Reasons You Shouldn’t Fuck Kids

Reason #187: Is this my forever sex life?

I was thinking about my sex life today. Actually, I was talking to my aunt about sex today, and it got me thinking about my sex life.

For me, the best sex I can hope for is the kind of sex that happens when I am not afraid.

Did you guys ever read “The Lovely Bones”? The book scared the shit out of me. It’s written from the perspective of a 13 year old girl who was raped and murdered. She watches from wherever she is, (not in heaven, not in hell, sort of in this weird limbo place), as her sister loses her virginity to her boyfriend that she loves. The dead girl thinks how different sex is for her sister, since sex for herself was all blood and horror whereas for her sister it is all love and flowers.

As I was talking to my aunt today, it became apparent to me that I was in a similar situation. For my aunt, sex was all love and flowers, and for me it is something to get through, something I know other people enjoy, something I think I should be doing, something that reminds me of my abuse and my abusers, something that I haven’t really found a way to enjoy yet.  This is, of course, why you shouldn’t fuck kids.  It makes perfect sense why sex wouldn’t be enjoyable for us, ever.  Our first experiences with sex were forced, not enjoyed, no matter how much these pedophiles convince themselves differently.  And now we are reconciled to a life of totally shitty sex, even when we love our beautiful sweet partners, as I do.

Is this my forever sex life now?  Or will I ever get to know of beautiful enjoyable sex?

Reason #186: Damaged Goods

When I was 19, one of the reasons I wanted to kill myself was because I felt that I was damaged goods.  Do other survivors ever feel this way, or is it just me?

This concept of ‘damaged goods’ keeps coming back to me, as a theme in my head, ever since that wriggling fucking ant fell on my face while I slept. I am obviously still ‘damaged’, since a fucking ant can drive me right into weeks of crisis.

Many religions teach about women needing to be ‘pure’ when they get married.  Pure, so that men know they are buying whole goods, not damaged ones.   I’m Jewish, and in Judaic law, an incest survivor who was incested before the age of three is still considered to be whole, while a four year old who is raped by her father is considered ‘unpure’.  ‘Unpure’ children who are survivors of rape are not allowed to marry into the Levy or Cohen tribes, because we are considered too unpure for that. 

I was pretty disheartened by the whole thing.  Of course, I could go on for a while about the ways that fundamental/Orthodox religions fuck kids left and right by making them lesser than.  I understand enough now to understand that religion is/was created by men, and men wrote their Bibles and their Talmuds and their laws to suit their needs.  Some of these men were bad and some of these men were good.  I subscribe to a G-d that loves me, all of me, and wants me to heal.  However, when I read about this ‘unpure’ shit, it only reinforced my notion of myself as damaged goods.

The thing about damaged goods is that if they are considered to be good enough to be sold at all, they are sold at a discount.  Like day old bread or dented cans.  Those things sell at a lesser price, and then the rest is tossed out as garbage.  And that is what I felt like.  Damaged goods.  People had done things to my body, and it had a lasting physical and psychological impact, and I knew for sure that I was always going to be damaged goods, and that would mean that no one would ever love me.  I felt that I would never be able to let anyone in, and no one would even want to get in.

I am married to the love of my life.  Thank G-d.  Thank G-d.  Thank G-d. But I am realizing that I am still damaged goods.  It is apparent in every panic attack, and every bug sighting, and every fearful thought that I have to quelch in order to live.  That is why you shouldn’t fuck kids.  You damage us, and you create damaged goods.  Some of this is repairable, and some of it isn’t.

Reason #185: That fucking ant
July 16, 2010, 2:19 pm
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We’re sitting in our marital therapy session, and I spent the majority of the session crying.  What’s funny is that with my other two therapists, I cried maybe twice in their offices.  With this new therapist, this is my 3rd time crying in the six months or so since we’ve been seeing her.  This makes me think that perhaps marriage, and the intimacy that is required of good marriage, hits me in a place so deeply that it makes me cry.

