Reasons You Shouldn’t Fuck Kids


Reason #235: My marriage might be over

My husband recently told me some game-changing news about himself that directly affects our marriage.  While I don’t feel comfortable sharing it with the world yet, I am so affected by it that I have to talk about its impact on me, and this blog is the natural place to do that.

My marriage might be over.  I’m not sure.  Saying the words did not kill me, though it is certainly absolutely horrible.  Saying the ‘incest’ word didn’t kill me either.  None of it has killed me yet, I suppose.  Most of it has made me wish I were dead on many, many occasions though.

I don’t know if our marriage can survive this latest blow. We love each other so much, but I wonder if I am about to prove, yet again in my life, that love is not enough to save something that cannot be saved.  I proved this with my first girlfriend too.

I married this wonderful sweet man almost 7 years ago, and much of the reason that I allowed myself to love him is because he was willing to wait as long as we needed to wait for me to be comfortable enough to have sex with him.  I was terrified of penis.  He made me a lot less afraid of it, and the men to whom penises are attached.  Maybe it was intimacy I was also afraid of, and still am.

I kind of feel like I am in Chapter 2 of Portia Nelson’s autobiography (which I will post below so you can see.)  I am in the same hole again, but I know where I am.  I am not sure what to do with that knowledge though, or how to get out of the hole I am in.

It is not my fault that my marriage is falling apart at the seams.  What is my fault, however, is getting into this marriage in the first place.  For falling in love.  For trusting that this time it would work out for me.  For thinking, for even one fucking second, that being a fucked kid didn’t have everything to do with every decision I make.  Even now, in the midst of possibly ending this marriage, my heart panics loudly at the idea of trying to go it alone.  Of the nights.  Of picking up the pieces from yet another thing I have failed at in my stupid life. Frightening even to write the words.

Every decision I make is a direct result of three molesters who took advantage of my body when I was a pre-schooler, a child, and a teenager.  Every action is weighed in terms of safety.  Surviving incest and child sexual abuse has impacted every single part of my life, from the color underwear that I choose to wear to the person that I married.  It’s living proof of Newton’s 3rd law, that every action has an equal and opposite reaction.  This is why you shouldn’t fuck kids.

Autobiography in Five Short Chapters

by Portia Nelson

Chapter One
I walk down the street
There’s a deep hole in the sidewalk
I fall in
I’m lost. . . I’m helpless
It isn’t my fault
It takes me forever to find a way out

Chapter 2
I walk down the same street
There’s a deep hole in the sidewalk
I pretend I don’t see it
I fall in again
I can’t believe I’m in the same place
But it isn’t my fault
It still takes a long time to get out

Chapter 3
I walk down the same street
There’s a deep hole in the sidewalk
I see it there
I still fall in. . . it’s a habit
My eyes are open
I know where I am
It is my fault
I get out immediately

Chapter 4
I walk down the same street
There’s a deep hole in the sidewalk
I walk around it

Chapter 5
I walk down another street



Reason #234: Clayton

The other day there was an Oprah show on about a particular case of child abuse where the father and stepmother kept this 6 year old boy (Clayton) locked in this tiny closet for months, in chains.  They peed on him, rubbed his face with poop, and starved him.

Oprah showed this in 2000 on her show, and had Clayton (now a young man of 19) on her show now in 2011.  When I looked at the pictures of him at the police station as a 6 year old being rescued, his eyes looked absolutely dead.  Just dead.  And now, at 19, his eyes still looked that way.  It was absolutely terrible.  (This is why you shouldn’t fuck kids.  When it doesn’t kill our bodies, it kills our souls.)

Anyway, a 9 year old girl was watching the show in 2000, and it gave her the strength to tell someone about the fact that her step-father had been raping her for 3 years.  Oprah had her on the show now to meet the boy who inspired her to do this.  Clayton hugged her.  She began to cry on his shoulder, but he didn’t know it and pulled away, thinking it was time to end the hug.  When he saw she was crying, he hugged her again, and this time he held the hug until she let go.

