Reasons You Shouldn’t Fuck Kids

Reason # 282: I want to lose weight
February 27, 2012, 9:01 pm
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I walked into my therapist’s office last week, and said “I want to lose weight, and I want you to help me.”

She said “Okay, let’s work on it.”

I said, “Here’s the thing though.  When I think about losing weight, I think about being in a thin body, and then I feel much more rapeable.  It’s kind of a 1, 2, 3 thought process for me.  First I will lose the weight, then I will be thin, then I can be raped much more easily than I can in this fat body.”

She has tried to argue the logic of this with me before.  She has tried the whole ‘fat women get raped too’ spiel, but that hasn’t convinced me to stop being fat.  She has also tried the whole ‘healthier women can run away from rapists better than fat women’ thing too, and that also has no effect.  I said as much to her in this session.

She once explained to me that when logic and emotion meet in an argument, logic must always defer to emotion’s reasoning.  She said that when you try to attack an emotional argument with logic, you will always lose. The emotional person will always win, because no matter what logic you throw into the argument, the emotional person will always come back with an emotional argument.  That’s why her logic about rape happening to fat people didn’t mean anything to me; my argument for being fat is not logical in the first place, so logic won’t win the argument either.

She said “Why don’t we talk about why you think that if you lose weight it is easier to rape you?”

I said “Well, it’s irrefutable fact.  When I was in a smaller body, three people used my body against my will.  I know for sure that when I am smaller, people use their bodies to hurt mine.”  Then I started to cry, and I said “To be very honest with you, it was only in the last year of our marriage that I stopped being SO afraid that my husband would rape me, and I was able to sleep comfortably next to him at night.”

She looked so startled by this admission, and said she hadn’t realized that. Then she asked me why this admission made me cry.  I said “Because I am ashamed!  Look at us!  He never wanted to even have sex with me, and here I was afraid of rape for 8 of the 9 years we were together.  Even in the last year, I was still afraid of it.”

I am ashamed of my thought process, I guess. I am ashamed of how truly distorted my cognitions are.  H/she was a sweet loving husband, and rape would have been the furthest thing from his mind.  H/she didn’t even want sex!  But we did cuddle and kiss a lot, and I guess I always assumed that his baser instincts were going to kick in, and I’d be surprised by him raping me, and so I felt I had to be hypervigilant in bed against him.

I said “The thing is, whenever I got really afraid in bed with him, I automatically lost the power of speech too.  I wanted to talk, but I couldn’t figure out how to do it.  So I would lay there terrified, staring at him, wanting to speak and unable to.”

She started talking to me in a really soft gentle voice.  She does that whenever I cry, especially about the sex abuse.  She said “You go back to being a little girl who can’t talk.  When these things happen, you forget you are an adult, and you go back to being a little girl.”

She’s right.  I want to lose the weight, I really do. But in my mind, losing the weight makes me vulnerable.  Thinner = smaller body = little girl’s body = more vulnerable to rape.

I walked in to that session saying I want to lose weight.  I left that session and literally drove to McDonald’s. I have been binging ever since.

Reason # 281: Caterpillars and Butterflies
February 20, 2012, 5:48 pm
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A few months ago, I went to a craft fair and I saw this sign: ‎”If you want to be a butterfly, you must be willing to stop being a caterpillar.”

As my regular readers know, I call myself ‘Butterfly’ on here because I believe that child sexual abuse survivors (and really any trauma or adversity survivors) are kind of like butterflies.  When we were getting abused, we had to hole up in our cocoons and hide.  Then we spend a great deal of time afterwards hiding in our cocoon because we become so afraid of the world.  We begin to believe that since one person (or in my case, three people) abused us, the whole world will also be abusive.

I want to be a butterfly.  I really do.  But I can see that I am still in caterpillar mode most of the time.

Last month marked a year since my husband began the process of figuring out that h/she was transgendered, and next month it will be a year since h/she told me that she is a girl.  Next month will be a full year since my heart was shattered.

