Reasons You Shouldn’t Fuck Kids

Reason #309: The obesity problem in society

I would like to lose weight.  I am unhappy at the weight I am at. The problem is that whenever I have lost weight in the past, I get to a certain point and no matter what I do, I can’t lose any more weight (even though I would be considered fat at that weight on any doctor’s scale).

Two years ago, I began The Sugar Addicts Recovery Program.  Kathleen DesMaisons feels that if you eat enough protein in the morning, you won’t have as many cravings through the day.  I think she is right, so I have been doing that ever since.  Then about a year ago, I found the Jon Gabriel Method. He explains that if you are anything more than 10 lbs overweight, it is because you do not feel safe losing the weight.  He says that as long as you don’t feel safe, your body will never release its hold on the weight because your body simply doesn’t want to be thin.

I couldn’t agree with him more. I have always known that my fatness was about safety.  I didn’t start gaining weight till my brother began molesting me. As an adult, every time I have tried to lose weight, I have mostly failed.  A thinner body is a smaller body.  When I was in a small body as a child, three people used my smallness to their sexual advantage.  They used my body for their sexual pleasure, and enjoyed their power over me.  When I think about being in a thinner body now, I equate it with smallness.  Smallness hasn’t worked out well for me in the past.  These thoughts and anxieties have thwarted many attempts to lose weight, and eventually my subconscious overtakes me, and I have put on more weight than I have lost in diets.

This, of course, is why you shouldn’t fuck kids. You don’t like the obesity problem in America?  Stop fucking kids.  I was once at a conference on incest, and I swear to G-d, every single one of us (and I’m talking hundreds of people) was overweight.  Some of us were massively overweight.  We have all cleverly figured out that weight is a good shield, a good measure of insulation that keeps people far the fuck away from us. And honestly, this has worked pretty well for me so far.  Somehow when I reach a certain weight, I become invisible to men. This weight has kept me safe.

But the truth is that my adult self is unhappy with this weight now.  I don’t feel protected by it so much anymore. Instead, I feel hampered by it. I feel like my weight is holding me back from being my best self.

As you know from my last post, this year is my year of trying to empower myself. I have spent a lot of time working through this issue in therapy, and listening to Jon Gabriel’s visualizations.  And today I had such a lovely thought.  I tried to imagine myself in a thinner body.  And immediately my mind did its usual thing where thinness=smallness=me getting violated again. But today I changed the ending of that thought. The violator still tries to violate me, but in my thinner smaller body, I am confident and fit.  I am strong and I have a good relationship with my body.  My body and I work together and I fight my would-be violator, and I KICK HIS FUCKING ASS.

He will think twice before ever fucking with me again.

Reason #291: Creating safety

When you go to therapy, do you ever try to edge away from the tough stuff and talk about fluff instead?  It’s kind of stupid to do that, but I do that sometimes.  The reason it’s stupid is that I am paying this person to work with me through my tough stuff.  But then shit gets scary and I spend the next few sessions talking about my job or some shit.  Then a few weeks later we’ll get back to the sex abuse.

Yesterday I asked her if there are child sex abuse survivors out there who come out of this okay.  She said that some are more okay than others, but no one comes away from an abusive experience unscathed.  So then I said “Why am I so afraid then?  It seems like I am more fucked up with the fear and phobia than any other survivor I know.”

She explained that I was never safe.  She said that I lived in a house with a mom who was, for whatever reasons, unable to keep me safe.  I lived with two of my perpetrators (brother and father), and mom hired a babysitter that molested us (unbeknownst to her). Since mom lived in her own little world, she was unable to fathom my abused life and was also unable to protect me and create safety for me.  Consequently, I had to create safety for myself.

As a child, my means for making safety was a child’s way.  I became afraid of the dark in an attempt to create safety.  I put the covers over my head to sleep at night.  I used three blankets in winter, with the thought process being that if someone stabbed me in the back, the knife wouldn’t make it through all those layers. I used to get so hot and sweaty under all those blankets, but I refused to use less blankets. I became afraid of my windows, afraid someone out there in the dark was watching me.  Et cetera. All of these things were attempts at creating safety for myself.

I guess the problem is that I never feel like I have achieved true actual safety.  And all these childhood coping mechanisms stayed with me through adulthood. I still have all those coping mechanisms and I have added some over the years.  Like my OCD rituals, or deciding people are good or bad based on their names. Or adding layers of fat onto my body to insulate myself and become unattractive to men.

This is why you shouldn’t fuck kids.  We create our version of safety, but all it really does is keep people out. We become like turtles, insulating ourselves from the world by hiding inside ourselves.

