Reasons You Shouldn’t Fuck Kids

Reason #252: The ant is back
July 27, 2011, 12:38 pm
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Last year around this time, we celebrated Independence Day, went to bed, and then an ant fell on my head while I slept.  That ended my safety for months.

The fucking ant is back.  The motherfucking G-ddamned shithead of an ant.

Yesterday, the huz/wife/ex/for Christ’s sake and I went to marital counseling.  The therapist prattled on about me taking steps to be less dependent on the huz.  She talked some shit about me feeling empowered or whatever.

In the car on the way home – already exhausted from weeks of survivor sleep, and days of fear-of-the-ant-falling-on-my-head-again sleep – I said to the huz “She keeps talking to me about power.  Why does she keep doing that?  I have no power!  I’ve proven that I have no power.  I married a man, and even in this, you are turning into a woman.  I have no power.  I am afraid of a little ant. That little fucking ant has more power than I do!”

And then, as I have done for the last several days, I started to cry.  It’s like the tears are always at the base of my throat, and all they need is the slightest hint and they come rolling out of my fucking eyes.  And now I get to play the part of the needy fucked up jilted fat wife, while he plays an equally shitty part of turning into a woman and having everyone stare at him for the rest of his life because people are idiots.  All of this while ants roam around above us, waiting to fall on our fucking heads.

I understand that theoretically I have more power than that ant.  But I don’t feel that power at all; that ant still controls me, a year after the original ant appeared.  The reason I feel no power over that ant is that all power was stolen from me the day that babysitter first appeared in my life and fucked my brother and I.  Power over one’s own body is the most intrinsic power that a person has, and when a person is molested, that most basic power is taken. 

I decide who touches me.  I decide when, where, how, and whom.  It is a power I was forced to give up when that babysitter touched me, when my brother touched me, and when my father touched me.  And it feels like I don’t get to decide when even that ant touches me, because it falls on my head when I am asleep, unable to give consent to this touch.

I am a grown woman, and something as little as an ant royally fucks me.  That is why you shouldn’t fuck kids.

Reason #251: It’s Okay to Fall Apart a Little

I was talking to my mom last night about the debacle that is my fucking life right now, and she commented on how sad I sounded.

I started to explain that I had been having trouble sleeping now that I am in a room by myself, and how I have been getting about five hours of sleep a night, and how this level of tiredness is probably affecting the rest of my life.  She interrupted my explanations to say: “Sweetie, it’s okay to take the time to fall apart a little.  This is a really major thing that has happened to you here; you’ve lost your marriage.  You’re doing everything you have to to survive, and if you need to fall apart in the rest of the time, it’s okay to do that.”

I thought it was absolutely one of the kindest things anyone has ever said to me.

Last night, as I was doing my nightly routine of checking in the closet and under the bed and then trying to fall asleep afraid (that’s why you shouldn’t fuck kids, by the way; I hate my nightly routine), I was contemplating what mom had told me.  She gave me permission to “fall apart a little”, which is really tantamount to giving me permission to feel what I need to feel.

It’s so different when you are surviving incest and child sexual abuse.  People in your life either minimize it (so they don’t have to feel it with you), or tell you all the positive shit you have going on in your life (“you are doing so well with <insert other area of your life here>!”).  No one says ‘Holy shit, what happened to you was so fucked up, it breaks the fucked up scale.  It’s okay to take the time to fall apart a little.’

While my current life has also knocked me flat for a while, I do not want to die. Surviving incest and child sexual abuse, however, almost killed me.  That is why I want to say this to all my survivor readers out there, and all the supporters of survivors that read my blog:  It’s okay to fall apart a little.  What happened to you or your loved ones was wrong; wrong on a terrible level.  You were betrayed, and you didn’t deserve it.  It wasn’t your fault.  It’s okay to take the time to fall apart a little.  It’s okay to take as much time as you need to feel it all.  And when you feel ready, it’s also okay to put yourself back together as slowly as you need to.

Reason #250: I fucking hate ‘survivor sleep’
July 12, 2011, 12:53 pm
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Last night was my fourth night sleeping alone in the other bedroom.  On the third night, I got a wave of panic and crawled into bed with my (ex?) husband/(wife?). I am (I guess?) separated from him (kind of?) even though we are living in the same house (and due to finances, we will be staying together physically for a while.)  Anyway, I felt so uncomfortable there that I got up in the middle of the night and went back to my new room.  I was so proud of myself when I woke up in the morning yesterday and realized I had made a courageous move in the middle of the night.

When we moved here, I never would have guessed that I would be sleeping in the little room.  I mean, we moved here as a married couple sharing a bed.  Now we are two separate people in two separate rooms living one weird life together.

I was up until around 1:30AM last night, and I heard my husband snoring away in the other room.  I am so fucking resentful today, so filled with anger and sadness about my situation.  Everything is overwhelming.  I cried in the shower today about the state of my life.  I am tired.  With less than six hours sleep, I can’t help but be tired.