I have put an ad on a dating website online.  I’m not sure what to think about that.  Now that I am beginning to conceptualize myself as a woman who is back in the dating world, I can’t help but think about the potential dudes that I would want to date or who would date me.  Honestly, they all scare the fucking crap out of me.  Hence my caterpillarness.  I was afraid of them before I married my husband, and now that my heart has been broken in such a unique way, I feel afraid of new dudes in both the ‘he will rape me or beat me’ way and also the ‘he doesn’t know himself and he will figure it out by being with me’ way. And, of course, I am also terrified that some new dude would be looking to get into a relationship with me as a way to fuck my kid.

I am not sure what the future holds for me though.  In my butterfly moments, I look forward to the future with hope.  Hope of healing and being a whole Butterfly all by myself, and then being able to share my whole Butterfly self with some new guy.  In my more familiar and regular caterpillar thoughts though, I scare myself silly with the ‘what if’ game.  I play out the scenario of dating.  We meet at a restaurant, a nice safe public place.  Things go well.  We go on a second date, also in a public place.  We date for a few months.  He seems really nice.  Maybe we are a good fit, I think to myself. I lower my guard a bit, and I finally invite him into my room to make out.  I trust him enough to date him. We begin to fall in love. We date for a while. We get married.  One night I see him in my son’s bedroom when we are all supposed to be sleeping.  He sees me seeing him and tries to explain, but I know what the fuck I am looking at.  I WAS the child in that bed over 30 years ago, no explanation is necessary…

See how quickly this thought process turns into an abusive scenario?  I don’t know how to change the mantra, and I sure as shit don’t know how to trust some new dude.  I don’t even really know if I should be open to trusting some new dude.  (Mind you, right now there is no actual new dude; all of this is pure conjecture.)

This brings me to my next bit of caterpillarness.  When I am not sitting here worrying about some predator preying on my son or me, I sit here and worry about the possibility of me being alone from here on out.  I try to tell myself it will be okay.  When I was happily married, I would imagine our marriage breaking for a hundred different reasons (like us not fucking each other, for instance), and I would tell myself I would be okay.  It’s all such a lie though, you know?  I mean, I guess I am okay, if by okay you actually mean ‘alive’.  I am alive.  I am existing.  I am back to work.  I am caring for my son.  I am overeating and throwing up a lot.  I am spending great deals of time at night not sleeping and that makes me tired during the day.  I spend a lot of time talking myself down from panic attacks, and general anxiety.  And I cry a lot.

I want to be a butterfly; I am just not sure how to get there.




Not a Reason – But a Topic we need to discuss re: Transgender issues
February 16, 2012, 5:43 pm
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*** Please note – this discussion will be triggering to the trans community and supporters of the trans community. ***

So, we need to talk.  A few weeks ago, my blog generated some discussion about the fact that I am “cissexist”.  I didn’t even know what the word meant, but here’s my understanding of it: Cisgender means ‘anyone who is not transgendered’.  So, when people call me cissexist, they probably mean that I am not giving trans people the rights and respects that they are entitled to.

I agree.  Calling my husband “he/she” or “huz/wife” can certainly be seen as offensive, and I am not trying to offend the trans community or supporters of the trans community.  Here is the situation: While I was married to my husband, she viewed herself as a he.  So he thought he was a he for the entirety of our dating and married life (9 years).  Literally, I married a ‘he’ and was married to a man who thought he was a man.  However, just as literally, it turns out I was married to a ‘she’ in a ‘he’ body.  Now, since he identified as ‘he’ during our marriage, when I refer to him in the past tense, I will continue to refer to him as he.  That was what he thought he was, that was what I was married to, and that is what she calls herself in the past tense.  Anything other than that makes me start to think I am crazy and that I imagined my whole marriage to a man.  It is something I am still working on with both my husband and my therapist, both of whom assure me I was married to a man while we were married.