Reason #222: Against my will

I told the therapist that I don’t feel like I will ever heal from the babysitter’s abuse unless I actually remember it.  I mean, come on, how can you heal from what you don’t remember?

She said that somewhere inside me I do remember it, but it might not be the kind of memory that I am considering ‘real’.  She said my body obviously remembers the trauma, and I might remember it in some sort of pre-verbal stage.  This would explain why I’ve been afraid all these years, why I put the covers over my head at night years before my brother ever touched me.  Why the night terrifies me.

I told her I have to remember it.  I need to know the details.

She said “You don’t need to know the details in order to heal.  You know everything you need to know already.”

I said “How do you mean?”

She said “Here’s what you know.  Something bad happened to you against your will when you were a child.”

That gave me pause for thought.  In a way, she is right.  This quest for memory is not helping me heal, and if I could heal just knowing what I already know, then that would certainly be the *right* path, right?  The quest for memory may also be fruitless, as my memory may never return.  I may never feel safe enough to regain what has been lost, in terms of my memory of what she did to me, to us.

I might never feel safe either way. That is why you shouldn’t fuck kids.  May we all find our safety and heal from our wounds.

Reason #216: Scenes from our session together, Part III
January 24, 2011, 2:21 pm
Filed under: Uncategorized | Tags: , , , ,

Read Part I and Part II here.

Because Mom and I live kind of far away from each other, I felt we should get everything out of this session.  So I felt we should talk through all the things we haven’t ever talked about.  And so I did. I said everything I wanted to say, everything I had been thinking over the years.  It was like I purged myself.

During the session, she said something like “Nothing ever happened in front of me” and other types of untrue statements.  I mean, she’s right – no sexual abuse ever happened in front of her, but shit, physical abuse did.  And plus, she had a complicit role in all that has happened to me, and I felt like we needed to have it out in front of the therapist.

I said “Look, if I am on your resentment list, then at least let me be there for a reason.  If you want to resent me for making you feel guilty, then let me tell you some stuff so that I am least justifiably on your list.”

And so I began.  I looked at the floor and said “You were in the room sometimes when Dad was physically abusive with us.  You were completely dissociated from life, but you were there in the room with us, and sometimes you yelled at me for crying afterwards.”

The therapist said “What do you need from your mom now, Butterfly?”

“Acknowledgement.  Acknowledgement that this happened, that she was there, that I am not making this up.”

Mom said “It did happen sweetie, and I am sorry.  I acknowledge it happened.”

We were both in tears, but I felt I needed to continue through my list of hurts because we were there in front of the therapist and we only had so much time.  So I continued. “You left me alone with Dad and my brother.  You left me alone with them, and it was like being left alone in a crazy house.  You were out at all hours, and you left me there with two of my abusers alone.”

Mom said “You’re right sweetie.  You’re right.  I am so sorry.”

Still I continued. “After I told you about Dad, what he did to me, your response was to tell me to cover up.  And you went to a doctor for yourself.  At no time did you get help for me.”

She said “I was trying to help you, telling you that you didn’t have to hug him so that you understood your own rights in the situation.”

I said “But do you understand the message I received?  That I was responsible for receiving or not receiving incestuous sexual abuse by making a choice not to hug him?” (I feel I need to say here – I did refuse to hug him.  After Mom told me I didn’t have to hug him, I did refuse.  But all that ended up happening was him constantly saying it was his right as a father for me to hug him and I just couldn’t take it anymore, the constant harrassment, and in the end, I did hug him, and that was of course when he took the hug too far and put his head on my breasts and moaned and it was horrible and I pushed away from him and ran upstairs and put on layers of clothing, etc.  I’ve written about that before on the blog, but I just want to make it clear here.)

Mom looked truly stunned and said “No, I didn’t realize that.  I thought I was empowering you.  I am so sorry if the message you received was different.”  She was so sincerely stunned, I know she was telling the truth here. Actually, I think what hurts the most out of all of this is that she seemed so sincere and apologetic, and I feel like I was just fucking crucifying her in there.  I tried to apologize about it later on, by phone, and Mom said “Stop trying to protect me, sweetie.  The therapist explained that you are trying to protect me.  I’m your mom and I can handle it.  I need to protect you.” (Which of course only made me feel more guilty for being the kind of asshole that crucifies her understanding mother.)

Anyway, so I kept going (in the therapy session).  I said “Look, it’s not your fault that my brother molested me.  And I am VERY grateful that as soon as I told you about it, all of it stopped.  But why were we alone in the first place?  We were so young.  Why were we allowed to be left alone on our own like that?  There should have been a rule that we go to grandma’s after school, so that he never would have had the opportunity to molest me.”