Anyway, so we were talking about the ant that fell on my face while I was sleeping.  That fucking ant.  That motherfucking G-ddammed horrible shithead of an ant that has torn my whole sense of safety in my home to complete and utter shit.  That fucking ant.

In therapy, I projected everything at the huz.  How I need to leave this marriage because he doesn’t want another baby, and this ant made that clear.  How I am tired of fighting with him about it.  How he obviously doesn’t care about me. 

She says “Wait a minute.  Last week, you were both taking some great steps, and you felt like you were really moving towards something great together as a couple.  Last week, he assured you he does want a baby and that he does care about you.  So let’s take a step backwards and discuss how an ant means the dissolution of your whole marriage.”

So we started talking about it.  As we were talking about it, I realized that it was ME who was afraid of having a baby, and that fucking ant was the crack in the system that showed it to me.  I have been unable to sleep in our bedroom since that ant fell on me.  I have been living on edge ever since that ant fell on me, because that ant, as miniscule as it is, is proof that things can and will touch you, by surprise, without your permission.  Can you imagine trying to care for a newborn while being afraid of your own bedroom?  Me neither, and that realization was fairly upsetting.  That fucking ant.

The therapist said “What if the ant falls on you?”  I said “Then it will have touched me without my permission.” 

She said “Okay, and what then?”  I said “Well, it can go in my ear.” 

She said “Okay, and what then?”  I said “Well, sometimes bugs get stuck in people’s ears.  Then I would have to go to the hospital and get it surgically removed. As a matter of fact, that is a major reason that children in the inner city visit the emergency room.”

She said “Okay, and what then?”  Here’s where I started to cry.  I said “And then I would have to walk around knowing that there had been an ant in my ear and I had to have it surgically removed, and everyone would act like I was normal, and I would know I wasn’t.  I would have been through this horrible thing and I would have to act like nothing happened in my every day life, when really my whole life had been torn apart. And I would be afraid every day after that because I would know for sure that ants fall in your ear.”

She said “Oh sweetie.  So you never get to ‘okay’, do you?  There’s always something worse down the line, and nothing ever gets to the point of okay.”

I looked at her through tears, and the truth is, ‘okay’ was never even a thought in my mind.  She was exactly right. 

She said “You have lived your whole life trying to navigate down such a narrow path so that danger never comes near you.  Really, if you think about it, it’s quite a smart strategy, and it has helped you survive terrible things.  But it’s not working for you anymore.  That little girl inside you is so afraid and she keeps alerting you to all possible dangers, and the adult you is suffering along with her.”

The truth about that ant is that it proved to me that no matter what steps I take to be safe, I am never 100% completely safe.  That ant is the crack in my system, the chink in my armor.   And if an ant can fit through the cracks of my system, who knows what the fuck else can fit through there?   And now I am worried that if something as small as an ant can show me my fragility and my lack of safety, I feel hopeless as to ever feeling safe again.  Hopeless.  That’s why you shouldn’t fuck kids.

P.S.  I made an appointment with a second therapist.  I hope she is good.

Reason #184: Resilience Bullshit

The other day, the baby fell down and got a scrape on his knee.  It didn’t seem to bother him a lot, and I mentioned it to my husband.  The huz said “Kids are resilient.”

How many times have we heard this shit?  Kids are resilient. 

I said “I hate that word.”  The huz looked kind of startled and asked me why.  I said “The truth about ‘resilience’ is that it’s bullshit.  All that word really means is that these kids aren’t bothering you.”

He was like “What do you mean?”  So I explained further.  When people use the word ‘resilience’, they really mean the word ‘alive’, as in “Even though something bad happened to him, he’ll live”.  There are scores of literature about what makes certain children “resilient” in the face of terrible circumstances.  But the truth is, for the most part “resilience” really means “alive” and “not bothering you, not a drain on society, not showing you their insides”  You think those kids aren’t fucked up inside like I am?  Of course they are.  All ‘resilience’ means in our cases is ‘not locked up in a mental institution for the rest of our lives’, or to be even more frank, ‘not dead by suicide’.

