Reasons You Shouldn’t Fuck Kids

Reason #178: That weird vagina thing

You remember that weird vagina thing that was happening to me, where my vagina was really really warm for like 3 days?  Well, during that time, the huz and I were seated for our nightly tv watching, and my vagina was so hot that I put ice in a baggie, put them in my panties, and sat there like that all night.  Even with ice on it all night, my vagina still retained all that heat.

I wrote to one of my best friends about it – I always go to her for sexual and medical issues – and I asked her if she knew anything about having a hot vagina.  She said “A hot vagina?  Never heard of it.”  Then I asked her if it was possible that I have gotten so fat that my inner thighs were crowding my vagina to the point of heat exhaustion.  She said she didn’t think that was possible in my case.

The interesting thing about that weekend of vagina-hotness that I neglected to mention in my original post about my vagina was that my dad and brother were visiting that weekend.  I live far away from them, on purpose, so that I can control when/how I see them, and we had planned for them to come see us that weekend.

As my readers know, my dad and I have been trying to have some semblance of a relationship.  We are trying to heal.  Healing, for me, means understanding what happened to me, his role in it, what he himself did to me, and acknowledging it and living with it.  Healing, for my dad, means me trusting him.  Since trusting him is not a possibility, our versions of healing will probably never meet.  Either way, it’s been interesting trying to have my father in my life.  As for my brother, I have long since forgiven him, but I do not trust him in the slightest.

Some of the commenters on my vagina post said that maybe it was a body memory.  After I read their comments, I decided to acknowledge the possibility of this being true.  As soon as I acknowledged it, ALL OF IT WENT AWAY AND I HAVEN’T FELT IT SINCE.  This reality scares the shit out of me.

I don’t know what the vagina hotness means, and I am not 100% certain it was a body memory, but I have to admit – the evidence certainly weighs heavily in favor of it being a body memory of some kind.  It happened when two of my molesters came to visit me.  There was no organic reason for it (no allergic reaction, no different panties, etc.).  And, all of it went away as soon as I acknowledged the possibility of it being a body memory.

If it is a body memory – man, what the fuck am I supposed to do with that?  I know there is one whole abuser that I have no memory of (the babysitter) – could this hot vagina thing be about her?  Did she have my brother and I doing sexual shit to each other, do you suppose?  My brother told my mom that everything he did to me, so did she.  The sensation kind of reminded me of the sensation of my brother rubbing my vagina, except when he did it, my vagina would get numb after a while.  My instinct tells me this is not about him though.  And that leaves me to wonder what the fuck is happening to me?  Is my body trying to tell me something?

 This is my life now – constantly trying to piece together the puzzle of why is Butterfly so fucked up?  Every new thing is a clue.  What if I never have conscious memory?  Am I supposed to just walk around being okay with a hot vagina?

I am left with all these questions as to what could have happened that was so fucked up that my mind will only allow me to remember it as a physical sensation with no image to go with it.  As I have said on so many occasions before, I am afraid of what’s to come.   This is why you shouldn’t fuck kids.   You don’t just fuck us as kids, you fuck us up forever.

Reason #177: Into the Woods

Have you guys ever seen the musical “Into the Woods”.  I was fortunate enough to see it on Broadway a long time ago.  It’s about a bunch of fairy tale characters (like Little Red Riding Hood, the Big Bad Wolf, Prince Charming, Rapunzel, etc.) who interact with each other.  They all have to go into the woods to get their wishes answered, even though it is scary. 

I happened across some of my audio-tapes the other day, (does anyone besides me still have those???  Mine are dusty from not using them), and one of the songs from Into the Woods was on there.  It was called “Ever After”, and it comes at the end of Act I (I think). 

I was singing along with these words:

“And it came to pass, all that seemed wrong
was now right, and those who deserved to
were certain to live a long and happy life.
Ever after…

Journey over, all is mended,
And it’s not just for today,
But tomorrow, and extended
Ever after!”