Again, Mom looked stunned.  When I said the part about the rule, it was like a lightbulb appeared over her head.  She said “A rule.  You are so right honey, I should have made a rule about it.”  It was so clear to me that she had never thought of it.  I totally understand that – she was a young, single mother doing the best she could on welfare at that point. 

This is the last of the Scenes from the Session together mini-series.  After that session, I was exhausted and just slept for a long time.  And cried for a long time, the rest of that day and the next day too.  It was painful stuff that we exorcised, and it was hard.  Really really hard. And I have been afraid of the babysitter every night ever since.  I feel like she is literally there with me at night as I go to sleep, and I wake up several times a night afraid of her too.  I don’t understand why this is happening, and I really don’t understand the timing of it.  I mean, I did some healing work with my mom right?  Why am I experiencing such heightened anxiety of the babysitter now?  If anything, shouldn’t I be in a more calm place?

At least with my mom though – I do feel calmer with her, closer to her, better about our relationship.  In a way, I feel like I am just getting to know her now.  It’s like all the cards are on the table now, and we are starting from an incredibly honest place.

But I am all fucked up, constantly afraid of the babysitter ever since our session.  What is happening and why?  Every time I go through such a period where I am so intensely afraid of the babysitter, I think to myself that this will be the time when my memory of her magically returns.  In my mind, if I have conscious memory, maybe I won’t be so afraid of the ghost of her.  But my memory doesn’t return and all I am left with is panic and terror.

Reason #215: Scenes from our Session Together, Part II

Read Part I here.

At some point during my together session with my mom, I said to the therapist “You know, here’s a perfect example of my mother and the sex abuse.  About a month ago, I made some reference to my three abusers.  Mom replied “Who were your three abusers?”

And sure enough, at that moment in therapy, Mom said “I was just about to ask that again, and then I reminded myself who they were.”

I said to the therapist “See?  This is what I am talking about.  The truth is, Mom is very comfortable with Dad as one of my abusers, because she hates him and so admitting he abused me is comfortable to her.  Mom is less comfortable with my brother being one of my abusers because that’s her son.  So she admits he abused me, but she minimizes his role, my reaction, everything.  Mom is least comfortable with the babysitter as one of my abusers, because –“

And here’s where Mom interrupted me to say, through tears “Because it’s all my fault.  I hired her and she did this and it’s my fault.”

I said “Mom it’s not your fault.  I’ve told you a million times it’s not your fault.  It’s her fault.  You couldn’t have known she was going to do that to us.”

The therapist looked at both of us and said “Is this what happens every time you try to talk about the babysitter?  Mom feels guilty and then you try to protect her and so you reassure her it’s not her fault every time?”

Mom and I both nodded and said yes.  The therapist explained that this was counterproductive to my healing.  She said that we never get to talk about any of the other stuff regarding the babysitter because we always focus on Mom’s guilt with the babysitter.  The therapist told mom that she needs to put her own guilt aside because it’s not helping me heal.  She said I need to be able to talk about it, and if I am constantly protecting her, then I won’t feel free to talk about it.  Mom seemed to really take that to heart, and agreed to discuss her feelings of guilt with her own therapist.  It was an important hurdle to get through, and it really paved the way for the rest of the session, which I’ll post more about in the next post.

But look at what had already happened in the session.  Mom felt so guilty about all of it that it not only stopped us from being able to talk about it, we were actually fighting about it.  This is what happens when you fuck kids.  It’s like a bomb that goes off and afterwards everyone is just scrambling for survival.  Then once we’re sure everyone has survived, then we begin the real work of asking the tough questions: Why did you do this to us?  Because the truth is, the guilt work always comes first. 

We always start out believing it’s our fault.  The non-offending parent blame the victim or themselves.  See who gets off scot-free?  The abuser.  It takes all of us so long just to understand that it’s the abuser’s fault. 

Look how much time, money, productivity, energy, etc. has been spent on all of us trying to heal from the bomb that babysitter detonated on us.  And then the subsequent bombs that my brother and father set off. That’s why you shouldn’t fuck kids.

Reason #202: Give it to me in nightmares

I once saw this movie where a 5 year old child had suffered through sexual abuse by his daycare provider, and his mother and him were suffering through the after-effects of surviving.  The child was having all the normal effects of surviving abuse: nightmares, bed-wetting, crying jags, phobias, flashbacks, panic attacks, etc.