We are still living together, and truly, he is my best friend. Currently, he is still presenting as ‘he’ for 95% of the time, so I am still referring to him as he in the present tense.  This is what we have agreed to call him while he presents in male mode.  However, in order to keep it straight with my readers, I call him ‘he/she’ so that they understand that his orientation as transgendered has not changed, he is still a she inside.  Now, unfortunately, the term ‘he/she’ is offensive because in this case he is actually a ‘she’, not half of one and half of the other, especially since he does not identify as gender-queer.  For purposes of this blog though, I am not sure how to refer to him without using the pronouns ‘he/she’ without confusing my readers any further.  Trans community and supporters, I need your help.

I need for my non-regular readers to know that I was married to a man.  I also need for them to know he feels like a woman on the inside, looks like a man on the outside the vast majority of the time, and is working on looking like a woman on the outside the vast majority of the time.  This involves a lot of mixed pronouns and he/she type language.  How can I proceed with offending the least amount of people possible?  What language do you suggest I use?

May I also suggest the following, with all due respect to the trans community?  I understand that this is an upsetting issue.  But just like the word ‘fuck’, we can choose to get upset about the terminology, or we can take back the words and own them.  We can choose to get upset that I use the word fuck a lot, or we can choose to get upset that people fuck kids.  In the same vein, we can choose to get upset that I use the words he/she (with no disrespect intended), or we can choose to get upset at people who force us into a binary system of he/she in the first place and don’t want to pass GENDA laws or accept the presence of a third gender (transgenders).  Do you see what I mean?

My ex husband/wife is not upset at my usage of mixed pronouns.  She has her own blog now, which I would give you a link to, but she has her picture up there and I am trying to remain anonymous in my blog.  She feels that we have real issues to get upset about in society, and political correctness is not a hot button issue for her.  As a survivor of incest and child sexual abuse, I feel a little differently.  I would not want someone making light of my pain by using offensive language like ‘fondling’.  However, if a fellow survivor or well-wisher used it with no offense intended, I would be okay with it.  Does this make sense?

Anyway, if the trans community and supporters can think of a way for me to refer to the huz/wife when I reference our our unique situation, then I welcome suggestions and dialogue around this issue.

Reason #280: Valentine’s Day

Valentine’s Day is coming up.  It will be my first since the breakup of my marriage, though certainly not my first V-Day spent alone.  I was alone for many Valentines’  Days before I got married.

The one that stands out was the one spent during my freshman year of college.  I binged on sugar that night, and began a long crying jag.  My mom ended up picking me up from school that night because she was worried about me.  She said I was fucked up from eating too much sugar.  What she didn’t understand then and doesn’t understand now is that eating too much sugar is/was a SYMPTOM of the problem, not the problem itself.

I ate too much sugar that day because I was terribly sad.  I was terribly sad because I understood that I was different from all those girls with boyfriends (like my freaking roommate that year), and I would always be different from those girls.  Of course they had boyfriends!  They weren’t afraid of sex!!  And I knew I always would be.  I knew that my brother and father had scared me away from anything resembling consensual sex or healthy sex or boyfriends or loving valentines days, etc.  (At that time, I didn’t know there was a third molester yet.) So yeah, I ate a shitload of sugar to try to anesthesize these shitty feelings.  But instead of anesthesizing it, it just made the whole situation worse.  As I ate each stupid candy heart, I was reminded of my own fatness, my own disgustingness, my own unloveability.

This week, I talked to my therapist about how painful this Valentine’s Day will be for me, this being the first one I have to face alone in a while.  I mean, my husband and I were together for nine years, married for seven of them.  She didn’t seem to truly understand VDay as a painful day for me.  She told me to celebrate the day for what it is, a celebration of love.

I told her that I was right all along, from back in my college days.  I knew I was different then, and I still understand myself as that now.  I told her that what actually happened in this marriage is that two ‘differents’ found each other and fell in love.  I was different because three people fucked me, and he was different because he was born in the wrong body.  Two ‘differents’ found each other, and now that we know for sure that love is not enough to save what was ultimately doomed from the start, we are each alone again, and I want to eat a shitload of candy again to numb the pain.

