Reasons You Shouldn’t Fuck Kids

Reason #163: We Are All Walking Miracles

I once went to a survivors conference, and after a day or two of hearing about all the horrible things that were done to us and the horrible things that were probably going to happen to us as a result (like not trusting people, never really getting a good night’s sleep, etc.), one survivor stood up and said “You know, really, we are all walking miracles.  It’s a miracle we are all alive and survived what we did.”

She is right, really.  We are all walking miracles.  All the survivors I have ever known – when I think about the shit they survived – they  and I are all walking miracles.

It is miraculous that I didn’t kill myself, given my inclinations to do so at certain points in my life.  It is miraculous that I managed to trust someone enough to get married, especially since men scared the crap out of me.  And the biggest miracle – getting over my fear of sex long enough to conceive a child.  My biggest blessing and miracle in this lifetime. 

Frankly, every day that I get up and face the day even though I am overwhelmingly afraid of what the day might bring – this, too, is my small daily miracle.

Unfortunately, this is life in the face of miracles. Of course it is a miracle that we survived the abuse and survived ourselves afterwards.  But this is what a miracle looks like.  It is us alive, but not trusting.  Awake but afraid.  Asleep but afraid.  Not just on alert all the time, on high alert all the time.  Never fully experiencing the wonders and joys of life, because we know for sure the horrors of intimate human betrayal in the worst of ways.  It is writing this blog post while getting up three times to check three different door locks. This is life in the face of miracles.

That is why you shouldn’t fuck kids.  No one should be a walking miracle for this reason anymore.

Reason #162: Not Napping when I’m Sick
March 25, 2010, 5:49 pm
Filed under: Uncategorized | Tags: , , , ,

I’m sick.  Nothing terribly serious, just a cold.  But it’s in that stage where I feel weak, achy, and tired. I don’t know how it works for other survivors, but I swear when I am feeling sick, I feel extra vulnerable, extra needy.  Is that how it works for you guys too?  Or is it just me?

The huz told me the best way to heal would be to rest and sleep, and let my body fight the infection.  He said “Maybe you could take a nap.”

In the interest of full-disclosure and my 100% honesty policy with him, I told him I couldn’t do that, much as I wanted to.  I am afraid of sleeping in the house when no one is here with me.  Not even my two big barking dogs are enough to make me feel safe.

I would lock myself in my room, but how do I know someone’s not already there, just waiting for me to let down my guard so that they can hurt me again?  Wow.  Talk about Freudian – I put the word ‘again’ there, and that wasn’t part of my original thought. 

However, ‘again’ is probably exactly the point.  I wouldn’t be afraid of imaginary (I hope) intruders in my fucking room if people hadn’t shown me what happens when I was innocent and unaware.  And now I am not innocent or unaware, and so I am just plain afraid.

The thing is, saying it out loud or typing it in this blog – my rational mind understands that these thoughts are just anxiety talking, and that the chances of such occurrences are probably small.  But shit, no one thinks their kid is going to be the one that gets fucked, and yet I was fucked by three different people, so the idea of ‘rare’ doesn’t gel in my head. And frankly, fucking kids isn’t particularly rational either, so I am not sure where rationality should even get an equal opportunity in the argument against my anxious thoughts.

I’m sick, and tired, and too afraid to sleep.  This is the 162nd way that being a survivor of child sexual abuse has fucked me again.

Reason #161: The privilege of age

I was thinking about my situation yesterday, pondering my sadness – my obession maybe – over these events that transpired in my childhood.

My first molester – that babysitter that I have talked about so much on this blog – she molested me when I was five, or less than five.  My second molester – my brother – he molested me when I was 8.  My third molester – my dad – he molested me when I was 15.    When I think about it, over 20 years has passed since my last perpetrator molested me, and over 30 years has passed since my first one did.

Why am I still upset about this?  Why have there been 160 reasons before this one that the sex abuse has perpetrated its way into my life?  I gave it some thought, and here’s what I came up with: It’s the knowledge that the only reason that none of these people are fucking me right this second is because I am no longer in a child’s body.  They can’t ignore my no’s, because I have a lot more power than I did as a child. 

The only thing that is stopping them from betraying me in the worst of ways again is age.  Were I five or eight or fifteen again, I would be getting molested again.

Knowing this means that I also possess the unfortunate knowledge that 3 of my fellow human beings were willing to intentionally harm me so that they could get their own deviant needs met.  Worse, all three were people I should have been able to trust.  A babysitter is there to care for you.  An older brother is supposed to protect you.  A father is supposed to help and nurture you to become your best self.

That has not been my experience of babysitters, brothers, and fathers.  I now know for sure that people who are supposed to help me can and do harm me.  And the only thing stopping them from doing that is that I am in a big body, an adult’s body, with all the powers and privileges that being in an adult’s body entails.  The knowledge that this is the only thing stopping these people from abusing me is too painful to reconcile, and I think fear of what I know to be true causes all my other reasons to be true as well.  This is why you shouldn’t fuck kids.

Reason #160: Secret window into my soul

It has been about a week since I heard that trauma expert speak to a room full of people (of which I was one of them). 

