Reasons You Shouldn’t Fuck Kids

Reason # 281: Caterpillars and Butterflies
February 20, 2012, 5:48 pm
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A few months ago, I went to a craft fair and I saw this sign: ‎”If you want to be a butterfly, you must be willing to stop being a caterpillar.”

As my regular readers know, I call myself ‘Butterfly’ on here because I believe that child sexual abuse survivors (and really any trauma or adversity survivors) are kind of like butterflies.  When we were getting abused, we had to hole up in our cocoons and hide.  Then we spend a great deal of time afterwards hiding in our cocoon because we become so afraid of the world.  We begin to believe that since one person (or in my case, three people) abused us, the whole world will also be abusive.

I want to be a butterfly.  I really do.  But I can see that I am still in caterpillar mode most of the time.

Last month marked a year since my husband began the process of figuring out that h/she was transgendered, and next month it will be a year since h/she told me that she is a girl.  Next month will be a full year since my heart was shattered.

I have put an ad on a dating website online.  I’m not sure what to think about that.  Now that I am beginning to conceptualize myself as a woman who is back in the dating world, I can’t help but think about the potential dudes that I would want to date or who would date me.  Honestly, they all scare the fucking crap out of me.  Hence my caterpillarness.  I was afraid of them before I married my husband, and now that my heart has been broken in such a unique way, I feel afraid of new dudes in both the ‘he will rape me or beat me’ way and also the ‘he doesn’t know himself and he will figure it out by being with me’ way. And, of course, I am also terrified that some new dude would be looking to get into a relationship with me as a way to fuck my kid.

I am not sure what the future holds for me though.  In my butterfly moments, I look forward to the future with hope.  Hope of healing and being a whole Butterfly all by myself, and then being able to share my whole Butterfly self with some new guy.  In my more familiar and regular caterpillar thoughts though, I scare myself silly with the ‘what if’ game.  I play out the scenario of dating.  We meet at a restaurant, a nice safe public place.  Things go well.  We go on a second date, also in a public place.  We date for a few months.  He seems really nice.  Maybe we are a good fit, I think to myself. I lower my guard a bit, and I finally invite him into my room to make out.  I trust him enough to date him. We begin to fall in love. We date for a while. We get married.  One night I see him in my son’s bedroom when we are all supposed to be sleeping.  He sees me seeing him and tries to explain, but I know what the fuck I am looking at.  I WAS the child in that bed over 30 years ago, no explanation is necessary…

See how quickly this thought process turns into an abusive scenario?  I don’t know how to change the mantra, and I sure as shit don’t know how to trust some new dude.  I don’t even really know if I should be open to trusting some new dude.  (Mind you, right now there is no actual new dude; all of this is pure conjecture.)

This brings me to my next bit of caterpillarness.  When I am not sitting here worrying about some predator preying on my son or me, I sit here and worry about the possibility of me being alone from here on out.  I try to tell myself it will be okay.  When I was happily married, I would imagine our marriage breaking for a hundred different reasons (like us not fucking each other, for instance), and I would tell myself I would be okay.  It’s all such a lie though, you know?  I mean, I guess I am okay, if by okay you actually mean ‘alive’.  I am alive.  I am existing.  I am back to work.  I am caring for my son.  I am overeating and throwing up a lot.  I am spending great deals of time at night not sleeping and that makes me tired during the day.  I spend a lot of time talking myself down from panic attacks, and general anxiety.  And I cry a lot.

I want to be a butterfly; I am just not sure how to get there.




Reason #169: The Trauma Dictates
April 22, 2010, 12:59 pm
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So we’re sitting in our marital therapist’s office, and she says we have to take little steps to get my husband and I back to fucking each other.  She suggested that we take each other’s hands and arms and massage them for 15 minutes.   We had to bargain DOWN to hands and arms because our first assignment was back massages, and I got all fucked up and panicky and I couldn’t do it.  So, now the assignment has been relegated to hands and arms.

She looked at me and said “Butterfly, if you feel yourself getting at all anxious about it, stop everything immediately.  Do not be a martyr about this, because what we are doing here is stirring up your trauma, and if you don’t like being touched, you don’t have to be.  You are the one who decides if you want to be touched or not.”

I could hear, implicitly, what she wasn’t saying.  I am an adult now, and I get to decide who touches me the way I couldn’t when I was a little girl.

Then she said something interesting.  She said “This whole time, the trauma has dictated your sex life with your husband, and our whole goal in this therapy is to stop the Ménage à trois with you, your husband, and the trauma.” 

The truth of this statement hit me like a lightning bolt.  Really, when I think about it, the trauma has dictated every part of my life.  Safety is always my primary goal, due to the trauma.  And everything I do, from not wearing gloves in the winter to checking under the bed every night to the kinds of outfits I wear so as not to attract attention – the trauma has dictated all of this.

Fucking kids is traumatic.  Some of us end up killing ourselves from the trauma of it all, and some of us survive.  In either case, the trauma dictates.  That is why you shouldn’t fuck kids.