People told my mom I was resilient and that I would get over the fact that I had been sexually abused.  They lied to her, in my opinion.  I didn’t get over it, and I am not particularly convinced that anyone gets over it.  I think with some good therapy we can mitigate the consequences, but that’s it.  The damage has been done.

And for resilience, well, the truth is, this is what resilience looks like.   I am functioning in that I am holding down a job, I try to be a good mother, a wife, etc.  But if you are reading this blog, you know I am all fucked up.  Last week, an ant fell on my fucking head, and I have been living in crisis ever since.  I wake up at all hours of the night, trying to be hypervigilant against another ant falling on me and touching me without my permission.  I feel as though if I am just on guard enough, then it will not happen to me again, and if it does, it will certainly not be my fault because I tried so hard to be watchful.  Do you think I would have lost so much sleep over this fucking ant, and been so afraid of bugs touching me without my permission if three people hadn’t already done exactly that to me??

For me, I think resilience bullshit is up there with forgiveness bullshit.  It is shit we like to tell ourselves to make ourselves feel better.  It’s shit we tell ourselves and each other to make ourselves feel better about living in a world where people are willing to fuck children.

This is what resilience looks like, and this is why it’s bullshit.  That’s why you shouldn’t fuck kids.

Reason #183: It already did hurt me
July 6, 2010, 2:59 pm
Filed under: Uncategorized | Tags: , , , ,

We had a truly lovely 4th of July.  The huz and I enjoyed being a family, and we made s’mores.  It was the kind of family I had always dreamed of being in, and now I am the mom in it.

We went to sleep on Sunday night, and at about 4:30AM, I felt something crawling on my face.  It was a carpenter ant.  As my regular readers know, I am terrified of bugs.  Being afraid of bug was actually Reason #7 on this blog of fucked up shit that happens to us when we get fucked as kids.

So, the ant.  The huz removed it, and then went to go pee.  I got out of the bed and stood there staring at the place of my last betrayal.  The huz came back in and sighed, because he knew we were in for a long night now.  There was no way in fucking hell I was getting back in that bed after what had just occurred.

That’s the thing about bugs.  They touch you without your permission.  I was sleeping and innocent and unaware, and then this bug touched me without my permission.  Without my knowledge, my say-so.  This bug used my body to get to where he wanted to go.  I felt betrayed.

I could not get back in the bed.

The huz started “the conversation“, the one designed to get me back in bed so he could get some sleep. He said “You can be sure it’s the only one.  Carpenter ants send out scouts to go see if there is food anywhere.  There are no more.  He was the scout.”

I cast a dubious look at the bed, searching, searching for more ants, for more betrayal, for more ways that I would get hurt in bed.  Then the huz tried a different tactic.  He said “You know, they are carpenter ants.  They won’t bite you.  They can’t hurt you.”

I said “It already did hurt me.  The damage has been done.” 

I was awake in the middle of the night because something touched me without permission, the way three people touched me without my permission.  The damage had been done. 

I eventually did get back in bed, and I laid right next to my husband, all of our skin touching.  I slept that way the rest of the night.  At least if the ant touched me, I would be next to him.  He would be witness to it, at least.  Needless to say, the next night was fitful scared sleep as well.

The next morning, I said to the huz “I hate that this happened.  Now I’m gonna be fucked up for a long time until I can relax enough to sleep okay again.”  The huz said, “I know.  It’s stupid, but I hate that fucking ant.  We were just getting to the place where we were feeling good and sleeping good, and now that is all fucked to hell.”

When I was a little girl, I used to play with ants.  I wasn’t afraid of them until I was taught about betrayal touches. That’s why you shouldn’t fuck kids.

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