Reasons You Shouldn’t Fuck Kids

Reason #304: Sometimes I smell like vomit

As my longtime readers know, I have bulimia.  I have had it since my father molested me when I was 15.  I am 39 now, so it’s been 24 years of binge/purge.  I trace my bulimia directly back to my father’s interest in my teenaged body.  It nauseated me, and after he touched me I just didn’t want to retain food in my body anymore. I started throwing up after that.

I use it mainly as a stress relief now, and it crops up once or twice every few months.  It’s still pretty shameful and humiliating, but at least now I only do it every so often (as opposed to how I used to be when I would throw up three times a day).

I had another conference this last weekend that I had to go to. I was very stressed about it.  A few days before the conference, I binged and then decided to throw it up. I did that twice that evening. I cried in the bathroom after the second time.

Later that night, I caught a whiff of the smell of vomit somewhere on myself, but I couldn’t place where it was.  Maybe it was my hand (which I use to trigger my gag reflex).  No matter how many times I washed my hands that night, I smelled the vomit.

Sometimes I smell like vomit.  That’s why you shouldn’t fuck kids.

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 #225: Unhealthy coping mechanisms
February 25, 2011, 4:27 pm
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In the not too distant future, the huz has to go on another business trip, so my mom will be staying with me when he goes away.  I am really really grateful that mom is coming to stay with me, since I am a complete panicked mess when alone at night.  This will be the first time Mom and I have seen each other since our together session.

My husband always tells me stories of how the other guys at work have these wives who are thrilled when they go on business trips.  I always tell him “Yeah.  You didn’t marry that kind of wife.  You married the kind that got fucked as a child, and now can’t stay by myself because I am all fucked up.”

Even though mom will be staying with me, I am stressed.  I am afraid.  And I am beating myself up for being afraid, even though the therapist told me not to.  This whole thing is so embarrassing, and even though Mom now knows some of the extent of it, I am always embarrassed when there are witnesses to my life of protracted panic.  Still though I would rather swallow my pride and have mom witness it than sit here alone and frightened for an extended period of time.

I had a bulimic episode last night, first time in a while.  I am sure it was stress related.  The force of it broke some blood vessels over my eye.  When I came to bed, the huz said “What happened to your eye!?!”  I looked at the floor and said “I threw up so hard it broke some blood vessels over my eye.”  I looked at him. He looked so scared about this news though.  I said “It’s okay, it’s happened before.”  But I couldn’t quite look him in the eye, because I was so embarrassed.  He put his arms around me, and hugged me for a long time. 

All of us fucked kids have some sort of coping mechanism for surviving abuse.  Mine happen to be panic and bulimia (and a whole host of other things, 224 other things so far, since this post is #225).  The truth is that there is no way a child can survive things that are antithetical to human survival – like abuse – without developing ways to live.  These are my ways.  This is how I am surviving child sexual abuse. That’s why you shouldn’t fuck kids.

Reason #211: Ricki Lake, Food, and Fat

This morning on Good Morning America, Ricki Lake disclosed that she was molested when she was six years old, and she began gaining weight soon thereafter. She has had a life-long struggle with obesity, and she credits it to her history of being sexually abused. She said she still struggles with food issues.

I have said this before, but I’ll say it again. I didn’t have an eating problem until my brother started his shit with me; I didn’t want the body that I was in, the one I was getting molested in. I didn’t have bulimia till my dad started his shit with me. Eating was the very last thing I could fucking control. I had no control over what they were doing to my body, but I sure could control what I put into it. Throwing it up was a release, a statement, a symbol. ‘I will not hold this in, I will not keep what you are doing to me, I throw it back out at you.’  I have not gotten through one year where I haven’t thrown up on my father’s birthday.

In one of our alone sessions, the marital therapist said that survivors of sexual abuse tend to change their bodies to be the opposite of what it was when we were getting molested. So if we were thin when we were getting raped, we try to be fat. If we were fat, we try to be thin. I was thin when my brother started molesting me, and I gained weight. I was already fat when my dad started with me, and I became bulimic.

Things are weird with my mom right now. Every conversation is tense. Our together session with the therapist is in a few weeks. My eating is completely out of control now. My old therapist once said “Food is mother.  When we are babies, food literally is mother.  Our source of food is our mothers, her breasts provide our nourishment.  Then as we grow up, we continually try to mother ourselves with food.”

Now that Mom and I are fucked up, I am mothering myself like crazy with food.  Eating until I feel numb.  I said to my husband the other day “I need to eat some more.”  He said, “Are you okay?”  I said, “No, I can still feel.”  I suppose this is what happens to alcoholics and drug addicts; these continual attempts at numbness because we can’t erase the pain of what has happened to us.  The pain of what is happening to us now that reminds us of the pain that happened to us then.

I keep hoping that someday I will heal from this, that I will stop using food as a means of anesthesia and instead use it as a means of sustenance.  I know there are people out there who eat because they are hungry, and stop because they are full.  Their relationships with food are so healthy. 

An unhealthy relationship with food.  That’s what resulted from my molestation, and that’s why you shouldn’t fuck kids.

Reason #210: Feeling like a disgusting fat pig
December 29, 2010, 7:44 pm
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Things are still weird with my mom.  Ever since she told me that she resents me for making her feel guilty for the sex abuse, it’s like she opened up a vault of shit for me and I can’t close it back up.  Even though she has apologized, I feel weird talking to her.  So I have tried not talking to her very much since the apology.

The truth about sex abuse is that it happens because there’s no ‘good’ adult around to stop it from happening.  Predators know this.  Predators count on this.   So they swoop in when there is the best opportunity to fuck a child.  First they ingratiate themselves into your life, make nice-nice with the adults around you so that they can look innocent when they are caught.  ‘What?  So and so couldn’t have done that!  He’s such a nice guy!’

