Reasons You Shouldn’t Fuck Kids


Reason 269: Thelma and Louise

Do you remember that movie Thelma and Louise? In the movie, this guy is trying to rape Thelma, and Louise kills him before he can finish. Before she kills him though, the rapist defends himself by saying “We were just having some fun.” Louise, a rape survivor herself, said, “Just so you know, when women are crying and screaming like that, they aren’t having any fun.”

I woke up today thinking about that movie. When that babysitter was molesting us, I wonder if we cried and screamed. Probably not, judging by my behavior with my brother while he was molesting me. I probably dissociated and left my body and pretended I was somewhere else, like I did with my brother.

This happens to me so often. I HATE not having conscious memory of her, of what she did to us. I wouldn’t hate it but for the fact that all my symptoms of surviving molestation appeared after she molested us, which was years BEFORE my brother ever touched me. So, obviously the memories are stuck somewhere in my subconscious, unable to be accessed by the rest of me. And so I am left to drive myself crazy with the wonderings of what she actually did, how she went about hurting us, how long she waited after my mom left, how we reacted, etc.



Reason #232: My son asks for privacy

I’ve been teaching my son to use the bathroom.  He’s a toddler. Today I helped him up onto the toilet seat, and he wanted privacy in the bathroom.  He told me in his sweet little voice “You help me up and then you go away, okay?”  I of course left the bathroom immediately.  I keep trying to teach my son that he has power, especially power over his own body.  Power over who sees his body, who touches his body.  Power, the kind of power that I never seem to feel myself.

I wonder if we told the babysitter to go away.  Obviously she didn’t listen, but I wonder if we put up a fight.  I wonder if we protested at all.

I think about it a lot.  I wonder about the details.  The therapist says I know enough to heal, but I still wonder.  Did it start immediately?  Like as soon as my mom left?  Did we sense she was evil right away?

I wonder how helpless we must have felt, my brother and I, when we realized just how fucking powerless we were in that situation, alone in our home with someone 10 years older than us.  Me, all of five years old, and him all of seven.  We were so fucking little, and she must have been absolutely thrilled when she got the job to babysit us.  My mom, being a single mother at the time – I mean, this whole thing is just so fucking textbook classic!

How long do you suppose she molested us for, during that first evening?  I mean, at what point do you think she stopped?  She had to have started in immediately, for fear that my mom would come home sooner than expected and put a stop to all of her evil fun.  How long did she molest us?  Was it one hour?  Two?  Three? 

I wish I had at least some sort of visual memory of all of this, so that I could stop being so afraid of everything.

My mom came for a visit not too long ago and she left an address book that she kept from that time.  From the time of the babysitter.  She said there is a possibility that the notebook contains that number.  I asked her to bring the notebook, and she did.  (She takes my shit real seriously ever since our together session with the therapist.) I haven’t been able to look at it at all.  Just can’t do it yet.

My son asks for privacy in the bathroom, and I make damn sure he receives it.  He is 3, and I was only 1 or 2 years older than him (I think) when that babysitter ruined me.  Broke me.  Like Humpty Dumpty, who fell off that wall and couldn’t be put together again. 

That’s why you shouldn’t fuck kids.



Reason #46: Conference for Incest Survivors
February 6, 2009, 4:29 pm
Filed under: Uncategorized | Tags: , , , , ,

About 15 years ago, I attended a conference for incest survivors. I was in college then, and I was just starting to explore the reasons why I kept wanting to commit suicide. Every reason always led back to the sex abuse.

Anyway, the conference people warned us that shit would get real hard there, so we should bring something that comforts us, like a stuffed animal. I brought along a stuffed animal that my mom bought for me, a bunny rabbit. I called her “Survivor Bunny”. I felt stupid carrying the bunny around, but when I got to the conference site, there were a bunch of us carrying stuffed animals.

On the first day of the conference, four of us got into an elevator with our stuffed animals in tow. A woman and her husband were already in the elevator, and when she saw the four of us standing there with our stuffed animals, she asked us what kind of group we belonged to. The four of us all looked around uncomfortably and didn’t say anything. She asked again. Finally I said “We are all incest survivors, and we are here for an incest survivor convention.”

She was pretty shocked, and she didn’t say anything in response to my statement. This of course made all of us even more uncomfortable. But at the time (and now) I felt like “Why am I keeping this a secret? I didn’t do anything wrong!”

The conference was long and very emotionally painful. Lots of men and women were there. All these people whose family members had fucked them when they were children. Most of us had similar experiences with the cutting, the suicide, the depression, anxiety, etc. All of us were hurting, sad, scared, and emotionally raw by the end. (This is why you shouldn’t fuck kids, by the way.)

