cousin to a local pool.  We sat there with my aunt’s friends.  I took my shirt and pants off, and sat there in my bathing suit.  I had very recently cut my legs up, and there were angry red criss-crossed scabs all over my legs.  I was sitting right next to my aunt’s friend, and that woman stared at my legs pretty hard.  I knew what she was looking at, and I felt uncomfortable.  I am not sure if she understood what she was looking at, but I could tell she was uncomfortable too.  No one said a fucking word.  The whole thing was so surreal.

I often think about that day.  How could all these people see my legs and not say one word to me?  It’s kind of like with sex abuse – you know good and damn well that people suspected that shit was happening to us.  But no one said a word.

This is the after-effect of surviving child sexual abuse. We cut ourselves and it shows on our legs when we are trying to just spend a day with family at the pool.  That’s why you shouldn’t fuck kids.



Reason #152: My friend cuts herself
February 13, 2010, 2:05 am
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When I was around 20 or so, I went to a restaurant with some friends, and our waitress had so many patterns of scars on her arms that I recognized her as a fellow cutter. I had been cutting myself for a year by then.  I wanted to reach out and touch her arm and tell her she wasn’t alone, but I didn’t. 

I would put money on the fact that she was a survivor, like me.  At the very least, some bad shit had to have happened to her to make her have such a shit relationship with herself and her body.

This week, a colleague and I were deep in discussion and I noticed similar white scars on her arms as well.  I touched her arm and looked in her eyes.  She wasn’t quite sure what to say.  She started to stammer “I thought you knew about that.  I thought I already told you about that…”  I could see she was uncomfortable, and  I said “I used to cut too.”  We locked eyes then and just shared that intimate knowledge, the kind of intimate knowledge that you only get when you are in such deep pain that you feel like your only outlet is to hurt yourself.

It saddens me that after all these people have hurt me and my body, that I chose to hurt myself and my body.  It saddens me that this was the only outlet I had, the only way that pain felt real, the only thing that even felt somewhat good to me at the time.  It saddens me even more to know that my friend felt the same way and bears the scars to prove it.  We were both recreating situations where our bodies were used for terrible reasons.

I no longer cut, and haven’t cut myself in about 10 years.  She says she has stopped too, but who knows.  The truth is, we are scared of talking about this sort of shit to outsiders because we don’t want you locking us up as if we are nuts.  We aren’t nuts.  We’re in pain, and since our kind of pain isn’t visible, cuts on our arms are.

She said it was about control, and I agreed.  I wish we had control over our bodies when we were children, when others assumed control for us.  Maybe then we wouldn’t have had to assume control in such terrible and destructive ways as adults.  That is why you shouldn’t fuck kids.



Reason #151: My Super Power
February 8, 2010, 2:56 pm
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I spend a great deal of time contemplating my super power. For the record, I am aware that Batman and Superman are comic book characters, not real life entities, but the thought of having a superpower comforts me greatly. (By the way, see what I just did there – where I felt like I had to assure you I am not crazy? One of the many reasons you shouldn’t fuck kids.) Anyway though, I have thought long and hard about what I would like my super power to be. I always return to the same one. Flight.

Other people pick strength or super speed, but I always pick flight. I think, for me, it always gets back to safety. I can see someone hurting someone else, fly in, stop them, and fly out.

This whole thought process, and the fact that I have lost countless hours thinking about how I can save other children from the same fate I have suffered – this is reason #151 why you shouldn’t fuck kids.

Survivors of the world – what would your super power be?




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