My mom was just not around (sometimes just not even emotionally there when she was actually physically present) when the three abusers abused me, all at different points in my life.  So to tell me that I make her feel guilty for it, and that she resents me for it, well, I have a strong reaction to that.

I talked to my mom last night and I said that I think this problem is probably bigger than us, and that now that it’s out there in the open between us, I can’t make it okay inside myself.  I suggested that we do a ‘together’ session in therapy.  We’ve done this several times in my life, usually due to the sex abuse, and these sessions have always helped us have a better relationship with each other.  She immediately agreed, and said that we should use my therapist because that’s who I am comfortable with.  I am grateful she wants to work on it with me.

I threw up yesterday; first time in a few months.  I was surprised by it.  I don’t know why I was surprised; every time shit gets stressful in my life, one of the ways that I handle it is by forcing a bunch of food down my gullet and then throwing it all back up.  It’s so disgusting.  That’s how I feel, disgusting. 

The sex abuse wasn’t my fault, but I feel like a disgusting fat pig.  I throw up food at will.

Reason #198: The Nutritionist

I have begun seeing a nutritionist. During my first appointment, she asked me why I was there. I said “I am fat, and I don’t want to be.” (I tend to be blunt.)

I described my eating patterns to her. Her response? “You have a full blown eating disorder.”

A lot of survivors seem to struggle with weight issues and disordered eating. The research literature is full of studies showing a link between bulimia and child sex abuse, and anorexia and child sex abuse, and compulsive eating and child sex abuse.  In this way, I guess I am yet another statistic.

I wonder – if that babysitter hadn’t used my body as a weapon, and my brother hadn’t used me like I was nothing, and my father hadn’t betrayed me – I wonder if I would only be eating for hunger reasons, the way I see a lot of thin people doing? I mean, I wonder if my relationship with food, and also my relationship with my body would be different? I can’t help but think that it would be.

I know for sure that I use my fat as a method of insulation. I know that most men find me less attractive when I have fat on my body, and that they find me more attractive when I have less fat on my body.  Fat is protection, and that protection is more than I had in childhood. 

I suppose that the hard truth is probably that no matter what I would have weighed, that babysitter would have molested me anyway.  And probably my brother would have too.  I guess my dad would have as well.  Somewhere in my head, I understand that logic dictates that none of the sex abuse was actually about my real body, in that these people in my life would have used me anyway, no matter what my actual body looked like.  None of it was about attraction to my actual body, except their attraction to an easy victim, which I was.

But somehow in my distorted way of thinking, I feel like if I insulate my body with layers of fat, then perhaps I can ward off the kind of evil I have already experienced.  It’s disordered thinking which lead me to a lifetime of disordered eating, and I am sure it plays a heavy part in my constant dieting failures.  That is the 198th way that surviving child sexual abuse has fucked me up.

Reason #64: We Hire Babysitters for Ourselves

As you know, I have spent several days crying about the prospect of being alone because my husband has an upcoming business trip. I asked five loved ones to stay with me, and heard five kind no’s. I understand.

My mom is here this weekend, and it affords me the safety of clearer thinking. In a bold move of patheticness, I hired a babysitter to “help me with my son” while the huz is away. Now, while it’s true that I welcome the help with my son, the whole thing is such a pathetic fucking lie. I need her here so that I am not crazy and acting like a panic-stricken loon the whole time the huz is away. I would always do right by my son, which to me would mean acting like everything is okay so that he doesn’t have to worry. With the help of the babysitter a few hours every night, things really can be okay so that neither of us has to worry. So in a way, her being here would make everything better and she would be helping me with my son.

See what I did there? I am rationalizing PAYING SOMEONE TO FUCKING BABYSIT ME in adulthood. Pathetic. This is why you shouldn’t fuck kids.

It’s funny. When I was bulimic, I was always reaching new lows. There were always emotional places that my bulimia would take me that I would think to myself “That’s it. I could not possibly get any lower than this.” But like all addictions, I would go even lower. Like the time I excused myself to throw up in the bathroom of a McDonald’s when my best friend knew exactly what I was doing. Humiliating and an all time low. Until the time my mom walked in on me throwing up. That time I knew for sure it would be my last new low. Until the times I started throwing up into containers in my locked bedroom so that the sound of retching into a toilet bowl of water wouldn’t be heard by my mother.

See what I mean? Our shit takes us to new lows. This here shit, hiring a babysitter so that I am not alone – that is a new humiliating low. Before I was married, I used to take time off of my life when I knew I was going to be alone. By that I mean that I would go sleep over friend’s houses, go back home to live with mom during that time, go to aunts and relatives, etc. But now I am ensconced in a life that would be very difficult for me to just leave, with my son and my work and what not. So, now I need others to take time off of their lives to come babysit mine.

In my life, I have only ever met one other person who was as afraid to be alone as I was. When I asked my girlfriend about this woman who was afraid to be alone, my girlfriend said this: “Oh, yeah, one time her roommates didn’t come home on time, and they didn’t tell her they were going to be late, and she totally freaked out on them. She yelled at them for a long time.”

Of course I said “But why is she so afraid to be alone?” She said, “Oh, a gang of men molested her when she was a little girl.” What was funny about it was that even though my girlfriend was a survivor and knew I was a survivor, she said it like it was an afterthought, like that happens every day. (Which it does.)

Maybe all of us survivors should set up some sort of free survivor babysitting service for each other. I mean, we all understand what it is to be afraid, and we would never humiliate each other about it, so if we called up the service and said “Yup, gonna be alone on this date to this date, need some company,” the service could say “No problem, we have at least three survivors on call in your area. She’ll be here by such and such time.”

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