A week ago, she discussed terrible things that happen to people and the effects of these terrible things on the people they happen to.   A week ago I pretended I was a normal person and not a butterfly who sits in rooms hearing about herself.

It’s been a week. 

This whole week, I have been ‘acting as if’.  Acting as if everything is okay, as if listening to the speech of what has basically shaped my life is also okay, as if that experience meant nothing to me.

I’ve been eating shitloads of food though, and I have been unable to figure out why.  I am enormous, and yet I keep eating.  I am miserable at this weight, and yet I keep eating.   This week has been terrible with the eating.

Today, I was singing a song to myself and my sweet doggie wandered over because she thought I was crying.  So I decided to test it by making crying sounds.  Sure enough, my sweet doggie came over with that sweet concerned look on her face that she gets.  As I was petting her and calling her a good girl though, I began to really cry.  The kind of crying that sounds like weeping.  It sounded like that because I was weeping.

Finally, after this whole week of pretending, I realized – there is a time for everything, and right now it is time to cry.  Today I cried about the words that were spoken by the trauma expert – I felt like she had some sort of secret window into my world, into my soul and was sharing my secrets without my permission.  I cried because she was right about everything she said.  And mostly I cried because I am afraid of what’s to come, as I have always been.

Fear is a terrible thing – it eats you up from the inside.  I have always been afraid; I have never known another way.  This is why you shouldn’t fuck kids.

Reason #159: Antwone Fisher
March 13, 2010, 8:33 pm
Filed under: Uncategorized | Tags: , , , ,

Yesterday I was in a crowded room while listening to a trauma expert speak.  In her speech, she showed the movie “Antwone Fisher“, and there was a terrible scene of child abuse.  I had already read the book years ago, but the movie’s scenes were horrific.  I, of course, wanted to cry and gasp.  But I was in a crowded room and I didn’t feel safe enough to emote, so I comported myself as though watching this terribleness meant nothing to me.


In the movie, we see Antwone’s foster mother beat him unconscious with a towel.  The next scene is him in the navy.  Some asshole is joking around with everyone, and he is obviously bothersome, but Antwone acts like he doesn’t even hear him.  The guy comes right up to his face and says some shit to him.  Antwone still acts like nothing is wrong.  The guy gets a towel and snaps it around jokingly.  Antwone punches him in the face. 

The whole time I am watching, I am stone-faced, as if watching children get hurt means nothing to me.  As if the hurting of me as a child has not formed everything that I am now.

The trauma expert stopped the movie there and said “Did you notice how Antwone didn’t react at all even though this guy was bothering him?  Traumatized children generally have a hyper-startle response to things that the rest of us don’t even notice.  This is because their cortisol levels have never been normalized and they always stay at high alert.  However, noticeably reacting to things makes them vulnerable.  So they become very very good at hiding their hyper-reactions to things.”

I almost started to cry then, right there in that room full of people.  Because, of course, she was describing exactly what had just happened to me.  If people see that I am reacting, they will know I have a personal connection to it.  If they know that, they will know I was abused.  And then they will think I am crazy for reacting like that to scenes that they can somehow callously watch without any reaction.  This is why you shouldn’t fuck kids. 

I am not crazy.  I am abused.   And even if I weren’t, we should all be reacting terribly when we see people hurting kids.

Reason #158: Secret secrets are no fun

Do you watch “The Office”?  There was this episode where the main character Michael asked a stripper whether he should tell his girlfriend that the stripper gave him a lap dance.  Here’s what the stripper said:

“Secret secrets are no fun.  Secret secrets hurt someone.”

I hate secrets.  All of incest and child sexual abuse  is an enormous secret that we are walking around with, and if it were out in the open, the majority of it would disappear.  No one would fuck their daughter if the whole community knew about it, because it’s wrong.  No one’s kid would get fucked in the rectory of a church by a priest if it were not a secret. Because priests know it’s wrong, and daddies know it’s wrong, and the whole fucking community knows it’s wrong.  But they all get away with this shit because they have power over children.  And one of those powers is the ability to make the child keep it a secret.  And then we carry this secret forever.  And, if you’re like me, you grow up fucking hating secrets, because you know good and damn well that secrets are all about truly shitty things that you can’t tell anyone about. 

The huz and I were in our marital counseling session yesterday, and we were discussing the fact that I like to tell my family and friends everything that happens in our marriage.  This is because I hate secrets.  If everyone were openly discussing their sex lives, I bet we’d find more couples like us who aren’t fucking each other.  Unfortunately though, sex stuff brings up a lot of feelings for people, as does sex abuse stuff, which is why people keep it a secret.

The marriage counselor said something yesterday though.  She said, “Keeping things within a marriage is not like keeping a secret.  If you were keeping a secret from each other, that’d be a secret.  But sometimes we keep things inside a marriage because we know that the other person is uncomfortable letting it outside the marriage.”

That gave me pause for thought.  I equate secrets with child sex abuse.  But I keep forgetting one really important thing: I was a child then.  A secret was forced on me. I am an adult now, and as an adult, I have a choice whether to keep something inside my marriage out of respect for my husband.  I didn’t have a choice when I was a child.  I forget that a lot.  This is why you shouldn’t fuck kids.

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