Reasons You Shouldn’t Fuck Kids


Reason #302: My Son Started School

My son started school last week.  I cried my way through most of the week.  Lots of mothers get fucked up when their child first enters the school system, so this in itself would not be a reason not to fuck kids.  For me though, the whole thing brought me to my knees.

All I could think was ‘I couldn’t keep me safe, and now that he’s at school, I can’t keep him safe either.’  And then I cry and pray and cry and pray. Tears and prayer are what you do when you have nothing else you can humanly do.

The whole thing seems unsafe to me.  The school bus, the school building, the teachers, the bigger kids.  And then there’s my sweet beautiful son, who is so innocent and sensitive.

I have no memory, but I would have had to have been his age or younger when the babysitter fucked my brother and I.  I have no memory of being five, or of kindergarten.  I realized that yesterday, that I have no memory of kindergarten.  Nothing in my mind about the teachers, the school, nothing, nothing but a big black hole where the memories of life should be.  Isn’t that rather odd? I asked my ex if she had any memory of kindergarten, and she said yes.  Not only kindergarten but nursery school too.

I once read a study that found that adults that have survived child sexual abuse tend to lose big chunks of their autobiographical memory.  I wonder if those adults are actually kids like me who have no memory of the abuse and thus big black holes in their memory of everything else during that time period?  Or are there adults who remember the abuse but still have the big black holes in their memory about everything else?

My sweet beautiful son is now out there in the world. I feel like he is alone out there, and when I was left alone, a babysitter came into our home and raped my brother and I. And I’ve been fucked up ever since, and so has my brother.  And then he fucked me too, because that’s what he’d been taught by that horrible person.

I keep telling myself that it is okay for children to go to school, that they have to go to school, that this will be a growth opportunity for him.  My ex told me how much she loved kindergarten. I swear to G-d, I had no idea what the fuck she was talking about.  “How could you have loved it??  It was school!” I said.  She said she loved it.  My memory begins at age 6, and where I grew up, it was a city environment, and the teachers yelled at us a lot.  I saw one teacher pull childrens’ hair a lot too.  My grade school felt inherently unsafe to me, probably because I had already been unsafe in the world.

I pray about my son and his school sometimes, but I feel that prayer is useless in this situation.  How can I ask G-d to protect my son when He couldn’t even protect me? It seems to me that G-d doesn’t intervene in things like this. He will hold your hand through it and through the healing process, but He will not step in and stop you from being abused.  I don’t understand that, but in order to keep surviving, I tell myself that the pain that came with surviving was all part of my life journey.  I tell myself that it fueled my growth. I don’t want my son to grow like that.

I don’t understand what G-d is thinking.  I mean, yeah, a lot of growth happens in painful times. But shit, a lot of growth happens in loving, nurturing times too. Why did You let me get hurt like that?  Why did You let her hurt me like that?

And now I am supposed to just put my son out there on a bus, in a school, in the world, as if it doesn’t scare the shit out of me?  Am I supposed to trust the world to take care of him and keep him safe when it couldn’t do that for me?

This is why you shouldn’t fuck kids.  Because we grow up and have kids, and the already-painful first day of school brings with it a layer of terror.

 



Reason #283: Model Mugging

I feel like I am getting worse, in terms of my anxiety. I had a difficult session with the therapist last week.  We were talking about ways to feel safe, and she suggested that I take a self-defense class.  I told her that the one I want to take is called “Model Mugging” – it’s the one where a dude pretends to attack you and then you learn how to beat him up or get away.

She said, “Why don’t you do that?!?”

I told her that I wanted to, but that I was afraid I would get triggered because being pretend attacked is a little too much like being real attacked, in my mind.  And then the worst would happen, because I would cry in front of everyone.

She said “Why would that be the worst thing?”

I started to explain, but then my feelings about it all caught hold of me, and I started to cry right there in her office.  And then I was crying so hard that I couldn’t talk.

She asked me why I was crying, and it took me a while to answer because I was crying so hard.  This always happens to me whenever I think about taking the Model Mugging class.  I think about the class, and from what I have seen, the girl is laying on the floor and using her legs to hurt the rapist.  A woman’s legs are stronger than her arms, so they are taught to use their legs.  So, she’s laying on the ground and he’s standing over her.  This whole scenario is so scary to me, and every time I try to picture myself at the class, I start crying.

I told her I hate it when I cry in front of her.  I said “It’s such a waste of time.  I am paying to cry in front of you, when I could be talking to you.”    She said that she didn’t think it was a waste of time, and that in fact the opposite was true.  She said that the crying was a very important part of the therapy, because that is an important piece of working through things.  She said it means I am connected to my emotion about it, and that is a good thing.

I felt like we turned a corner in this session.  A good corner, but a difficult session.  I think that I processed a lot of the abuse from two of my abusers (my dad and my brother) with past therapists, but by the time I found out about a third abuser (that fucking babysitter), I wasn’t in therapy anymore.  Plus, there is also the pesky problem of not having any conscious memory of this abuser, and yet showing all these negative fearful symptoms at such a young age (before either of my other two abusers ever even touched me).  This tells me that her abuse of me fucked me up in the head.

