Reasons You Shouldn’t Fuck Kids


Reason #171: It takes a village

I was talking to my therapist about the sex abuse the other day, and I got through talking about the babysitter and my brother, but my voice skipped a little bit when I started talking about the mini-nervous-breakdown I had in high school after talking to the CPS worker about what had happened with my dad.  I apologized for crying, as I always do in every situation I cry in, and she said I had nothing to apologize for.

Then she said “If I may ask – what did you work on with your other therapists?”

I recognized what she was really asking with this statement.  You’re still pretty fucked up after having seen so many therapists.

I told her that I saw my first good therapist (after umpteen shitty ones) when I got pretty serious about suicide.  That therapist was a psychologist, and I was 18, almost 19.  I was with her for almost 3 years.  I feel like she did a great job with me, frankly.  I’m alive.

The second good one  – she, too, was a wonderful therapist.  She was a social worker, and I began seeing her because I recognized that I wasn’t where I wanted to be in life.  I was alone, and I didn’t want to be.  I was in a career that was unfulfilling.  And, of course, I was afraid all the time, as I am now.  She helped me with my love life and my career, and I feel she did a great job.

This therapist is a marriage and family therapist. The other two therapists were able to get me to this wonderful place, where I learned how to find and keep healthy love.  But now I am dealing with all the issues that come from being in a loving healthy relationship.  And there are shitloads of issues that I bring into this marriage from the sex abuse.  Like making a conscious decision to not let this relationship be just about my body.  My head and heart have to be involved.  That’s one of the many reasons we aren’t fucking each other.  I let my head get involved and then the trauma dictates.

My point here is that I have needed a therapist as I crossed each major hurdle in my life.  From suicide to living to fulfilling career to love to marriage and sex.  I have seen many therapists in my life, but these three were the good ones out of umpteen shitty therapists.  It takes a village to save us after you’ve fucked us.  That’s why you shouldn’t fuck kids.



Reason #170: Scary-Ass Dreams
April 26, 2010, 12:26 pm
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I have a few things coming up in the next few weeks that are causing me anxiety.  “Normal” anxieties about life in general happen to a lot of people, and that alone would not be a reason you shouldn’t fuck kids.  Everyone gets anxious about shit in their life.

When I get anxious, I have rape dreams. Either I am raped as an adult, or I am raped as a child, or I am watching someone get raped.  For me, the kind of evil that is rape is the scariest thing in the world.  Thus, when I am anxious, I dream about what I consider to be the scariest thing in the world.

Being afraid of rape – this is not necessarily a reason you shouldn’t fuck kids either.  Most sane people are afraid of rape.  It is used as a scare-tactic and control device in times of war – that is how scary it is.  It is evil, it is betrayal, it is the worst of humanity.  So, being afraid of rape is normal.

Fucked kids take this fear and live it to a whole new level.  We know what it is to be betrayed in the worst of ways, and we know for sure that people are willing to betray us in the worst of ways.  This knowledge – this living knowledge – causes us to fear life in general.  Every day holds the possibility of rape, and the nights are even worse.

I have had scary-ass dreams before, as a result of surviving child sex abuse and incest. When I dream about it, even sleep isn’t safe. But I am afraid to get up too, because I already know that life-while-awake isn’t safe either.  That is why you shouldn’t fuck kids.  The scary dreams have a very real basis in what has already happened to us, and while most people can wake up and say “it wasn’t real, it was only a dream”, we cannot.

I had another night of rape dreams last night, and now I am afraid to face the day.



Reason #169: The Trauma Dictates
April 22, 2010, 12:59 pm
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So we’re sitting in our marital therapist’s office, and she says we have to take little steps to get my husband and I back to fucking each other.  She suggested that we take each other’s hands and arms and massage them for 15 minutes.   We had to bargain DOWN to hands and arms because our first assignment was back massages, and I got all fucked up and panicky and I couldn’t do it.  So, now the assignment has been relegated to hands and arms.

She looked at me and said “Butterfly, if you feel yourself getting at all anxious about it, stop everything immediately.  Do not be a martyr about this, because what we are doing here is stirring up your trauma, and if you don’t like being touched, you don’t have to be.  You are the one who decides if you want to be touched or not.”

I could hear, implicitly, what she wasn’t saying.  I am an adult now, and I get to decide who touches me the way I couldn’t when I was a little girl.

Then she said something interesting.  She said “This whole time, the trauma has dictated your sex life with your husband, and our whole goal in this therapy is to stop the Ménage à trois with you, your husband, and the trauma.” 

The truth of this statement hit me like a lightning bolt.  Really, when I think about it, the trauma has dictated every part of my life.  Safety is always my primary goal, due to the trauma.  And everything I do, from not wearing gloves in the winter to checking under the bed every night to the kinds of outfits I wear so as not to attract attention – the trauma has dictated all of this.

Fucking kids is traumatic.  Some of us end up killing ourselves from the trauma of it all, and some of us survive.  In either case, the trauma dictates.  That is why you shouldn’t fuck kids.

NOTE TO SURVIVORS OUT THERE: If you feel like you have no hope and that suicide is the answer, please consider calling this 24 hour hotline: 1-800-SUICIDE or 1-800-273-TALK.  Many many times in my life, I considered suicide.  I am grateful every single day that I was never successful in ending my life.  It was worth not killing myself to be alive for all of this.  Please call.



Reason #168: I don’t like that
April 20, 2010, 8:08 pm
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My son is two and a half years old, and he doesn’t like to be touched or held by strangers. He loves being held by us, his mom and dad.  But not strangers.  Strangers, in his estimation, can be relatives, friends, anyone.

As a sex abuse survivor, I try VERY hard to make sure that he gets 100% say in who touches his body, if I am around. He has the right to say no to anyone, including his grandparents and my husband and I.