When I got the part about it being okay forever after, not just for today, but tomorrow and extended ever after – I choked up.  I was in my car alone, and it’s safe to cry in cars alone.

This is what we are all searching for.  Some sort of happy ending where all the wrongs are made right, and good people live long healthy happy lives, and at the end of our journey, all is mended.

For our wrongs to be made right though – what does that mean?  I suspect that for each of us, there is a shared and then unique list of wrongs to be made right.  For some of us, it means our perpetrators apologizing to us and admitting that they hurt us in unspeakable ways.  It would also mean that all the other adults in our lives would  apologize to us for allowing this to happen, and for not protecting us from predators.  It means the perpetrator admitting that there was nothing we could have done to stop them from hurting us, that they had it in their head all along that this was going to happen, that they are completely at fault and that we are completely innocent.  That anytime an adult fucks a child, the adult is completely at fault, and the child is completely innocent.  Once perps begin to admit that, maybe the rest of society will stop blaming the victim too.

Then what would “all is mended” mean for us?  For me, it would mean waking up feeling refreshed.  Falling asleep when I am tired.  Not insulating my body with extra fat so as to render me unrecognizable as a woman or as a human.  Fucking my husband, with passion and joy and everything in between.  Having the ability to say “no” to everyone.  Not constantly looking around me, at the door, at the windows, in the dark spaces as I write this.  And a million other things, including the 176 reasons before this one as to what my life has become as a result of child sex abuse.

It’s not that I don’t want to go into the woods, necessarily, it’s just that I would like to know that at the end of this journey, all the wrongs are made right and all is mended.  Ever after.

Reason #176: My Vagina

There’s something wrong with my vagina. For the past few days, my vagina has been having hot-flashes. I don’t know what else to call it. You know how women who are going through menopause experience hot flashes? I am not going through menopause, but the lips of my vagina are experiencing hot flashes.

It is causing me some worry. First of all, something might be wrong. Second of all, I might have to see the gynecologist, and as my readers know, seeing the vagina doctor is hard for survivors of sex abuse. Too many people have already seen my vagina, and even though the trip to the gyno would be consensual, it always involves crying.

It’s not burning exactly, it’s more like a very deep warmth on my labia.  It’s uncomfortable, but what is more uncomfortable is not knowing what is wrong. 

This weekend, I was panicking about it a little with my husband, trying to figure out what was wrong, running around looking for a mirror to look at my vagina.  He asked me if I wanted him to look at it.  He’s a sweet guy, and he truly wanted to help.  I said “No, we don’t have that kind of relationship.”  The truth of that statement made me so sad that it brought tears to my eyes.  I don’t have the kind of relationship with my husband where he can see my vagina.

I have never allowed him to perform oral sex on me.  Never.  My brother did this to me, and I just can’t allow my husband to do it.  I hated the sensation when my brother was doing it, and just thinking about it now makes me feel so disgusting that I want to vomit and shower.  I said no when my brother wanted to do it, and I said no some more.  I said no again.  He finally talked me into it, probably because I realized that I didn’t really have any choice.  He was bigger than me, and if he wanted to use violence to solve my ‘no’, he could have.  But he didn’t have to – I finally agreed. 

Maybe I just wanted him to love me, and stop being so angry and hateful with me all the time.  The truth is that when he was molesting me – that was the nicest he ever was to me.

I dissociated while he was molesting me, pretending to be the wall.  I am the wall, I am the wall, I am the wall, I chanted to myself while he was molesting me, his head between my legs.  I am the wall, I am the wall, I am the wall.  I have no idea how many times he molested me.

I don’t want to be the fucking wall with my husband.  I want to be in bed with him, enjoying us together, saying yes because I actually want to be sexual with him instead of saying yes to having my body used without me in it.