Look at all the time, energy, and money that has been spent trying to heal from what was done to me.  Trying to fix what these people broke.  This is why you shouldn’t fuck kids.  I am 38, and still I am not done trying to fix what they did to me.  Sometimes, most of the time really, I think ‘Well, this is me.  This is how I am.  This will be me for the rest of my life.’



Reason #252: The ant is back
July 27, 2011, 12:38 pm
Filed under: Uncategorized | Tags: , , , ,

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 #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.



Reason #143: I lay awake at night

I was talking to one of my best friends yesterday, and she told me a truly terrible story about an acquaintance of ours getting gang-raped while out walking her dog. Consequently, last night I could not get safe. I just laid there awake and scared, waiting for the intruder in our home to show himself. Of course, there was no intruder in our home. Thank G-d.

As I lay there, however, I truly believed he was there. And I kept waiting. And in between my hypervigilant waits, I asked the huz about 300 times how he checked the closet. I made him explain to me exactly how he did it. Did he see to the wall, the other wall, the back wall? Someone could be hiding in those dark spaces. He explained exactly how he did it, and I was just starting to calm down when he said “No one could possibly hide in there”. After he said that, I stopped listening to him altogether. If he doesn’t believe that anyone can fit in there, then he is not really looking for anyone in there. And thus, someone can be hiding in there.

I am getting real tired of hearing people say things about how “no one can possibly”.  Someone already did these things, so we know for sure that “they can possibly”.  Three people did it to me, as a matter of fact.  They didn’t hide in closets, but they certainly did catch me unawares.  And now I lay awake at night, super-aware of every noise and all the deafening silence as well.  This is why you shouldn’t fuck kids.



Reason #140: Precious

Have you guys seen the movie Precious? (SPOILER ALERT)

It’s about a child whose stepfather rapes her repeatedly. And her mother lets this happen.

My mom took my brother (one of my three molesters) to this movie. It was actually my brother’s choice, to be honest. Just to be clear – my brother apologized to me years ago about the sexual abuse, and I have long since forgiven him. He was just a child when he molested me, and I now understand that he was just doing what the babysitter had done to us. However, be clear that forgiving does not mean forgetting. I am not mad at him anymore, but I am still afraid of the kind of person that he was/is.

Anyway though, Mom said that after the movie, both of them were very upset. My brother was upset because of what he did to me, and Mom was upset about hiring that babysitter. I said “Mom, you are not guilty here. You did nothing wrong. You hired a babysitter, and everything in your previous experience with all other babysitters told you that hiring babysitters was a safe action. This particular one was not safe, and you didn’t know that. You are judging yourself for knowledge that you have now, but you didn’t have that knowledge then. If you want to blame someone, blame HER. She wronged us, not you.”

I, of course, am still in this horrible place where I have exactly no memory of this babysitter. All I have are these fears that have plagued me since she came into our lives, and my mother’s and brother’s memory of the events. The funny thing is, apparently about a year after she molested us, after we had moved out of the area, I told my mom “I saw licking the babysitter.” So, apparently at some point I did have conscious memory of it, but no matter how hard I try now to remember it, I cannot. I wish I could, so I didn’t have to be afraid all the time.

My mom and brother saw a movie. An innocent action that brought up a lot of shit. This is why you shouldn’t fuck kids.



Reason #109: The Beach House

A few months ago, the huz and I visited my aunt at her beach house. We brought the baby and had a lovely time. Last night I was talking to the huz about it, and was saying how we should go back. Then I was thinking about it as we were drifting off to sleep. Could I go there myself? I thought about it and realized I wouldn’t enjoy it without the huz, and in fact, I would be scared shitless there.

Out loud I said “I couldn’t go there myself.” The huz asked me why not. I said “Well, the door to the house is in the middle, and then my aunt’s bedroom is on one side and my bedroom is on the other side. Intruders would come to my room and my aunt wouldn’t even know.”

The huz tried to argue about the logistics of that statement, saying that the intruders would go to my aunt’s door first since it is closer to the front door. First off, how can you argue logically about fear that is not logic-based? In my head, I am an eight year old girl about to be sexually abused again, not a 35 year old woman in my aunt’s beach house in a safe community. Why would the intruders go to her room when clearly they are waiting to take me unawares, against my will?

I have had to tell him before that it is stupid to argue something that is fear-based with logic or rationality. Fear is not rational. It doesn’t listen to rational arguments. Instead it is fed by scary images and thoughts that come from real situations that have already happened to me. Where was the logic and rationale when that babysitter was fucking my brother and I when we were scared and alone and our mom wasn’t home?

I would like to visit my aunt in her beach house. I really would. But the idea of spending a terrified night or two there staring at the closet, window, and door, and deciding which thing held the most fearful prospects as I lay awake instead of sleeping doesn’t sound like such a great idea to me. People go to beach houses for vacation. I would be visiting my nightmares. This is why you shouldn’t fuck kids.




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