Reasons You Shouldn’t Fuck Kids


Reason #240: Feelings of Betrayal

Last night, I had a dream that my husband and my father were in cahoots with each other, and in the dream they both betrayed me.  I am sure it is just me working out my feelings of betrayal as my husband continues the process of becoming a woman, and I continue to process the end of my marriage to this sweet man.

My father is an obvious representation of betrayal.  Literally, he did betray me by touching me and looking at me in a way that no father should be looking at their daughter.  And a hundred other betrayals by him as well.

My husband’s a different story. I don’t feel like I ‘have the right’ to feel betrayed by my husband.  I mean, he really did not choose this.  He is this, and he cannot help who he is.  I guess my feelings of betrayal stem from him asking me to marry me in the first place, and from hiding his cross-dressing activities from me before we got married.  And, if I am being honest with myself, I feel betrayed by him for putting me in this situation, where I am now going to be a divorced woman back in the dating pool.  My G-d.

The same problems I brought with me into this marriage are the same ones I will bring into another marriage.  I keep asking myself, “What man could possibly ever want me now?”  I know, I know.  That’s just stinkin’ thinkin’, as Stuart Smalley used to say on Saturday Night Live.

Then I worry about bringing another man into my son’s life.  Did you know that the highest risk of child sexual abuse is the presence of a step-father in a child’s home?  Well, I do, and that fact alone is enough to terrify me about dating some new guy.  Or at least from bringing someone into my precious son’s life. 

Today’s theme is betrayal, and it’s not the first time I have written about betrayal in this blog.  It’s in my life, in my dreams, in my past, and apparently, in my present.



Reason #180: Bad dreams and shower problems
June 15, 2010, 12:09 pm
Filed under: Uncategorized | Tags: , , , ,

We were leaving on vacation, so I made sure to get some cash out.  I asked my mom to hire someone, and she did.  We let this woman, the one my mom hired, into the house.  Fairly soon, this woman pulled a gun out on us and told us to give her all of our cash.

All I could think when I woke up from this latest bad dream was that the person I trusted my mom to hire betrayed us.  This was, of course, yet another bad dream about that babysitter who molested my brother and I.  The babysitter I have no conscious memory of.  The babysitter my mom hired to care for us when she couldn’t be there herself.

I guess I am not going to get over any of this until I examine it from every fucking angle, and since I can’t make heads or tails of it while I am awake, sleep is a safer place to sift through this shit.

Since the dream is what I woke up from this morning, I subsequently couldn’t take my morning shower.  It kinda sucks because I feel smelly now, and will go to work feeling that way, wondering if people can smell me.  The huz always says I smell good, but who knows.  Does anyone else have showering issues due to the sex abuse?  Are there conditions upon your showers, such as not being alone in the house, or only at certain times of the day, etc.?

Shower problems and bad dreams are not new to this blog, and both happened to me this morning.  I like to sleep well, and I like to shower and be clean, just like everyone else.  I have a meeting at work today that I would have liked to smell good for.  The cost of showering this morning would have been the little bit of sanity that I am trying to maintain, so it is a cost I couldn’t afford today.  That is why you shouldn’t fuck kids.



Reason #163: We Are All Walking Miracles

I once went to a survivors conference, and after a day or two of hearing about all the horrible things that were done to us and the horrible things that were probably going to happen to us as a result (like not trusting people, never really getting a good night’s sleep, etc.), one survivor stood up and said “You know, really, we are all walking miracles.  It’s a miracle we are all alive and survived what we did.”

She is right, really.  We are all walking miracles.  All the survivors I have ever known – when I think about the shit they survived – they  and I are all walking miracles.

It is miraculous that I didn’t kill myself, given my inclinations to do so at certain points in my life.  It is miraculous that I managed to trust someone enough to get married, especially since men scared the crap out of me.  And the biggest miracle – getting over my fear of sex long enough to conceive a child.  My biggest blessing and miracle in this lifetime. 

Frankly, every day that I get up and face the day even though I am overwhelmingly afraid of what the day might bring – this, too, is my small daily miracle.