Now my pussy is having some sort of physical problem, and I am at a loss as to what is wrong.  I can’t see it for myself no matter what mirror I use, and I can’t allow my husband to look at it for me.  I just don’t feel comfortable with his head between my legs the way my brother’s was.  This is why you shouldn’t fuck kids.

Reason #175: Columbine

My husband has been reading this book about the Columbine massacre, and he was telling me about the two kids involved in the shootings (Eric Harris and Dylan Kliebold). Apparently, Eric Harris was a psychopath who prided himself on his outstanding abilities to deceive people by making them think he wasn’t a complete psychopath when in fact he was. The huz told me that this is fairly common among psychopaths.

This conversation scared me enough that I began to shake violently. The idea of psychopaths is incredibly frightening to those of us who have been on intimate terms with evil. I cannot make heads or tails of psychopaths – but they seem like evil to me.

The huz told me that psychopaths are unable to feel empathy, and that there is the possibility that their brains are wired differently than the rest of ours.  Yet, that trauma conference that I went to last month said that when you traumatize kids, their brains get wired differently too.

Are psychopaths made, or are they born?  Are some people born to do evil, or are they formed to do evil?

These questions bring me, always, to sex offenders.  If someone’s willing to fuck kids, they are obviously without natural empathy.  Some survivors take their experiences and it makes them much better at feeling empathy, since they know what it’s like.  Other survivors take their experiences and victimize others, since they know what it’s like.

After the Columbine discussion with the huz, I found myself still shaking an hour later.  I tried to do some deep-breathing exercises, and some relaxation exercises, but nothing really worked.  I basically shook until I fell asleep for the night.

I’ve been shaking like this for years now.  It’s embarrassing, it’s uncontrollable, and it happens in every possible situation.  It happens when discussing evil, and it happens when kissing my sweet husband.  That’s why you shouldn’t fuck kids.  Ordinary shit scares us to the point of uncontrollable shaking.

Reason #174: Rape Dreams on Mother’s Day
May 11, 2010, 12:18 am
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Saturday night into Sunday, I dreamed that I was in my home and couldn’t figure out how to get the dogs in or out.  I knew I was in danger, but couldn’t figure out how.  A woman appeared with a friendly smile, but something about her made the hairs on the back of my neck stand up.  I immediately didn’t trust her, and tried to hit her with a baseball bat.  That’s when her male friend came in and began raping me.

I woke up from this dream, and my husband said “Good Morning!  Happy Mother’s Day!  How did you sleep?”

This is not my first rape dream, or even my secondNot my tenth, not even my hundredth.  This is why you shouldn’t fuck kids.  We have dreams where we are being violated, because we know what it is to have our body and soul violated.  The bad dreams don’t stop just because it is a holiday or a special occasion, or because you have a sweet husband laying beside you. 

One of the things I struggle with in this blog is whether I should post the same issue twice.  For instance, I have posted before about bad dreams and how they plague us survivors.  Part of me feels that each reason should be a completely new reason so that no asshole can invalidate what we survivors are going through by saying “No, you really only have 173 reasons not to fuck kids, not 174, because one of them is a double.”  The other part of me feels that these reasons aren’t like baseball cards, where a ‘double’ is suddenly invalidated because you happened to have that card already.  Each rape dream is a reason you shouldn’t fuck kids, because each one is one I wouldn’t have had if that babysitter hadn’t done this to us first.  Each time I have a panic attack when my husband and I are in the middle of kissing is a new reason you shouldn’t fuck kids.

But I will ask you guys – what do you think?  Should each reason be a completely new one?

Reason #173: We Have Social Phobia
May 7, 2010, 12:09 pm
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My co-workers invited me out for drinks the other night.  This is like the millionth time I have faced this sort of situation.  I thanked them for the invitation and said no.  When they asked why, I decided to go with the truth.  I said “I’m not social”.

Then came the same reaction I always get when I say that.  “What?  How can this be?  Everyone loves you.”

And inside, I nod my head and think “Yup, that’s why you shouldn’t fuck kids.  We get scared of social situations.”