The mother had not seen any justice in the case, and she said to some therapist “How long will it take for him to get over this?  And don’t give it to me in days, give it to me in nightmares.  Give it to me in sleepless nights, in flashbacks, in panic attacks.  Give it to me in those numbers.  How many nightmares does my child have to suffer through until he is all better again?”

Last night, I had a terrible nightmare about the babysitter.  It was one of those abuse-related nightmares that made me wake up in a panic.  I was scared stiff, literally.  I couldn’t move after I woke up because I was just so afraid.  So I lay there, shaking, under my covers, afraid to even peek out at my room.  It was like I was a little girl all over again, I was so afraid.  You’d never know I was a 37 year old woman.

This morning, the huz asked me how I slept, and I just lost it and began to cry from the memory of the nightmare. 

It’s been 30 years of nightmares and I am still not better yet, not even close to better yet.  That’s why you shouldn’t fuck kids.

Reason #200: This terrible thing happened to me

I have been seeing our marital counselor by myself once every other week, ostensibly to work on me, in order to fix ‘us’.

I saw her this week, and she naturally asked me how I am doing.  I told her I have been waking up at night, afraid and hypervigilant.  She asked how long that has been going on.  (I wanted to say “as long as I can remember.”)  But I thought about it and said “Ever since that ant fell on my head.”

She asked me what happens for me when I wake up like that.  I described what happens.  I lay there awake and afraid, wondering if I am hearing the voices of rapists downstairs.  So I listen, listen, listen so carefully.  Wait, was that something?  There it is again, do I hear him?  Quiet.  Listen.  Listen.  Nothing.  There’s nothing there, Butterfly, I tell myself.  Wait, was that something?  Listen, listen, listen.

She said “What if there were someone there? What happens then?”

I explained how I had given this a lot of thought, and how I would run and get the baby and lock the door and call the cops.  How I keep a pair of scissors on my headboard and I would grab them and stab him.   I keep a heavy flashlight and then I would hit him across the head.

Then I said “But the truth is, at the end of the anxious scene in my head, I am always bloody and battered and then I have to go to the hospital and tell everyone what happened to me.”

She said “And what if that happened?”

Here’s where I started to cry, as usual in her fucking office apparently. I said “Then I would know this horrible thing had happened to me, and I would have to walk around everywhere as if nothing had happened, when really this terrible thing had happened to me that split my world apart.”

She said “Is that maybe how you feel right now? That this terrible thing happened to you and you have to walk around knowing it happened to you but you have to act as though it didn’t?”  As usual, she reads my mind.

I nodded and looked at her through tears, and said yes.

This terrible thing happened to me.  This babysitter came into our home and my brother and I were so small and we were so trusting and our parents were in the middle of getting a divorce, so we were just getting used to living with only mom instead of a mom and a dad.  And mom left us to do whatever it was that she just had to fucking do that night, and hired this terrible woman to keep us safe for the night.  And instead of keeping us safe, that babysitter hurt us, irrevocably.  She asked us if we wanted to play a game, and we didn’t have a choice in playing the game, and she hurt me and she hurt him and she hurt us and we’ve never been the same.  And since her arrival into our lives, I have been terrified of the whole world ever since.  She hurt us, terribly, and it was really scary and we didn’t have anywhere we could go or anyone we could tell and we knew for sure then that evil exists and could come get us any time we were caught unaware.

Before her, my heart was whole and my smile was real. This terrible thing happened to me, she did this terrible thing, to us, and every day since I have had to smile and act as though I am whole, when really I am broken and shattered into a million little pieces.  That’s why you shouldn’t fuck kids.

Reason #197: Hate

I once read this story about Nelson Mandela and his lack of hatred for those who jailed him.  He was wrongly imprisoned for 26 years, for fighting for the rights of his people.  In the story I read about him, he said that if he were to hate his jailers, he would be no better off than they were.

Three people have helped to create the jail I stay in.  However, I only have hatred towards her: the babysitter.  She was the first one – the one that showed me that there is such a thing as evil.  I hate her.  G-d help me, I hate her.

I have never thought of myself as a hateful person.  Hate, however, is a creation, just like fear.  You have to be taught hate, just like you have to be taught fear.

Nelson Mandela is a beautiful soul.  I don’t think I can or will ever achieve that kind of beauty.  That’s why you shouldn’t fuck kids.

“There can be no keener revelation of a society’s soul than the way in which it treats its children.”
Nelson Mandela

Reason #178: That weird vagina thing

You remember that weird vagina thing that was happening to me, where my vagina was really really warm for like 3 days?  Well, during that time, the huz and I were seated for our nightly tv watching, and my vagina was so hot that I put ice in a baggie, put them in my panties, and sat there like that all night.  Even with ice on it all night, my vagina still retained all that heat.