Unfortunately, this is life in the face of miracles. Of course it is a miracle that we survived the abuse and survived ourselves afterwards.  But this is what a miracle looks like.  It is us alive, but not trusting.  Awake but afraid.  Asleep but afraid.  Not just on alert all the time, on high alert all the time.  Never fully experiencing the wonders and joys of life, because we know for sure the horrors of intimate human betrayal in the worst of ways.  It is writing this blog post while getting up three times to check three different door locks. This is life in the face of miracles.

That is why you shouldn’t fuck kids.  No one should be a walking miracle for this reason anymore.



Reason #161: The privilege of age

I was thinking about my situation yesterday, pondering my sadness – my obession maybe – over these events that transpired in my childhood.

My first molester – that babysitter that I have talked about so much on this blog – she molested me when I was five, or less than five.  My second molester – my brother – he molested me when I was 8.  My third molester – my dad – he molested me when I was 15.    When I think about it, over 20 years has passed since my last perpetrator molested me, and over 30 years has passed since my first one did.

Why am I still upset about this?  Why have there been 160 reasons before this one that the sex abuse has perpetrated its way into my life?  I gave it some thought, and here’s what I came up with: It’s the knowledge that the only reason that none of these people are fucking me right this second is because I am no longer in a child’s body.  They can’t ignore my no’s, because I have a lot more power than I did as a child. 

The only thing that is stopping them from betraying me in the worst of ways again is age.  Were I five or eight or fifteen again, I would be getting molested again.

Knowing this means that I also possess the unfortunate knowledge that 3 of my fellow human beings were willing to intentionally harm me so that they could get their own deviant needs met.  Worse, all three were people I should have been able to trust.  A babysitter is there to care for you.  An older brother is supposed to protect you.  A father is supposed to help and nurture you to become your best self.

That has not been my experience of babysitters, brothers, and fathers.  I now know for sure that people who are supposed to help me can and do harm me.  And the only thing stopping them from doing that is that I am in a big body, an adult’s body, with all the powers and privileges that being in an adult’s body entails.  The knowledge that this is the only thing stopping these people from abusing me is too painful to reconcile, and I think fear of what I know to be true causes all my other reasons to be true as well.  This is why you shouldn’t fuck kids.



Reason #49: Betrayal
February 19, 2009, 1:33 am
Filed under: Uncategorized | Tags: , , , , ,

When I was less than five years old, my mom innocently hired a babysitter from a newspaper ad. This teenaged girl came into our home, my mom left, and she proceeded to use my brother and I for her own sexual enjoyment. I have no memory of this, of the actual event, of this person. But right after that, I began a lifetime of hypervigilance and panic. I began covering my head while I slept. I would leave a little hole so I could breathe, but other than that I was totally covered.

I would lay there hidden under a mountain of covers even in the summer. I would be hot and sweating, but I would never even consider the possibility of less than three covers. I would lay under there wondering if the bad people could see me. If they stabbed me while I lay there, would the knife penetrate all those layers? Would they even know I was under there, under all those covers? Now that I am an adult, I know the answer to these questions is yes, so I still lay there like that. This, by the way, is why you shouldn’t fuck kids.

When I was 13, I was seeing a shrink because I was suicidal. I described to him how I was literally afraid that when I laid down, I would be stabbed in the back. I said “I know what you’re thinking – that this is some metaphor for betrayal. Well it’s not.”

It was and it is, and last night as I lay in bed huddled under the covers with the image of the knife in my back, I thought to myself “This is some fucked up shit right here.” Then I couldn’t take the overwhelming fear of the imagery in my head, the knife in my back, so I sat up and turned the tv on. The light from the tv lit up the room. Suddenly things were easier. Light makes everything easier in a world where you are afraid of the dark. As I lay back down with the covers over my head, I could see the flickering light of the tv out of the airhole I left for myself. As I tried to fall asleep, I comforted myself with this thought: ‘At least when they attack me, I will see it’.




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