A few weeks ago, we took my husband’s best friend out to dinner, and my hands were filled with the baby’s toys and trying to find my keys. My son wanted to be picked up, and I didn’t have the free hands. My husband’s best friend picked my son up, and my son sat in his arms for a minute (looking uncomfortable) and said “I don’t like that”. I immediately stopped what I was doing and transferred him into my arms.

I couldn’t stop thinking about that incident all night though.  My son was so innocent and trusting – hoping that if he told me he doesn’t like someone touching him, I would immediately put a stop to it.   I was lucky like that too – when I told my mom what was happening, she stopped it.   How many of us survivors weren’t so lucky??

I have spoken before on this blog about my intense need to make sure  that the same things that have happened to me do not happen to my son.  This is yet another way (the 168th way, if you’re counting like I am) that my history of sex abuse interferes with my normal daily life.  That’s why you shouldn’t fuck kids.



Reason #167: This is my car

I told the marital therapist (in an alone session) that I started being so afraid all the time after that babysitter molested me.  I was five years old (or less?) when she molested me, and after that all I could see were possibilities of hurt.  Behind every corner or door, under every bed, in every closet, and most especially every night – my world was suddenly filled with the knowledge that people will gain my trust for the specific reason of using it against me. 

After that time where the babysitter used my brother and I for her sexual gain, my world was suddenly filled with betrayal.  Worse, it was filled with the possibility of betrayal, and it is this very possibility that sits within me at all times.  Since I am seeing a marital therapist, the way that we explored it was how my panic seems to happen when the huz and I are intimate.  Many many times the huz and I have been kissing or making out, and I suddenly see my brother’s face.  And then I try and will myself back to the present, by telling myself I am an adult.  But it’s not working.  Then I see my brother and I on the couch, his head between my legs, me pretending to be the wall so I don’t have to be present.  And the huz is still kissing me, and I can’t speak, and I am afraid.  Then finally he realizes what is happening and stops kissing.

“And then there we are, no longer kissing, and I have yet again fucked it up for us” I said to her.  She said “You didn’t fuck it up.  The trauma of sexual abuse fucked it up.  If someone got into a car accident and were afraid of getting into a car again, would you think they fucked it up?  No, of course not.  You’d think they were afraid of getting into a car because they had been traumatized in a car the last time they had been in one.  This is your car, that’s all.  And you’ll get back in eventually.”

I hope she is right.  It makes me feel better that at least she believes in my ability to heal from this stuff. I want to kiss my husband.  I want to make love to my husband.  I want the power to say yes and no, the way I didn’t have power with that babysitter, my brother, or my father. 

I can’t fuck my husband, or even kiss my husband without my shit getting triggered.   That is why you shouldn’t fuck kids.



Reason #166: I thought I would grow out of it
April 15, 2010, 1:04 am
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After that babysitter fucked my brother and I, I began sleeping with the covers over my head every night, and I used several blankets.  My thought process was that if someone were going to stab me in the back, perhaps the knife wouldn’t get through all the layers of blanket.

Talk about Freudian with the ‘stabbing in the back’ shit, huh?  It’s such a metaphor for betrayal, being stabbed in the back.  Did my 5 year old mind know that? 

I have been trying to insulate myself from a betrayal that has already happened to me so many times, with the covers and the checking in the closets and under the beds, and checking the door locks, and pushing dressers in front of doors, and having two big dogs, and carefully evaluating my need to go outside before I ever leave the house, and not wearing gloves in the winter.  The list goes on and  on.

I told the marital therapist that my family and I assumed that I would grow out of these ‘childhood fears’.  When I was a kid, my mom told me that she was scared growing up too, and that she grew out of it, and so would I.  (My mom wasn’t sexually abused.)  I am 36 years old, and I haven’t grown out of it yet.  I keep waiting for it to happen.

The marital therapist said that most children with normal childhoods do grow out of childhood fears.  She said that many children are afraid of the dark or monsters under the bed or things like that, but they grow out of them because over time they learn that there are no such things as monsters and nothing has ever gotten them in the dark.  In my case, however, the monsters were real and bad things happened to me.  She explained that in my case, the fears were confirmed as real, so why would I grow out of something that was true?

That is why you shouldn’t fuck kids.  You prove that monsters are real, and we become afraid of you and everyone else for the rest of our lives.



Reason #165: Campfires and S’mores
April 11, 2010, 4:41 pm
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The other day my husband and I were driving in the car and talking about how much we are looking forward to the upcoming summer.  He said that this summer we should totally have campfires and make s’mores.  I thought it was a great idea!

I said “Man, I would love that!  That’s exactly the kind of home and family I want our son to grow up in.  The kind of family that has campfires and s’mores, and he’ll have such happy memories.  It’s exactly the kind of home I-”  And then my voice broke, and I stopped talking, and blinked back tears as I stared out the car window.

I was surprised by the sudden rush of emotion, and nothing embarrasses me more than when I cry in public.  I try VERY hard to make sure this doesn’t happen, and yet sometimes it sneaks up on me, and then I have to work so hard to make the tears go away before they come out my eyes. 

My husband said “Why’d you stop talking so suddenly?”  I let a minute pass while I comported myself again, and then I said “It’s exactly the kind of home I would have wanted but didn’t have, where parents were involved enough with each other or me to have campfires and s’mores.”

I have talked before on this blog about my overwhelming need to protect my son from the kinds of horrors I experienced as a child.  It seems difficult for me to be able to experience life as his mother without re-experiencing my feelings about life when I was a child.

In the car, talking about summer, with my husband.  Perfectly fine conversation until it gets fucked up by my history of sex abuse coming out to greet me.  Reason #165 why you shouldn’t fuck kids.




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