Reasons You Shouldn’t Fuck Kids

Reason #262: It has been a shit year
October 31, 2011, 7:49 pm
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May I vent for a moment?

It’s been a shit year.  Just a shit fucking year.  My husband told me he thinks he’s a woman, and consequently, we are divorcing each other. 

My life was hijacked by serious medical problems these last two months.  I am very grateful to have survived it all, but I am somewhat traumatized by the experience of all this. I am still trying to get back to my ‘normal life’.  For instance, I went with the huz/wife to get my son a haircut yesterday, and I realized it was the first time I had been able to do that since all this medical shit started.  Thank G-d.  After being laid up in a hospital bed for 11 days and then another 5 days, these mundane chores look like heaven. 

I had to take a medical leave of absence from my job, and it makes me feel like a giant asshole.  This was not my choice.  I used up all my sick time, so my employer told me to go.  I will hopefully be able to get back to work soon.

I am scared of sleeping again.  Scared of falling asleep.  Scared of waking up in the middle of the night. I was just getting used to sleeping in my bedroom alone and then I went into the hospital, and everything ever since has just been plain weird.  That’s why you shouldn’t fuck kids.  Every new trauma compounds the old trauma.  Theoretically, being hospitalized for gall bladder complications should have nothing to do with the fact that three people molested me when I was a kid.  And yet every night I can’t fucking sleep and I am so afraid, and I pull the covers up over my head as if the covers can protect me from them touching me.

The only good thing happening in my life right now is my sweet beautiful son, who has been even more sweet since the hospitalization.  He has been saying “I love you mama” so much more.  I feel terrible for him, because I know all this has been brought on by the trauma of losing me to the hospital/subsequent recovery.  But I also hope that time will hopefully heal this for him.  I keep trying to reassure him that I am much better now, but I know what it is like to hear adults say this kind of shit to you and inside you have a different truth from the one they are telling you to believe.

All those years in my childhood when I was afraid to sleep, afraid to be outside alone, afraid afraid afraid, all the idiot experts told my mom that time would heal my wounds.  So we kept waiting for time to perform its magic trick and heal me. But time didn’t work for me. I am as afraid now as I was then.  If anything, I am more afraid now; I am just better at hiding it most of the time.

It has been a shit year.  Whenever I say that, I think of the other shit years in my life. 2000  was also a shit year for me.  I asked the law to protect me from my father and cried in front of everyone that year.  1989 was also a shit year – my mother asked the courts to protect her from my father.  I had to tell people what my dad did to me.

I guess some years are shit years.  Maybe next year will be better.

Reason #260: Kids think it’s their fault

I was recently hospitalized again (same problem as before, only this time they actually removed my gall bladder).  When I got home from the hospital, the huz/wife and I spent some time explaining to our son that when we touch mama, we have to be very careful around my tummy. 

My sweet son gently put his hand on my tummy and said “We have to be gentle with mama’s tummy.” Later, he found me alone in my room and he looked me in the eyes and asked “Did mama go to the hospital because I hurt your tummy?” 

My sweet beautiful innocent son.  That’s kids.  They can’t understand a world where they are not the center of it, so in his little mind all of this was his fault.  Obviously, I took some time to explain to him that this had nothing to do with him, that he did nothing wrong at all, and that he is a good boy.  I told him that sometimes people get hurt and they get band-aids put on them.  I helped him remember some times where he too got hurt and had band-aids too, and how it wasn’t anyone’s fault.

The whole thing got me thinking though.  When my parents got divorced, I thought it was my fault too.  And you can damn well bet that when my brother and father started with me, I thought that was my fault too.  I’m sure in my little mind, I thought the babysitter was my fault too.  That’s probably why I never said anything about it for such a long time to my mom.  The fault thing took up so much time in therapy.  I mean SO MUCH.  I would say that trying to understand that it wasn’t my fault was probably the biggest breakthrough of all my therapy.  Once I began to understand that it wasn’t my fault, I was able to begin dealing with all the other aspects of surviving child sexual abuse (like betrayal, fear, depression, etc.)

I’ve had a lot of therapy.  I know it’s not my fault.  But fucked kids automatically think it’s our fault, and it’s not until everyone in the whole world tells us it’s not our fault over and over and over again do we begin to realize that it truly wasn’t our fault.

Truly, it’s not your fault.  You could have screamed at the top of your lungs “NOOOO!!” and your perp still would have found a way to abuse you.  You could have sat on his lap naked and said “Fuck me”, and it still would have been up to him to say “This is wrong.  You are a child.  I am an adult.  I will not ever touch you in a sexual way.  Let’s get you some therapy.”

It wasn’t my son’s fault that I had to go to the hospital to get my gall bladder out.  It wasn’t my fault my parents got divorced.  It wasn’t my fault that a babysitter, a brother, and a father abused me. But I thought it was my fault till I was around 32 or so, and I am almost 38 now. That’s a long time to carry the burden of guilt of someone abusing me.

Reason #259: Survivor Sleep, again

I am still sick, in pain, nauseated, etc.  The surgeon still needs to remove my gall bladder, which will necessitate a further hospital trip, which is scaring the shit out of me.  I pretty much lay awake thinking about it, and worried that he won’t get it in time.  He refuses to touch me until the pancreatitis heals.  In the meantime, I am scared that another stone will slip into the duct and the whole thing will start all over again.

It is hard to get on the computer due to the pain levels and most of the time it is all I can do to sit there and just be alive.  I am having a stronger moment right now so I decided to get on the computer and visit with you, my blog friends. 

Today is four weeks since I entered the hospital; four weeks of new trauma to work on, compounding the old trauma.  Four weeks of sleeping fitfully, especially since I got home from the hospital.  I am scared of going to sleep.  Laying there awake at night is an exercise in fear. Actually, all of this has been an exercise in fear, frankly. 

I was thinking last night about this physical/emotional trauma, and its similarities/differences to when I was a kid, getting molested by a babysitter, and then a brother, and then a father.  As an adult, the nurses were horrific to me in the hospital, and their lack of empathy absolutely worsened my condition.  As a child, no one even knew what was happening to me, but I knew.  I guess they couldn’t be empathetic if they didn’t know what was wrong in the first place.  I guess. 

When I told my aunt what my brother did to me – I was still a child when I told her – she asked me what his penis looked like.  I guess that was her way of seeing if I was telling the truth.  I told her it looked like an egg roll, which is what it looked like to me.  My brother is uncircumsized, and I hate that I know that through firsthand knowledge.

In the hospital, the nurses were assessing my pain level constantly, trying to see if I was truly in enough pain to warrant medicine to stop the pain.  They, too, were trying to see if I was telling the truth.  Are we just a world that thinks that everyone is a fucking liar? 

When I said that he was hurting me, I wish you would have said “My G-d, what happened to you was wrong, and it wasn’t your fault.  I’m sorry I wasn’t there to protect you.  But I will be now, and I won’t let anyone hurt you again.  I will help you heal.”

To my mother’s credit, the minute I told her about the abuse with my brother, it stopped and never came back.  She believed me from the first second I uttered the words.  Thank G-d.  I guess the damage was already done.  My brother and I both had fitful sleep and nightmares and bedwetting and all the other signs of abuse after that babysitter came into our life.

I am 37, and I lay in bed awake and afraid every night.  Most nights I just keep escaping through tv shows until I am so tired I can’t keep my eyes open anymore.  But as soon as I get in bed, I am AWAKE, you know?

I dread the night. I hate survivor sleep.

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