‘Welcome to survivor sleep’, I keep thinking.  Survivor sleep is really one of the big fuck you’s of surviving child sex abuse, in my opinion.  The reason it’s one of the bigger ones is that it is a nightly thing, and the lack of it fucks up everything else.  It’s hard to be rational or healthy (or even happy) when you are lacking sleep.   And you know you are just going to have to face the same situation again tonight.  And the next night, and the night after that.  And over and over and over again.  I hate survivor sleep.

Studies have shown that reduced sleep actually reduces how long you live.  So the way I see it:

Child sex abuse –> survivor sleep=lack of quantity/quality sleep —> reduced life expectancy.  That’s why you shouldn’t fuck kids.  It literally kills us.

Reason #249: ‘Survival’ sleep
July 8, 2011, 5:52 pm
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I am thinking of trying to sleep in the new bedroom alone tonight.  It will be my first time sleeping in there alone, but I feel like I have to do it.  I keep telling myself “This is my life now”, so that I stop longing for what I used to have and instead get used to what is.  This is what is right now.  This is my life now.  It sucks and I hate it, but I feel like I have to start relying on myself more. 

I hate the idea of trying to sleep tonight.  I hate ‘survival’ sleep, the kind that comes when I am afraid of the night and alone.  Every noise is something to wonder at.  Something to control my breathing for. It’s so different than easy sleep, where I enjoy sleeping, and where the sleep is restorative.

I haven’t met even ONE other survivor out there whose sleep isn’t fucked up from surviving the sex abuse.  I figure it is because that is when we are at our weakest, because we are most unaware of our surroundings when we sleep.  We unwittingly show our jugular when we sleep, even though we try so hard to be hypervigilant.

When I was 23, I used to push a dresser in front of my door every night. It fucking sucked, because inevitably I would have to pee in the middle of the night.  So I would have to push the fucking dresser away from the door, go to the bathroom to pee, come back to the room, push the dresser in front of the door again, establish safety in the room, try to relax enough to fall asleep, etc.

My dressers are way too big to push in front of the door now, and plus, I have a young son who sometimes has bad dreams, and I want to be able to run to him if I hear him cry.  So the dresser is out.  At least this room only has one closet to check in every night, and only under the bed too.  That’s not that bad, I guess.

The whole situation kind of sucks shit, if I am being honest.

‘Survival sleep’.  Fitful shitty sleep that comes as a result of surviving horrible shit like child sexual abuse. The 249th reason you shouldn’t fuck kids.

Reason #248: The Address Book

I have been telling myself that everything is going to be okay, that I will be okay sleeping by myself, that the room is all pretty for me now with the new wallpaper, that it’s probably one of the nicest bedrooms I have ever had the privilege of being in, etc.  I am trying to convince myself that this kind of heartbreak is survivable.  I survived the child sex abuse, but as we all know, surviving is what it is.  And so far, there are 248 ways that surviving it has fucked me again in the last two years since I have been keeping this blog.  (The reasons would probably be in the millions if I had started keeping this blog right after that babysitter fucked my brother and I, over 30 years ago.)

I felt courageous today.  We’ve been sleeping in the guest bedroom for the last few nights because I saw an ant downstairs, and I was afraid to sleep in the bedroom where an ant last fell on my fucking head.  (That was a year ago, by the way.  Knowing that the year anniversary of that event was coming up scared me out of sleeping the last few weeks.  That’s why you shouldn’t fuck kids.  Fucking PTSD.)

Anyhow though, the huz and I have been sleeping in the guest bedroom the last few nights.  I figured it was a good chance for me to get used to sleeping in there anyway.  I am grateful the huz was in there with me though, as just moving in there on my own would have been painful and scary.  That’s how sweet my husband is, by the way.  Even though I am leaving him because he is becoming a woman, he is still kind enough to sleep in bed with me because he knows I am afraid.

Anyway, so the huz and I were cleaning out the guest bedroom today. The huz said “Oh, here are some old address books of yours.”  I glanced up from where I was to look over at the address books in his hands, and I said “No, those aren’t mine.” 

He said “They’re not mine either.”  He brought them over to me.  I said “Maybe I put them there for the E-Bay pile?  Let me see them.”  (We have been collecting things to ebay or give away, so as to declutter ourselves a bit.)

I looked through them and said “Hmm, it’s weird, these kind of look like my mom’s handwriting.  Why would I have her old address books though?”  Then I realized what they were.  Remember a while ago when my mom left her address books here because the babysitter’s name/number might be in them?  With my marriage completely disintegrating, I totally forgot about those address books.

I threw them in Michael’s hands and said “Get them out of here.”  I didn’t want them tainting my new room, the room I have been trying to convince myself I am going to be safe in.  He immediately took them away and put them somewhere.  I don’t know where and I can’t know right now.  He came back in to where I was and he could see I was shaken up.  He put his arm around me and said “I’m so sorry.  What a terrible way to come across that stuff.”

I started to cry.  I am in the room that I am in because my marriage is no longer my marriage, and the last thing in the whole fucking world I needed to see today was a reminder of the babysitter that has scared me for life.  We stopped cleaning for the day and agreed to come back to it.

Today was a sad day.  It would have been a sad day without that address book.  But Jesus Christ, it was made so much worse by finding that thing. This is the 248th way that being a survivor has fucked me again. 

The huz agreed to sleep next to me again tonight, for which I am eternally grateful.

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