Reasons You Shouldn’t Fuck Kids

Reason #106: Babysitter dream

Last night, I woke up from a dream about the babysitter. In the dream, she and my mother and I were in a fitting room. I was the same age I am now – 35 years old – and I had a swimsuit on. I saw her and I knew she was the babysitter. I felt pure fright to my very core. I said to my mom in a tiny little girl’s voice “Mama, I am afraid of her”. I was so scared I could hardly get the words out.

Then this woman started touching me. Mom didn’t help the situation at all. I screamed in pure fright, over and over and over again. If I had to explain that scream, I would say that it was like I was allowing myself to scream the way I imagine I wanted to scream when this babysitter was actually molesting me when I was a little girl. The scream and the dream would be the reason you shouldn’t fuck kids, of course.

Obviously this dream was scary for me to wake up from, and has been on my mind all day. In the dream, the woman looked 10 years older than me now, which would put her at about 45. In real life, I think she was about 10 years older than me in real life, which put her in her teen years when she molested my brother and I. I find it interesting that my dream happened as if I was meeting her now.

I wish I was meeting her now. I am not sure what I would say or how I would act, but I sure do wish I could meet her now. I wonder if I would regress and become a child inside again, the way so many survivors of child sexual abuse do when meeting their abusers again. Or, I wonder if I would stay in control of my adult faculties, and meet this woman and explain the tremendous impact that she has had on my life.

I spend a lot of my time hating this woman. It would be nice to get past that level of hatred.

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.”

Reason #41: Who is that babysitter?
January 22, 2009, 11:39 am
Filed under: Uncategorized | Tags: , , , ,

I used to be in a panic group. Apparently when one survives child sex abuse, one gets panicked for the rest of their life. (One of the many reasons you shouldn’t fuck kids, by the way.) Anyway, so I was in that group, and when I discovered (at 21 years old or so) that a babysitter molested my brother and I (when I was less than five years old), I became enraged. And obsessed. Who was she? Did my mom leave and she right away fucked us? Or did she wait a few minutes and gain our trust before she violated us?

What did she look like? What was her name? Who was this woman that in the blink of an eye shattered all my future trust in humanity?

It’s pretty unusual to have a female perpetrator. Here’s how it breaks down. Men like to fuck little girls first. Men like to fuck little boys second. Then women like to fuck little boys. Lastly, women like to fuck little girls. I was one of those little girls, in that statistical minority. Was it chance that she came into our life? I don’t know? Was it fate? Again, don’t know.

Here’s what I do know. I know she was a teenager. Let me think – that was in the late 70’s, so about 30 years ago. So, if she was 16 in the late 70’s, that would put her at about 46 or so now. Shit, for all I know, she could be a reader of this blog.

My group said “You’re wasting your time trying to figure out who she is. You need to concentrate on your life now.” Fuck that, I say. Whoever she is, she holds the key to my healing. I have to know who she is, and why she did this to me. Was she a pedophile? Was she a victim herself? Is she still fucking kids??

The logical part of me says that she was obviously a victim of abuse. Someone fucked her, and then she fucked us. And now I spend the rest of my life wondering who she is and why she did this to us.

This is why you shouldn’t fuck kids.

Reason #39: Ear Tubes
January 14, 2009, 6:29 pm
Filed under: Uncategorized | Tags: , , , ,

I know what you’re thinking. What do ear tubes have to do with why you shouldn’t fuck kids? Nothing. Except that it’s my son who has to get the ear tubes surgically put into his ears this Friday.

Everyone says it’s a routine surgery, and I am sure it is routine. But when it’s your child, nothing is routine. It’s surgery, and here is what I know for sure. I have to hand him over to strangers to take care of for a few minutes, and in those few minutes I cannot protect him. While the logical conscious part of me says that he will be fine, I am sure my mother also thought my brother and I would be fine when she left us with that babysitter all those years ago.

My husband asked me what part of this upcoming surgery was scariest for me. I said “The part where I have to hand him over. If he starts crying, I think I might die.” I started to cry as I said it. The idea that I might have to hand over my crying baby to some doctor is overwhelming. He will think I betrayed him. I am his mama, I am supposed to protect him.

The picture in my mind as I write this, and of course my mind can’t help but go THERE, is a memory of me as a little girl. I am in someone’s arms, and I see my daddy walk away. It’s not THAT babysitter, but I guess it is A babysitter. I am SCREAMING for my daddy. But he just keeps walking away. Now that I am an adult I realize that he didn’t know what had happened to me with that child-molesting babysitter, so it’s not like he intentionally walked away from a terrorized child. He thought he was walking away from a tantrumming child. Either way, the effect on me was the same. He wasn’t going to stick around to protect me from this either. This is not the image I want my son to have on Friday.

This is why you shouldn’t fuck kids. My son needs a surgery to help stop recurring ear infections, and instead of being afraid of all the normal shit that parents in this situation are afraid of, I am afraid my son will feel betrayed by me. And scared and alone. I don’t want that for my son.

Reason #38: Zoloft

I went to the doctor a few days ago for my ever-increasing anxiety and depression. The nurse asked me what I was there for, and I said “anxiety”. The nurse took down my info and said “the doctor will be in in a minute”. As she was leaving the room, I touched her arm and said “Do people come here for this?” She said “Yes. It’s better to get it now than when it is too late and it is controlling your life.” Too late for that lady, I thought. I started to cry. She was VERY nice. She hugged me. G-d bless these wonderful nurses.

The doc came into the room. I told her the truth, that I was anxious and it was interfering with my life. I find myself cancelling events so that I don’t have to leave the house. When I am outside, I am afraid in the parking lot, and the mad dash from the parking lot to whatever building I need to get to is overwhelming. I am terrified of rape, I told her.

When I described what was happening to me in the parking lot with the hypervigilance and the terror, she added “the looking over your shoulder constantly”, and I wondered if she, too, was a survivor. Then she said that she likes to prescribe zoloft because it doesn’t cause dependence, (though you do have to wean on and off this drug), and because the side effects are minimal in her experience. I agreed to medically drug myself for the first time in my life.

I have always been against the use of pharmaceuticals for this issue for myself. Politically, I feel like drugs have always been used to silence women. And who are women? Survivors. Men fuck us in so many ways our whole life, and then when we react to it, they drug us into a stupefied silence. So I have been against it.

But my life has become – bad. Writing this blog has been difficult, and trying to maneuver through memories constantly makes me feel like every parking lot is filled with scary bad men waiting to hurt me. When it gets to the point where everyone is bad, it is time for me to realize that it’s not the whole world that is bad, it’s me that is fucked up. So I agreed to the drug. I took my first dose today.

This is why you shouldn’t fuck kids. If that babysitter hadn’t started this whole ball rolling, my brother never would have fucked with me. My dad, who knows. If these events hadn’t happened, I would be a very different Butterfly today.

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