Reasons You Shouldn’t Fuck Kids


Reason #277: Scary dream, was it real?

Last night I had another ‘touch me against my will’ dream.  I have spoken before on this blog about my bad dreams.  One of the many reasons you shouldn’t fuck kids – we get bad dreams for the rest of our lives about being touched against our will.

Anyway, back to the dream.  So in the dream, my cousin’s grandfather (who has been dead for at least ten years now) came into my bedroom and put his hands on my breasts.  It was like he was in a trance or something; he was so intent upon touching my breasts.  I remembered that if I could yell NOOOO, then it might stop.  I tried to yell no with all my might, but instead it came out as a small faint breathy nooooo.  I tried again and the same thing happened.  I shifted my body position so that he wouldn’t be able to touch my breasts and that didn’t work either. I mean, I was able to shift my body position, but somehow he was still able to touch my breasts anyway. 

I woke up from the dream and looked around the room expecting to see him there.  G-d damn that was scary.  I asked my sweet doggie to please lay down next to me where only moments before the spector of my cousin’s grandpa had touched me.  My sweet doggie laid down next to me and stayed there the rest of the night.  The rest of the night was spent in fitful moments of sleep after that.  I couldn’t stop thinking about the dream, and I couldn’t get any true rest.  I sure was tired when I woke up this morning.

I am now tasked with making sense of that dream.  Is it about my dad?  He was the only one (to my conscious knowledge) to touch my breasts.  Or am I supposed to understand this dream as the possibility of a 4th abuser in my life?  I don’t think that’s the answer, but shit, I married a man who ended up being a woman.  What the fuck do I know about what’s real or true anymore?

Or was the dream yet another in an endless line of dreams designed to make me reflect on what it felt like to be touched against my will?  In this dream, I was so scared.  I realized how powerless and scared I felt in the dream, how little-girl-like I was, how big he was and how indomitable the whole situation felt.  There wasn’t much I could do to stop what was happening, and even my own voice (which might have been able to save me) failed me.

I am not sure what to make of the dream, but I sure am afraid to go to sleep tonight for fear that he will touch me again in my sleep.  I think I will ask my doggie to sleep next to me from the start of the night, instead of waiting until after the bad dream happens.



Reason #276: My son won’t go to bed
January 18, 2012, 3:27 am
Filed under: Uncategorized | Tags: , , , ,

Tonight my son didn’t want to go to bed. I naturally immediately wondered if he was getting abused at day care. Not wanting to go to bed, having trouble sleeping, peeing the bed – these are all behavioral signs of surviving abuse. My son isn’t having trouble sleeping, but he didn’t want to go to bed.

I asked him why he didn’t want to go to bed, and he said he wanted to stay up and play.

I looked at my ex-husband/wife, and he/she could see what I was thinking. He/she said “He’s not getting abused. All kids don’t like to go to bed.” He/she went on to explain that our son showed no signs of being traumatized.

I told him/her that when I was little, I would beg my mom to let me sleep with her. My nights were so freaking terror-filled. Ever since that babysitter hurt my brother and I, I have been scared of nighttime. I told the huz/wife that the idea of saying no to our son on this issue is something I just cannot do. I cannot force him to go to bed alone in his room because it reminds me of when I was little and I would beg my mom to let me sleep with her. I have no idea what is right or natural for kids to say or do because my experience of being a child was tainted with abuse.

This is yet another way that getting fucked as a kid has fucked me again in adulthood. I can’t seem to experience motherhood without re-living some of the worst parts of my childhood, and I don’t know what I’m supposed to do in normal mothering situations. My son didn’t want to go to bed, and since I can’t handle saying no to him on this issue, I sat with him on my lap until he got tired and then had the huz/wife carry him to bed when he was almost asleep. Then I cried about re-living through the experience of being a kid afraid at bedtime.

It’s late right now, and I should have gone to bed a half hour ago. But I’m freaked out and I can’t turn the light off, so I will watch tv until I’m too tired to keep my eyes open anymore.



Reason #275: Fundamentally Sad

When I was around 20, I had an epiphany. I realized that I was just fundamentally sad. What I meant was that this was how I was born, sad. I felt I was obviously genetically made up to be sad. It was a profound realization, and I felt it explained everything! Finally I had found the reason I was so sad all the time! I was born this way.

Then I met my husband, and I realized that maybe I was not genetically predetermined to be sad. Perhaps I was reacting to all the stuff that had happened to me, and now that I was falling in love, I was happy. When a person is in love, or is loved, they feel happy. They are not genetically predetermined to be happy. They are merely reacting to life circumstance.

I once read that Abraham Lincoln’s photographer said that it seemed like sadness was etched into President Lincoln’s face. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t get President Lincoln’s face to look anything but sad in his pictures. (I do not know if President Lincoln was an abuse survivor, but I do know that he lost his mom real young, and losing one’s mother will certainly cause sadness to be etched into the lines of one’s face.)

The other night, I caught sight of myself in the mirror. I looked so sad. So sad that the sight of my pained face forced a weird sad noise from my throat. The noise startled me and I looked at my face. It still looked sad. I wonder what my photographer would say about me.

Three people molested me when I was a kid. I never got over it, and honestly, I am not sure that anyone ever really does get over it. I grew up afraid of sex, because all sex held the possibility of rape for me. I then fell in love with and married a man who never seemed to want sex. Seven years into our marriage, he discovered that he is actually a transgendered woman, completely uncomfortable in this wrong body, and that is why sex was never something he really wanted. Our marriage imploded like a dying star.

I understand now that I am not fundamentally sad. But I understand why I used to think I was. This is why you shouldnt fuck kids. We blame our genetic make up for our fundamental sadness, when really we are reacting to people using our bodies in sick ways. I am not fundamentally sad, I am sad because sad things happened to me. One day, G-d willing, I will be happy again. Fucked kids need to be taught that thought process, that there is nothing fundamentally wrong with them. Instead they are merely reacting to terribly painful stuff, and with enough help they can be happy.

“Pain is a part of being alive, and we need to learn that. Pain does not last forever, nor is it necessarily unbeatable, and we need to be taught that.”
– Rabbi Harold Kushner



Reason #274: The Parking Lot

I really hate the parking lot where I work, and I don’t like the entrance to the building either. It just seems like an awfully easy spot for rapists to hide. Sometimes I work from home so that I don’t have to face that parking lot. Or I will make plans to go to the building with a friend so that I don’t have to face the parking lot alone.

Today I had a meeting at work so I had to go in, but my friend decided to work from home. I got to the parking lot, parked the car and got out of the car. I looked around. Where is the rapist hiding? Or is he behind me? (Turn around to look behind me.) Start walking to the building. Try to look confident, so that if he is thinking of attacking me, he’ll know that I’ll put up a good fight. I already took my gloves off in the car so that his skin will be under my fingernails when they do the rape kit on me.

I get to the elevator. I look around. Is this where he’s gonna jump out at me? Elevator doors open, I hurry in, press the ‘Close Doors’ button again and again really fast before he jumps in with me. Why do these doors take so long to close? Hurry, please hurry doors and close already.

Ok good, doors are closed, I am safe until they open again. They open on my floor, I run out. If someone is waiting by the elevator door to catch me and rape me, I have thwarted them. This time, I remind myself. Walk down the hallway where no one ever is, and then I sit in my cubicle where there are at least people.

My friend isn’t there today, I remind myself, so I will have to brave all of this again to get back to my car. No, wait, my other friend has to come in today because she will be at that meeting! I will walk back with her, I reassure myself.

The meeting comes and goes, and I am back at my desk, busy with a project. My friend suddenly stands up, puts her coat on and announces she is leaving. Shit!! Why is she leaving now, in the middle of the day?? SHIT!! Should I shut own my computer and leave with her? I can finish my project from home. If I don’t leave with her now, I will have to face the elevator and the parking lot by myself. She is in a hurry, and I am too embarrassed to ask her to wait a few seconds for me to shut my computer down. She leaves.

I am getting more freaked out as each minute passes, and finally I give up, shut the computer down and leave for the day. I get to the elevator. Why, why didn’t I just leave with my friend?? Then we could have walked to our cars together! Already I am starting to shake. This is so embarrassing. I hurry into the elevator, hurriedly press the ‘Close Doors’ button, and wait. I hate leaving this building. The elevator stops, I step outside. Look around, put on same act of bravado as I did coming in here.

Please, I pray, please let there be someone else out here, a co-worker. If someone else is out here, he won’t have the chance to rape me. I am shaking with fear now. I see the bus stopped in front of the building. He appears to be waiting for someone. Thank you G-d!! I rush to my car, check for rapists in the back seat, get in car, immediately lock doors. Try to act like I am normal, like all the shit that I just thought and did didn’t happen.

This is me walking to my car, or walking from my car to work. This is why you shouldn’t fuck kids.



Reason # 273: “This is an attempt at safety”

So, in my last post, I talked about my session with my therapist and how she explained to me that all my OCD rituals/beliefs were really an attempt at safety.  I still think I am right about the bad name/good name thing, but shit, every part of life has shocked the shit out of me, so what the fuck do I know.  My point is, I am willing to question what I think I know at this point.

Anyway, so after she told me that all my shit is really an illusory attempt at safety, she told me to tell myself “This is an attempt at safety” every time I have a ‘distorted cognition’ (a fucked up thought that might not be true), or perform an OCD act.  I took her advice to heart and have been telling myself “This is an attempt at safety” every time.

It’s been almost two weeks since she told me to do that, and I believe my attempts at safety now number in the hundreds.  It’s kind of amazing all the things I do to attempt safety.  This is what happens when you fuck kids though.  We understand exactly how unsafe the world is, and we understand this on a terribly intimate level, unfortunately.

This morning, my son waved ‘goodbye’ to our dog. My ex husband/wife (we’re still living together) said “he’s waving goodbye to the dog’.  I have an enormous problem with the word goodbye.  I am afraid that if someone says that word, I will never see them again.  (This thought process is an attempt at safety.)  So I forbid its use around me. (This action is an attempt at safety.) I told the ex-huz/wife: “He’s not saying goodbye!” (This statement was an attempt at safety.) The ex-huz/wife immediately corrected the whole thing by saying that the baby was waving ‘see you later’ at the doggie.

You see what I mean though?  And that’s like one moment in the day.  There’s been so many daily occurrences of attempting safety.  I wonder if this happens to other survivors too, or if it is just me?  Do other survivors also attempt safety in so many little and big ways?




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