I wrote to one of my best friends about it – I always go to her for sexual and medical issues – and I asked her if she knew anything about having a hot vagina.  She said “A hot vagina?  Never heard of it.”  Then I asked her if it was possible that I have gotten so fat that my inner thighs were crowding my vagina to the point of heat exhaustion.  She said she didn’t think that was possible in my case.

The interesting thing about that weekend of vagina-hotness that I neglected to mention in my original post about my vagina was that my dad and brother were visiting that weekend.  I live far away from them, on purpose, so that I can control when/how I see them, and we had planned for them to come see us that weekend.

As my readers know, my dad and I have been trying to have some semblance of a relationship.  We are trying to heal.  Healing, for me, means understanding what happened to me, his role in it, what he himself did to me, and acknowledging it and living with it.  Healing, for my dad, means me trusting him.  Since trusting him is not a possibility, our versions of healing will probably never meet.  Either way, it’s been interesting trying to have my father in my life.  As for my brother, I have long since forgiven him, but I do not trust him in the slightest.

Some of the commenters on my vagina post said that maybe it was a body memory.  After I read their comments, I decided to acknowledge the possibility of this being true.  As soon as I acknowledged it, ALL OF IT WENT AWAY AND I HAVEN’T FELT IT SINCE.  This reality scares the shit out of me.

I don’t know what the vagina hotness means, and I am not 100% certain it was a body memory, but I have to admit – the evidence certainly weighs heavily in favor of it being a body memory of some kind.  It happened when two of my molesters came to visit me.  There was no organic reason for it (no allergic reaction, no different panties, etc.).  And, all of it went away as soon as I acknowledged the possibility of it being a body memory.

If it is a body memory – man, what the fuck am I supposed to do with that?  I know there is one whole abuser that I have no memory of (the babysitter) – could this hot vagina thing be about her?  Did she have my brother and I doing sexual shit to each other, do you suppose?  My brother told my mom that everything he did to me, so did she.  The sensation kind of reminded me of the sensation of my brother rubbing my vagina, except when he did it, my vagina would get numb after a while.  My instinct tells me this is not about him though.  And that leaves me to wonder what the fuck is happening to me?  Is my body trying to tell me something?

 This is my life now – constantly trying to piece together the puzzle of why is Butterfly so fucked up?  Every new thing is a clue.  What if I never have conscious memory?  Am I supposed to just walk around being okay with a hot vagina?

I am left with all these questions as to what could have happened that was so fucked up that my mind will only allow me to remember it as a physical sensation with no image to go with it.  As I have said on so many occasions before, I am afraid of what’s to come.   This is why you shouldn’t fuck kids.   You don’t just fuck us as kids, you fuck us up forever.

Reason #167: This is my car

I told the marital therapist (in an alone session) that I started being so afraid all the time after that babysitter molested me.  I was five years old (or less?) when she molested me, and after that all I could see were possibilities of hurt.  Behind every corner or door, under every bed, in every closet, and most especially every night – my world was suddenly filled with the knowledge that people will gain my trust for the specific reason of using it against me. 

After that time where the babysitter used my brother and I for her sexual gain, my world was suddenly filled with betrayal.  Worse, it was filled with the possibility of betrayal, and it is this very possibility that sits within me at all times.  Since I am seeing a marital therapist, the way that we explored it was how my panic seems to happen when the huz and I are intimate.  Many many times the huz and I have been kissing or making out, and I suddenly see my brother’s face.  And then I try and will myself back to the present, by telling myself I am an adult.  But it’s not working.  Then I see my brother and I on the couch, his head between my legs, me pretending to be the wall so I don’t have to be present.  And the huz is still kissing me, and I can’t speak, and I am afraid.  Then finally he realizes what is happening and stops kissing.

“And then there we are, no longer kissing, and I have yet again fucked it up for us” I said to her.  She said “You didn’t fuck it up.  The trauma of sexual abuse fucked it up.  If someone got into a car accident and were afraid of getting into a car again, would you think they fucked it up?  No, of course not.  You’d think they were afraid of getting into a car because they had been traumatized in a car the last time they had been in one.  This is your car, that’s all.  And you’ll get back in eventually.”

I hope she is right.  It makes me feel better that at least she believes in my ability to heal from this stuff. I want to kiss my husband.  I want to make love to my husband.  I want the power to say yes and no, the way I didn’t have power with that babysitter, my brother, or my father. 

I can’t fuck my husband, or even kiss my husband without my shit getting triggered.   That is why you shouldn’t fuck kids.

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