This is why you shouldn’t fuck kids.  Valentine’s day comes every year, and every year I am painfully reminded that I feel like a freak.

Reason #279: It’s enough, it’s enough!

Today I had another bulimic attack.  I ate an entire pint of Ben n Jerry’s ice cream and decided to throw the whole thing up.  I should have figured this would happen because I’ve been depressed all week (Valentine’s Day is coming up, and it’s making me incredibly sad that I no longer have a Valentine).

So, I am hunched over the toilet bowl, throwing up the contents of my stomach, and it’s getting to the point where I can almost feel the blood vessels in my eyelids bursting.  That happens towards the end of a bulimic session sometimes when it gets so hard to throw up.  But I was so determined to get it all out, to empty myself of this terrible pain, to rid myself of the horribleness within me.  At this point, I am pretty much dry-heaving and it’s painful, and I start thinking “It’s enough!!  It’s enough!!  STOP!!”  It was like you sometimes see on TV where one parent is beating a child, and the other parent is yelling “She’s had enough!  Stop, she’s had enough!”

I thought about that. Did this bulimia begin as a way of punishing myself for ‘allowing’ three people to molest me?  While my adult mind understands I didn’t have a choice at all, I wonder if my child’s mind used bulimia as a means of punishing myself for having a body that three people found attractive enough to use?  That’s the problem with coping mechanisms like bulimia, self-injury, etc.  They begin as ways to cope with a terrible situation, and then they become another terrible situation to cope with.

I’m tired.  Throwing up always makes me so tired. It’s enough.  Seriously, it’s enough.

Reason #278: Manipulating Body Size to Avoid Sexual Attention
February 1, 2012, 8:34 pm
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I happened upon the Incest Survivors’ Aftereffects Checklist by E. Sue Blume , and I was perusing it.  I, of course, have many of the symptoms on this list.  But then my eyes rested upon this one: “Manipulating body size to avoid sexual attention”.  This is SOOOO me.  Somehow every time I am in a relationship, I end up gaining a shitload of weight.  I gained so much weight in my marriage that the number was pretty astounding.  The number of pounds gained was so much, it would almost seem like a conscious decision to gain it.  But it wasn’t, and I have always been generally consciously unhappy with my weight.

I first started gaining weight after my brother began abusing me.  I didn’t start throwing up my food until my father started molesting me.  I have always been overweight, and I have tried every possible diet that there is to try, from Atkins to Weight Watchers to counting calories to nutritionists, etc, etc, etc.

The truth is, and I can only understand this now in retrospect, I have been manipulating my body size to avoid sexual attention.  During my thinner times, males have felt perfectly comfortable walking up to me and asking me out.  They have felt okay with talking to me to get to know me better in order to ask me out.  They have felt okay talking to my friends about me to see if I like them.  I cannot even count how many places I have literally run away from because some guy has done these things. Once I was in a restaurant and when I was in the bathroom, the waiter told someone at my table that he thought I was cute.  She told me about it when I got back to the table, and the way I handled it was to hide behind her as we walked out of the restaurant.

Somehow when I gain weight, the number of males that show interest me is greatly reduced.  It’s like by becoming fatter, I actually become more invisible to men.

The heterosexual female part of me likes the idea of attention from men.  But the molested girl part of me usually takes over and then all of me runs away.

I asked my therapist about the manipulation of body size stuff, and she said that in her practice she has noticed that whatever way the child looked like while being molested becomes the opposite of what they choose to look like in adulthood.  So, for instance if a little girl has been thin her whole childhood until some asshole molests her, then she chooses to become fat (subconsciously, in my case). And if a little girl is overweight, she becomes anorexic, etc.  I don’t think this applies to everyone, but shit, it sure is true in my case.

I don’t think I would have ever had such profound weight issues, and such profound eating disorders, and such a profoundly fucked up relationship with my body and with food if three people hadn’t molested me.  This is why you shouldn’t fuck kids.

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