NOTE TO SURVIVORS OUT THERE: If you feel like you have no hope and that suicide is the answer, please consider calling this 24 hour hotline: 1-800-SUICIDE or 1-800-273-TALK.  Many many times in my life, I considered suicide.  I am grateful every single day that I was never successful in ending my life.  It was worth not killing myself to be alive for all of this.  Please call.

Reason # 125: Wearing a butterfly mask
September 27, 2009, 1:28 am
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I was talking to a friend last night, and our discussion wandered over into a discussion about which post of mine so far is my favorite. I told her that my favorite one was the one I wrote after watching a particular episode of My Name is Earl. That particular post – and I just looked it up – it was Reason # 22, so it happened fairly early into my keeping this blog – really hit home for me, because it was such a light bulb moment.

In that particular episode, Earl hurt some guy by hurting his car. By hurting his car, it attracted many other hurts in this guy’s life. Pretty soon, this guy went from being happy to being all fucked up. By the time Earl meets up with him again, this time to right his wrongs, he spends the whole episode thinking the guy is building a bomb. And the way the guy acts, we all think so too. He’s a loner, he lives in a hotel room, and he keeps buying all these weird things that could be used to make a bomb big enough to hurt a lot of people.

By the end of the episode, we find out that the guy is actually building a rocket ship that will take him far away so he doesn’t have to be with people again. This is when Earl realized that by hurting this man like that, he not only closed this man’s eyes to all the good in the world, he also opened this man’s eyes to all the bad in the world. I feel this is an excellent representation of what happened to me – the aftermath of that babysitter betraying all that was good in my world by molesting my brother and I. I was apparently a very happy child until then. And then after that, I was someone who always looked over her shoulder, covered my head with the covers, wore so many blankets in summer, etc. This is why you shouldn’t fuck kids.

I am so afraid these days. It’s hard to leave my house, and I am afraid even in my own home. I told my friend that I feel like I am a caterpillar who is wearing a butterfly mask.

My friend had the loveliest thing to say about it though. She said: Well, for me a butterfly is what it is not because of its face, but its ability to fly. If this mask is what enables you to fly, maybe it’s not that bad to wear it.

Reason #57: How Many People Does It Take to Fix a Butterfly?

The other night I woke up at around 4:30AM. I just lay there in the bed wide awake. And it hit me – I hate our fucking therapist. As you readers suspected, she just wasn’t right for me. We went in for our first together session after our “separate sessions“, and she said “How did you feel our single session went?” I said “Uh, this is awkward, but to be honest, I felt like you opened a big can of worms and then left me to deal with the worms by myself. With like a minute left to the session, you were still bringing up new shit about my sex abuse. Then the session ended and I was left with a big pile of shit.” I explained how the dog stuff was upsetting, and how that happened to be one of the few things I had never previously discussed in therapy.

Dear readers, you are going to love her response to this. She said “I think you were upset because I was and still am angry at your mom.”

Isn’t that great? She’s angry at my mom. Well then, why don’t we stop the session so that we can focus on her feelings? The poor thing, having to sit there with her anger at my mother over what my brother, father, and babysitter did to me.

The more I thought about it, and mind you, it took me all this time to figure this out, I got PISSED. Seriously, who the fuck does she think she is? I am not aware that she is allowed to have a feeling about my mother. And if she is, why is she bringing it into our session? Is it meant to spur my anger towards my mother? Maybe she thinks I am protecting my mom? Let’s say that’s the case. Let’s say I am protecting my mom, because who knows, maybe I am. THIS IS MARITAL THERAPY. We aren’t here to talk about my anger with my mom – we’re here to talk about how my protection of my mom might be affecting the fact that my husband and I aren’t fucking. And frankly, I don’t think that’s the reason we aren’t having sex.

Her “anger” was an inappropriate response for a therapist. Readers and blog commenters, you had it right all along. So, I sat the huz down (later in the day when he was awake), and I told him how I felt about the therapist. He said “No problem baby, we’ll find someone else. It’s not going to work if you hate her.” So we fired her.

In the meantime though, I made an appointment with a psychiatrist for myself. I stopped taking the zoloft a few weeks ago. Let’s be honest with ourselves – it wasn’t working for me. I was in a lovely mood all the time, but I was still experiencing anxiety and panic. I think I need more help than a primary care physician can give me, and I think it’s time to see a psychiatrist. Maybe he can find the right drug for me.

I am nervous about going to a male psychiatrist. I don’t generally seek out any males for any of my paid needs. My primary care physician, gyno, urologist, etc – all females. Even my hairdresser is female. Part of this is probably the feminist in me, in that if you can give money to female workers, you should. But the rest of it is about the sex abuse, and this is why you shouldn’t fuck kids. I don’t like being around men, especially in rooms alone with men. And that is generally what happens when you pay them to fix you – it requires time spent alone with them.

I dread the part where I have to tell him my fucking story. How many people do I have to tell what the fuck has happened to me?

It’s almost getting comical, really, all the people that I have hired to fix what has been done to me. It almost reads like a shitty joke: “How many people does it take to fix a Butterfly?”

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