The truth is that in these one-on-one conversations, I am mostly okay.  I am even okay when another person or two joins.  Once the situation becomes a “dinner” or “event” or “party”, I am immediately overcome with anxiety.  I begin picturing myself there and everyone looking at me, and I feel fat, bumbling, and stupid.  Then I begin thinking of ways that I might not have to go to the event.  And if it’s an event involving my husband’s work friends or even sometimes his family, I feel ashamed as I beg him for ways for me to get out of it.  He has gotten pissed more than once about me missing one of his events, and he has that right.  I’d be pissed if he missed one of mine just due to fear.

Sometimes I face the fear head on and just go to the damn party.  Sometimes I am not feeling that courageous and give in to my inner fear.

I think the core of my social anxiety is my fear of people judging me.  Survivors of sexual abuse are constantly judged.  ‘Is she telling the truth?  Did it really happen?  Maybe she made it up?  Even if it did happen, maybe she wanted it?  It wasn’t that bad anyway.  She’ll grow out of it.  She’s making a big deal out of nothing.’ 

My name is Butterfly, and I am afraid of parties.  That is why you shouldn’t fuck kids.

Reason #172: The trauma dictates our job
May 2, 2010, 12:03 am
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You remember I posted in this blog about my colleague, the one who used to cut herself?  Well, part of her job requires her to travel to certain buildings around the city. 

Another colleague was complaining to me about the fact that “Woman-Who-Cuts-Herself” doesn’t want to go to these buildings alone.  She said “I’ve been doing it for a long time now, and I haven’t had any problems, nor am I afraid.”

I thought to myself “Yeah, that’s why you shouldn’t fuck kids.  We get terribly afraid of going to places that you don’t even think twice about.”  Out loud, I said “Why do you suppose she is afraid?”  My colleague looked at me and said “I don’t know. I want to tell her to stop being such a baby.”

I was disgusted.  It’s not enough they have to fuck us, you have to as well?

“Woman-Who-Cuts-Herself” had already confided me in me that she had been raped by her boyfriend when she was a teenager.  When you are on intimate terms with evil like this, you get afraid to go to places by yourself.  Her job is on the line now because she is being forced to do something that makes her uncomfortable because of the fact that she has survived rape.

This could easily be me, and it usually is me.  Many, many times I am forced to do something that makes me terribly anxious because of what I have already survived.  This can be as simple as walking into my own home alone, or it can be as daring as doing something at night.  Since “Woman Who Cuts Herself” and I know for sure that people are willing to hurt us without regard to our feelings or our bodies, we also know for sure that other people might do this to us again.  Are we supposed to feel safe just by virtue of us being alive?  Unfortunately, the exact opposite is true.  The fact that we survived evil means that we are now damn afraid of the world and the people in it.  Consequently, we are willing to do anything to keep ourselves safe.  Even if this means losing our jobs.

For me, this living fear has always dictated the kind of job I am willing to get.  I have turned down jobs due to parking, for instance.  If the parking lot doesn’t look like something I will be able to walk through alone for whatever reason, I will not take the job.  This hasn’t happened just one time to me – it has happened many times.  And that is just one example of why I might not take a certain job.

I have a hard time taking night jobs.  I am afraid of the dark.  How could I possibly walk to my fucking car in the dark at night??

When I do have something I must do at night, I usually ask the huz to drive me to and from the event.  My husband, sweet beautiful man that he is, never shames me about it, and usually drives me around like a fucking chauffeur just because he is a nice guy.  If he can’t take me, then I have to make a bunch of different safety plans and worry and worry until the least scary plan emerges.  Least scary usually involves me shaking and breathing weird, but all the other plans would be worse, so I settle on that one.

This is why you shouldn’t fuck kids.  People may fool themselves into thinking that it doesn’t have lasting effects in tangible ways, but it does.  We don’t take certain jobs, and it limits our pay.

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