The conference was actually pretty beautiful in that it was the first time that a bunch of incest survivors could gather in a room and not feel ‘otherized’ at a gathering. We weren’t the other here. We were ourselves, and we all understood each others’ pain. The thing about incest is that it happens in silence. The perpetrator is silent about it, the victim is silent about it – no one ever says what is really happening there. That is how child sex abuse keeps happening, because none of us talk about it. Now with the advent of the internet, hopefully children can see that they are not alone, and what is happening to them is wrong. Once all of us start talking, there are more of us than there are of them. Once all of this is out in the open, maybe people who fuck kids won’t feel so safe doing so anymore.

The most amazing thing happened on the last day of the conference. The same four of us were in the elevator again, and that same woman and her husband got on. All of us looked uncomfortable, our secret hanging heavy in the air in that elevator. The woman opened her mouth to speak, and I thought to myself ‘Here it comes. Here’s another shithead who is going to call us fucking liars, or tell us our shit is too hard to hear or say something stupid and insensitive.’

She said “I am so glad to have found you. I wanted to tell you – I hope all of you find what you are looking for here and heal.” Then she hugged us.

Whoever she was that was so beautiful to us that day – thank you.



Reason #20: Don’t Touch
November 3, 2008, 12:55 pm
Filed under: Uncategorized | Tags: , , ,

I was telling my mom the other night how the huz and I are about to celebrate two years of not having any sex.  I mean, I say it like a joke  – the fact that we are celebrating it like an anniversary – but then shit got serious.  I said, “He shows no interest in my vagina.”

Mom said, “Hmm, that is weird.”

Me: “Well, it might be my fault.”

Mom: “Why?”

Me: “Well, the first few times he tried to touch my vagina was a few years ago, right after we got married.  I got all fucked up because it reminded me of when my brother used to touch me there.  I would freak out, and the huz got scared and hasn’t really tried to touch me there ever since.”

Mom: “Oh sweetie, I am so sorry.”

Mom always has a way of saying she’s sorry that makes me cry.  I knew what she was saying – that I was missing out on something that was probably beautiful for other people whose brothers had never touched their hoo-hahs when they were kids.

This is why you shouldn’t fuck kids though.  We can’t even let our husbands touch our vaginas without totally freaking out.  I am an adult, I want to have sex like normal people.  More than that, I want to want to have sex. Instead, I celebrate no-sex anniversaries.



Reason #17: We are afraid of the doctor

I have a gynecology appointment next week. Just a normal yearly thing. I didn’t see a gynecologist for 30 years or so, because I didn’t want to go. The year before we decided to get pregnant, we thought I should go to a gynecologist just to make sure everything is in working order.

The doc asked me if I have a history of child sex abuse. I said yes. She said “Who molested you?” I said “There were three perpetrators. A babysitter, my brother, and then my father.” Except I couldn’t get the words out, because I started to cry. Normally, I can talk about my history without crying, but I was so nervous about having to be there at the gynecologist that I lost my shit.

No woman likes to go to the gyno. I get that. But for me, and probably lots of other survivors, it takes on a whole new level of shit for us. It’s not just fucking uncomfortable, it’s terrorizing. Someone down there is sticking shit into our vaginas, their face is down there, inspecting it and what not. It’s fucked up. I always cry. I hate crying in front of strangers, and the gyno gets to see me do it every time, and it’s embarassing.

This is why you shouldn’t fuck kids. I shouldn’t have to cry at the fucking gynecologist’s office.



Reason #2: We Have a Hard Time with Sex
September 6, 2008, 8:04 pm
Filed under: brother | Tags: ,

It’s hard to want to fuck, even consensually, when you can’t let your husband touch your genitals, because having your genitals touched feels like it did when your brother touched your genitals when you didn’t want him to. It’s hard to fuck my husband, because even though he is wonderful, my brother wasn’t. And when I get horny, and my husband and I start to touch each other, sometimes I can’t remember who is in bed with me, my brother or my husband.

When I was a little girl, my brother molested me on our living room couch. I used to pretend I was the wall. I would look away, and I was the wall, and this wasn’t happening. He wasn’t touching me there or licking me there. And I wasn’t there either, because I was the wall.

Sex eludes me. As I understand it, some survivors turn nun-like, like I did, and some survivors fuck everything. Some survivors fuck everyone, because fucking strangers feels easier than being made to fuck your brother or step-father or whoever fucked you before you were old enough to consent to it. This is why you shouldn’t fuck kids; it fucks with our sexuality, and fucks us for the rest of our life. No matter how old I am, I will always be the little girl who didn’t want her brother touching her there.