I thought to myself how beautiful that was.  Two survivors of terrible abuse shared in each other’s pain and comforted each other just by each other’s presence.  I also thought it was so beautiful that even though his father and step-mother were such degenerate animals so as to do these things to Clayton, he still had such beauty and compassion about him that he genuinely wanted to comfort the other survivor on the show.  This is such a sign of hope.

“We who lived in concentration camps can remember the men who walked through the huts comforting others, giving away their last piece of bread. They may have been few in number, but they offer sufficient proof that everything can be taken from a man but one thing: the last of the human freedoms — to choose one’s attitude in any given set of circumstances, to choose one’s own way.” -Dr. Viktor Frankl, concentration camp survivor



Reason #233: Guarding Issues

When a dog ‘guards’ his food by growling at anyone who comes near his food, dog experts call it ‘guarding issues’.  Survivors have guarding issues too, but in a different way.

Sword Dance Warrior wrote in this post about being a child sexual abuse survivor : “If you’re just having sex with someone just so that they will guard you at night, get a dog.”  When I read that, I thought to myself ‘Holy shit, other survivors invite people into their beds to guard them too? I thought I was the only one!’ 

Is it just Warrior and I, or are there other survivors out there who have done this sort of thing in a bid for safety?

I can’t count how many times I have asked people to share my bed just so that I could sleep better through the night.  I invited people to share my bed just so that I would have someone to guard me at night.  While I didn’t have full-on sex with these people, I certainly did share my body in a sexual way just so that they would choose to stay with me.  This is why you shouldn’t fuck kids.  If you want to prevent promiscuous sexual activity, stop fucking kids, and we will stop using our bodies to get people to sleep with us through the night and guard us against you.

As my regular readers know, when my husband travels on business, the idea of being alone at night scares me so badly, I would choose to pay someone to stay with me if I could.  I have long felt that we should have some sort of service for survivors of child sexual abuse whereby safe people come stay with you when you are too scared to be by yourself.  Maybe we could combine services, and get the lonely scared elderly to stay with the lonely scared child sexual abuse survivors.  That way both sets of people wouldn’t be lonely and scared anymore.

Guarding issues.  The 233rd way that surviving child sexual abuse has interfered with my normal adult functioning.



Reason #232: My son asks for privacy

I’ve been teaching my son to use the bathroom.  He’s a toddler. Today I helped him up onto the toilet seat, and he wanted privacy in the bathroom.  He told me in his sweet little voice “You help me up and then you go away, okay?”  I of course left the bathroom immediately.  I keep trying to teach my son that he has power, especially power over his own body.  Power over who sees his body, who touches his body.  Power, the kind of power that I never seem to feel myself.

I wonder if we told the babysitter to go away.  Obviously she didn’t listen, but I wonder if we put up a fight.  I wonder if we protested at all.

I think about it a lot.  I wonder about the details.  The therapist says I know enough to heal, but I still wonder.  Did it start immediately?  Like as soon as my mom left?  Did we sense she was evil right away?

I wonder how helpless we must have felt, my brother and I, when we realized just how fucking powerless we were in that situation, alone in our home with someone 10 years older than us.  Me, all of five years old, and him all of seven.  We were so fucking little, and she must have been absolutely thrilled when she got the job to babysit us.  My mom, being a single mother at the time – I mean, this whole thing is just so fucking textbook classic!

How long do you suppose she molested us for, during that first evening?  I mean, at what point do you think she stopped?  She had to have started in immediately, for fear that my mom would come home sooner than expected and put a stop to all of her evil fun.  How long did she molest us?  Was it one hour?  Two?  Three? 

I wish I had at least some sort of visual memory of all of this, so that I could stop being so afraid of everything.

My mom came for a visit not too long ago and she left an address book that she kept from that time.  From the time of the babysitter.  She said there is a possibility that the notebook contains that number.  I asked her to bring the notebook, and she did.  (She takes my shit real seriously ever since our together session with the therapist.) I haven’t been able to look at it at all.  Just can’t do it yet.

My son asks for privacy in the bathroom, and I make damn sure he receives it.  He is 3, and I was only 1 or 2 years older than him (I think) when that babysitter ruined me.  Broke me.  Like Humpty Dumpty, who fell off that wall and couldn’t be put together again. 

That’s why you shouldn’t fuck kids.




%d bloggers like this: