Reasons You Shouldn’t Fuck Kids

Reason 322: Weighty issues

So my job ended recently. I knew it was coming to an end, and I was grateful for it. It was a planned thing, because it was kind of a contract position. I have a bunch of new little contracts in the Fall. It was time for that door to close so that new ones can open.

A party was thrown for me to celebrate a successful end to that job, and that boy that I like was there (which makes sense, since he was one of my co-workers). In all of his emails to me, he signs them with the word “Best”. But in a card that he and my co-workers gave me at the party, he signed it “All my love”. Isn’t that interesting? I don’t know what to make of that. And since the party, we’ve had little to no contact. Even if that is the end of us, it’s still fun to think about him. As my therapist says “It’s a safe crush.”

I woke up from another rape dream today.

I keep contemplating (and failing miserably) at losing weight. The night before last I prayed to the Universe for clarity regarding my weight loss efforts. I prayed for knowledge on the right way for me to lose this weight that I am carrying around. I woke up the next morning with a very clear memory of an instance of sexual abuse from my father when I was 5. It was something I have been suspecting for a while, and now I am sure. The whole thing saddened me, as I had always considered him my last perpetrator. Now I have reason to think he was probably my first. I am not sure what to do with that knowledge, but I find it interesting that it came after I prayed for clarity in my weight loss efforts.  Apparently I am not going to lose this physical weight that I am carrying until I lose the emotional weight of what has happened to me first. And maybe that is okay. Maybe I can deal with these memories without batting them away like flies that are bothering me. Maybe I can work through the memories until they become something that happened to me, not something that is still happening to me.

I reminded myself the other day ” I am a 40 year old woman. I am not a little girl anymore. I am strong and powerful.” I believe the first two sentences; I am having trouble with the last one.

Louise Hay said that when we say positive affirmations, we are stating things the way we want them and then leaving it up to the Universe to work out the details. I like that. I will continue saying I am strong and powerful, and let’s see what happens.

I heard a lovely quote the other day: “The Universe is conspiring towards my highest good.” I think that is true. I have always said that the Universe takes care of us, in spite of ourselves.

Reason #321: My First Kiss

Last night I found myself thinking about my first kiss. I was fifteen, almost 16. I had been kind of dating my friend for a while. I think he felt that at a certain number of dates (3? 4?) that we should be kissing. So on our third or fourth date, we came back to my house, and he leaned in and kissed me. My reaction to this kiss was – not good. I pushed away from him, got up and ran into the bathroom and locked myself in there until he left my house.

He was a nice guy, not a rapist. He thought I was into it, and he kept apologizing. He was so upset. I was so upset. It was a hot mess.

It sure was embarrassing too. At the time, I understood enough to know that my reaction to all of this was weird, but I wasn’t exactly sure WHY I reacted this way. I figured it probably had something to do with my dad or my brother. At that time, I didn’t even know I had a third abuser (the babysitter) – I found out about her like four years later.

It’s been 25 years since my first kiss. I now understand why I reacted that way to such an intimate act. This is what happens when you fuck kids. A beautiful innocent act like our first kiss becomes a complete hot mess because it’s not our first go-round with intimacy. I had already experienced my brother’s head between my legs when I was way younger, but I didn’t want that experience. Even now, the memory of what he did to me – it’s painful.

This is why you shouldn’t fuck kids. What should be beautiful and pretty and sweet and innocent – like first boyfriends and first kisses and ‘I like you’ – becomes a whole other thing fraught with rape potential in our heads. We can’t separate who you are with who has already used our bodies. Even though we want you – the ones we have chosen – we can’t figure out if you are like the ones who have already hurt us. The piss is – we want to figure it out. We are just like all the other girls and boys; we too want healthy beautiful romantic tangible love that we can feel with our hands and our hearts. But we can’t get there because of what has already happened to us.

I went to sleep thinking about my first kiss last night. This morning I woke up from a terrible rape dream. That’s why you shouldn’t fuck kids.


Reason #309: The obesity problem in society

I would like to lose weight.  I am unhappy at the weight I am at. The problem is that whenever I have lost weight in the past, I get to a certain point and no matter what I do, I can’t lose any more weight (even though I would be considered fat at that weight on any doctor’s scale).

Two years ago, I began The Sugar Addicts Recovery Program.  Kathleen DesMaisons feels that if you eat enough protein in the morning, you won’t have as many cravings through the day.  I think she is right, so I have been doing that ever since.  Then about a year ago, I found the Jon Gabriel Method. He explains that if you are anything more than 10 lbs overweight, it is because you do not feel safe losing the weight.  He says that as long as you don’t feel safe, your body will never release its hold on the weight because your body simply doesn’t want to be thin.

I couldn’t agree with him more. I have always known that my fatness was about safety.  I didn’t start gaining weight till my brother began molesting me. As an adult, every time I have tried to lose weight, I have mostly failed.  A thinner body is a smaller body.  When I was in a small body as a child, three people used my smallness to their sexual advantage.  They used my body for their sexual pleasure, and enjoyed their power over me.  When I think about being in a thinner body now, I equate it with smallness.  Smallness hasn’t worked out well for me in the past.  These thoughts and anxieties have thwarted many attempts to lose weight, and eventually my subconscious overtakes me, and I have put on more weight than I have lost in diets.

This, of course, is why you shouldn’t fuck kids. You don’t like the obesity problem in America?  Stop fucking kids.  I was once at a conference on incest, and I swear to G-d, every single one of us (and I’m talking hundreds of people) was overweight.  Some of us were massively overweight.  We have all cleverly figured out that weight is a good shield, a good measure of insulation that keeps people far the fuck away from us. And honestly, this has worked pretty well for me so far.  Somehow when I reach a certain weight, I become invisible to men. This weight has kept me safe.

But the truth is that my adult self is unhappy with this weight now.  I don’t feel protected by it so much anymore. Instead, I feel hampered by it. I feel like my weight is holding me back from being my best self.

As you know from my last post, this year is my year of trying to empower myself. I have spent a lot of time working through this issue in therapy, and listening to Jon Gabriel’s visualizations.  And today I had such a lovely thought.  I tried to imagine myself in a thinner body.  And immediately my mind did its usual thing where thinness=smallness=me getting violated again. But today I changed the ending of that thought. The violator still tries to violate me, but in my thinner smaller body, I am confident and fit.  I am strong and I have a good relationship with my body.  My body and I work together and I fight my would-be violator, and I KICK HIS FUCKING ASS.

He will think twice before ever fucking with me again.

Reason #308: Good coming from evil

My mom called today, and she said “You know, I was thinking about your situation with the babysitter, and it’s such a case of good coming from evil.”

I said “How do you mean?”

She said, “Well look how much she hurt you.  Look how that has fueled your passion about child sexual abuse.  You’re doing so much good on behalf of survivors, and I think that never would have happened were it not for that babysitter.”

I think that when bad things happen to good people, we all want to make meaning of it.  I think that making meaning of tragedy or evil is a human way of processing terrible things. But I really do think that good can come from bad, and maybe that is me trying to make meaning of the babysitter, my brother, and my father all using my body against my will.

I think I am passionate about survivors’ voices being heard because of my own painful experiences. At the same time – all of this comes at quite a fucking cost.  It’s true that trauma survivors are much more empathetic to pain because we know what that pain feels like, but the problem is that no one is home with us at night to see what is really happening, so the whole thing seems so seamless.

Can good come from bad? Yes. But generally it means ‘good for society’ but still ‘bad for me’.

I write a blog in secret that details every new time my child abuse history interferes with my adult life. It’s good for society because it breaks the secret, continually.  Generally speaking, I am very empathetic to anyone else’s pain, which is also probably good for society. However, I am still afraid to leave my house, and my nights are punctuated from beginning to end with fear. Even though good has come from bad, I’m still fucked up.  That’s why 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 #296: Oprah’s interview of four child molesters

I have had this episode of Oprah on my DVR for months now, and I was finally feeling ‘safe’ enough to watch it.  In this episode, she had a candid conversation with four convicted child molesters, all of whom had been in therapy for years after their conviction.

Child Molester 1: 65 year old pedophile who was convicted for molesting a 5 year old girl who was not his biological grandchild, but called him ‘Grandpa’.

Child Molester 2: Man in his early 40’s, convicted of molesting his 12 year old daughter.

Child Molester 3: Man in his 20’s, convicted of molesting his cousin who was 3 years younger than him.  Started molesting her when he was 8 and she was 5.

Child Molester 4: Man in his 20’s, convicted of raping teenagers.

All acknowledged that they still had the capacity to be harmful to children except for #4, which I thought was hilarious because of them all, he seemed like the most likely to rape a child again.  So he was obviously also in the most denial. 

Anyway, so Oprah was interviewing them, and they were all answering candidly.  They all said that trust from their victims was essential, and that they worked very hard to gain their victims’ trust to make sure that they could then go on to molest these kids.  They said that even when their victims told on them, the molesters told lies to the parents so that the molesters would be believed and the victims would be called liars.

Almost towards the end of the interview, she asked them all if there was anything that any of the victims could have done to stop the molestation at any point.  They all acknowledged, after prodding from their therapist, that there was nothing that their victims could have done at any point to stop the molestations from occurring.  Except for the father who molested his daughter.  He said this: “She did stop me. She did the absolute right thing by turning me in to the police.  She has every right to protect herself.”

This father understood that he was doing something very wrong when he was molesting her, and in his own words he formed ‘an obsession’ with her.  I have read about these kinds of incesters before, and it is a specific sub-type of incest, where they form an obsession with their own daughter.  My dad’s type of incest was different, in that he only started wanting me when my mom rejected him for a few years (sleeping in separate bedrooms for years, etc.).  Please don’t mistake me – this is not and was not my mom’s fault.  A normal father does not start wanting his daughter if his wife isn’t putting out.  It wasn’t my mom’s fault that he molested me.  It was, however, her fault for not being physically or emotionally present for me, which created an atmosphere that allowed my father to molest me.  But it was not her fault that he molested me – that is his fault. 

Anyway, after that father said that bit about his daughter having every right to protect herself – I thought to myself about his daughter’s healing trajectory.  Hopefully she heals from her abuse with the knowledge that even her own perpetrator felt she did the right thing by turning him in. As someone who did ask the court for protection against her dad, I know first-hand how traumatic the whole thing can be. 

As you know, my Dad and I are forming our own healing trajectory that is somewhat tentative and shaky.  He has apologized for being an overall shitty dad, and has since made many attempts at amends. He has made reparations and apologies, and most importantly, acts totally different around me now than he used to.  He is supportive and respects my current boundaries, for the most part. However, even with all that, our relationship is as good as it can ever be – and what that means for me is only seeing him in the presence of others, and never EVER leaving my son alone with him under any circumstances.

That is what healing looks like under the best of circumstances.  It means being together with one of my perpetrators only in the presence of others. It means never fully trusting my father even though he has apologized and acts differently towards me as an adult than he did when I was an adolescent.  It means never being able to hug my dad without worrying that he has sinister intentions.  It means always being on guard with my father. It means watching other people and their dads, and never understanding the kind of closeness they seem to have.

This is why you shouldn’t fuck kids.

Reason #280: Valentine’s Day

Valentine’s Day is coming up.  It will be my first since the breakup of my marriage, though certainly not my first V-Day spent alone.  I was alone for many Valentines’  Days before I got married.

The one that stands out was the one spent during my freshman year of college.  I binged on sugar that night, and began a long crying jag.  My mom ended up picking me up from school that night because she was worried about me.  She said I was fucked up from eating too much sugar.  What she didn’t understand then and doesn’t understand now is that eating too much sugar is/was a SYMPTOM of the problem, not the problem itself.

I ate too much sugar that day because I was terribly sad.  I was terribly sad because I understood that I was different from all those girls with boyfriends (like my freaking roommate that year), and I would always be different from those girls.  Of course they had boyfriends!  They weren’t afraid of sex!!  And I knew I always would be.  I knew that my brother and father had scared me away from anything resembling consensual sex or healthy sex or boyfriends or loving valentines days, etc.  (At that time, I didn’t know there was a third molester yet.) So yeah, I ate a shitload of sugar to try to anesthesize these shitty feelings.  But instead of anesthesizing it, it just made the whole situation worse.  As I ate each stupid candy heart, I was reminded of my own fatness, my own disgustingness, my own unloveability.

This week, I talked to my therapist about how painful this Valentine’s Day will be for me, this being the first one I have to face alone in a while.  I mean, my husband and I were together for nine years, married for seven of them.  She didn’t seem to truly understand VDay as a painful day for me.  She told me to celebrate the day for what it is, a celebration of love.

I told her that I was right all along, from back in my college days.  I knew I was different then, and I still understand myself as that now.  I told her that what actually happened in this marriage is that two ‘differents’ found each other and fell in love.  I was different because three people fucked me, and he was different because he was born in the wrong body.  Two ‘differents’ found each other, and now that we know for sure that love is not enough to save what was ultimately doomed from the start, we are each alone again, and I want to eat a shitload of candy again to numb the pain.

This is why you shouldn’t fuck kids.  Valentine’s day comes every year, and every year I am painfully reminded that I feel like a freak.

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 #278: Manipulating Body Size to Avoid Sexual Attention
February 1, 2012, 8:34 pm
Filed under: Uncategorized | Tags: , , , ,

I happened upon the Incest Survivors’ Aftereffects Checklist by E. Sue Blume , and I was perusing it.  I, of course, have many of the symptoms on this list.  But then my eyes rested upon this one: “Manipulating body size to avoid sexual attention”.  This is SOOOO me.  Somehow every time I am in a relationship, I end up gaining a shitload of weight.  I gained so much weight in my marriage that the number was pretty astounding.  The number of pounds gained was so much, it would almost seem like a conscious decision to gain it.  But it wasn’t, and I have always been generally consciously unhappy with my weight.

I first started gaining weight after my brother began abusing me.  I didn’t start throwing up my food until my father started molesting me.  I have always been overweight, and I have tried every possible diet that there is to try, from Atkins to Weight Watchers to counting calories to nutritionists, etc, etc, etc.

The truth is, and I can only understand this now in retrospect, I have been manipulating my body size to avoid sexual attention.  During my thinner times, males have felt perfectly comfortable walking up to me and asking me out.  They have felt okay with talking to me to get to know me better in order to ask me out.  They have felt okay talking to my friends about me to see if I like them.  I cannot even count how many places I have literally run away from because some guy has done these things. Once I was in a restaurant and when I was in the bathroom, the waiter told someone at my table that he thought I was cute.  She told me about it when I got back to the table, and the way I handled it was to hide behind her as we walked out of the restaurant.

Somehow when I gain weight, the number of males that show interest me is greatly reduced.  It’s like by becoming fatter, I actually become more invisible to men.

The heterosexual female part of me likes the idea of attention from men.  But the molested girl part of me usually takes over and then all of me runs away.

I asked my therapist about the manipulation of body size stuff, and she said that in her practice she has noticed that whatever way the child looked like while being molested becomes the opposite of what they choose to look like in adulthood.  So, for instance if a little girl has been thin her whole childhood until some asshole molests her, then she chooses to become fat (subconsciously, in my case). And if a little girl is overweight, she becomes anorexic, etc.  I don’t think this applies to everyone, but shit, it sure is true in my case.

I don’t think I would have ever had such profound weight issues, and such profound eating disorders, and such a profoundly fucked up relationship with my body and with food if three people hadn’t molested me.  This is why you shouldn’t fuck kids.

Reason #277: Scary dream, was it real?

Last night I had another ‘touch me against my will’ dream.  I have spoken before on this blog about my bad dreams.  One of the many reasons you shouldn’t fuck kids – we get bad dreams for the rest of our lives about being touched against our will.

Anyway, back to the dream.  So in the dream, my cousin’s grandfather (who has been dead for at least ten years now) came into my bedroom and put his hands on my breasts.  It was like he was in a trance or something; he was so intent upon touching my breasts.  I remembered that if I could yell NOOOO, then it might stop.  I tried to yell no with all my might, but instead it came out as a small faint breathy nooooo.  I tried again and the same thing happened.  I shifted my body position so that he wouldn’t be able to touch my breasts and that didn’t work either. I mean, I was able to shift my body position, but somehow he was still able to touch my breasts anyway. 

I woke up from the dream and looked around the room expecting to see him there.  G-d damn that was scary.  I asked my sweet doggie to please lay down next to me where only moments before the spector of my cousin’s grandpa had touched me.  My sweet doggie laid down next to me and stayed there the rest of the night.  The rest of the night was spent in fitful moments of sleep after that.  I couldn’t stop thinking about the dream, and I couldn’t get any true rest.  I sure was tired when I woke up this morning.

I am now tasked with making sense of that dream.  Is it about my dad?  He was the only one (to my conscious knowledge) to touch my breasts.  Or am I supposed to understand this dream as the possibility of a 4th abuser in my life?  I don’t think that’s the answer, but shit, I married a man who ended up being a woman.  What the fuck do I know about what’s real or true anymore?

Or was the dream yet another in an endless line of dreams designed to make me reflect on what it felt like to be touched against my will?  In this dream, I was so scared.  I realized how powerless and scared I felt in the dream, how little-girl-like I was, how big he was and how indomitable the whole situation felt.  There wasn’t much I could do to stop what was happening, and even my own voice (which might have been able to save me) failed me.

I am not sure what to make of the dream, but I sure am afraid to go to sleep tonight for fear that he will touch me again in my sleep.  I think I will ask my doggie to sleep next to me from the start of the night, instead of waiting until after the bad dream happens.

%d bloggers like this: