Reasons You Shouldn’t Fuck Kids

Reason #236: My Husband

In my last post, I said that my husband had some game-changing news, but I was unable to say what it was because it was too painful.  Well, here it is.  My husband said that he thinks he is a female in a male’s body.  He is thinking about actually becoming a woman, through surgical means.  At the very least, he is probably going to live as a woman for a while. 

I know.  It’s shocking.  Take a minute.  It’s been some time for me, and I’m still somewhat shocked.

Anyway, back to me… This revelation on his part is problematic for me because I know that I am mostly heterosexual.  I spent some time in gay relationships, and even though I loved my first girlfriend very much, we proved that love was not enough to save a doomed relationship.  I spent much of our sex life pretending and fantasizing that she was a man just to get through the sex.  I was VERY afraid of penis, and my girlfriends were very masculine women and I loved them.  But unfortunately, I am not gay, and I proved it. And if my husband does become a woman, I just don’t think I will be attracted to him in that way anymore.  I mean, I can’t say for certain, because you never know, but I don’t think I will be.

There’s a saying in Judaism that it is better to light a candle than curse the darkness.  I keep cursing my own survivorhood that brought me to this marriage, brought me to this place in my life.  I don’t know how to find the light in this, and I keep desperately trying.  I suppose that is the dark truth about desperation.  It is nearly impossible to find the light when you are desperate. 

Truly, I hate myself through all of this, even though I kind of understand that it’s not my fault.  The thing is, I of course would marry a man so safe that he is actually a woman!  I was so afraid of penis, and here was a guy willing to wait the TWO YEARS of dating that it took for us to be able to fuck each other.  Now I understand that he just wasn’t all that interested in sex, and he wasn’t interested in it because he didn’t really feel comfortable with his penis.

I was pretty mad at him at first, when he told me about being a woman.  I did all the standard “Why did you ask me to marry you” and “How could you not know” questions.  But in the end, I realized that this is a process for him, and he just didn’t know.  He just didn’t understand why he felt so different, and he feels more at peace now that he understands more of who he is.

Every night since all this started, I have been awake while my husband sleeps.  I sit there in bed, in the dark, and think about all this stuff.  I don’t really understand how to be in bed with him anymore, and also how not to be in bed with him anymore.

In our latest marital therapy session, I told the therapist I want us to stop working on trying to fuck each other.  I explained that when I decided to get into this relationship with my husband, I made a pact with myself that I would not just be a body in this relationship.  This time would be different, I decided, because I would allow both my body and my heart to be involved.  So many times in the past, I was only sexual with people because it was just my body, not my heart.  The way it was with my brother where I would dissociate completely from my body, and he would do shit to my body, but I wouldn’t really be there for it, and so it was okay to survive it.  I would recreate that situation again and again in my life with each new lover, and I just didn’t want that with my husband.  (By the way, that shit about just being a body in sexual situations, and recreating unhealthy situations – that right there is why you shouldn’t fuck kids.  I would put money on the fact that almost all of us fucked kids do this.  And I’d be rich if I did.)

Anyway, the therapist understood, and we agreed that we aren’t sure where to take this from here on.  We originally got into marital therapy because we weren’t fucking each other, and I wanted us to.  Now we’re still not fucking each other, but I can’t fuck him unless I am sure our marriage is going to last.  If he actually becomes a woman, I am fairly certain that I cannot continue in this asexual marriage.  And I feel terrible about that, because I feel like I am abandoning him in the middle of such a difficult time.  (Although, we have both acknowledged that we will probably hopefully always be best friends, since we love each other and respect each other so much.)

In our latest marital therapy session, we both acknowledged that our marriage might be over.  My husband, in tears, said “I am sorry that I could not be the husband you need and deserve.” I told him that I wouldn’t take away a minute of falling in love with him, as it was and still is the best thing that ever happened to me.  At this point, the therapist started to cry.  After the session was over, I told my husband that it’s never a good sign when the therapist cries over your failed marriage issues.  We laughed through tears about that.

I married the safest man alive – a man so safe that he is actually a woman in a man’s body, apparently- and I did that because of my history of sexual abuse.   This is why you shouldn’t fuck kids.

Reason #209: Beating up the little girl inside

The other night, my husband and I were in bed, and he started kissing me.  As my regular readers know, we are having trouble trying to fuck each other, and the kissing was a really welcome surprise.  Anyway, so we’re kissing, and a picture of my brother flashed into my brain.  I quickly pushed the image away and told myself I am with my husband, I am safe, everything’s okay, and BAM – there’s my brother again.  Dammit.  So I push his image out of my mind again and beg myself not to fuck this up for us, that it’s been so long since we have kissed like this, and BAM – there he is again.  ‘Okay,’ I tell myself ‘He’s not really here.  It’s just me and my husband. Please, please don’t fuck this up.  It’s been so long since we have kissed like this’ and BAM – there’s my brother again.  At that point, I stopped kissing my husband.  I yet again fucked it up for us.

My husband realized what was happening and said in a quiet, soothing voice, “Everything’s okay.  It’s just us in bed, just two adults relaxing.  We only do what we want to do and when you don’t want to do something, we stop.”

His hand was still on my hip, and I was laying there trying to breathe, but it was dark and I was afraid and I kept staring at him and trying to will his hand away.  He realized what was happening and took his hand away, gently.

“I’m sorry” I said. 

“You have nothing to apologize for, baby.  Like I said, nothing’s gonna happen that you don’t want to happen” he said.

So we talked about it in our marital therapy session this week.  She said that I have a “sex map”, that we all have “sex maps”, and that my road always goes to that scene with my brother.  She said that the more times it happens like that, the more times it is imprinted on the map.  She said that I keep trying to will it away, but she explained that instead of trying to be a hero with this, I need to listen to myself.

Then she said some pretty interesting stuff.  She said that these flashbacks and scary thoughts are really my body’s way of warning me.  She said that when the sex abuse happened to me, I didn’t have a choice, and now I am in a situation where I am about to be sexual again, and this is my body warning me that last time this happened it was bad.

She told me I need to stop beating myself up over this every time I fuck up our intimate times.  She said it nicer than that, obviously.  Whenever I say ‘I fucked it up’, she says “You didn’t fuck it up, the trauma fucked it up, and you’re reacting to the trauma.”

Anyway though – this is the part that stuck with me – she said “When you beat yourself up like that, you think you are going to beat yourself into not ‘fucking it up’ again, but that’s not what happens.  When you beat yourself up, I want you to imagine beating up that little girl inside you, the one who is trying to warn you about the bad stuff. When you beat yourself up like that, you are really beating her up.  She’s trying with all her might to protect you, and you keep beating her up for it.  Instead, you need to open yourself to listen to the message, not beat yourself up for getting the warning signals.” 

Then she said that in our next alone session, she would teach me how to find out what my body was trying to tell me.

Reason #200: This terrible thing happened to me

I have been seeing our marital counselor by myself once every other week, ostensibly to work on me, in order to fix ‘us’.

I saw her this week, and she naturally asked me how I am doing.  I told her I have been waking up at night, afraid and hypervigilant.  She asked how long that has been going on.  (I wanted to say “as long as I can remember.”)  But I thought about it and said “Ever since that ant fell on my head.”

She asked me what happens for me when I wake up like that.  I described what happens.  I lay there awake and afraid, wondering if I am hearing the voices of rapists downstairs.  So I listen, listen, listen so carefully.  Wait, was that something?  There it is again, do I hear him?  Quiet.  Listen.  Listen.  Nothing.  There’s nothing there, Butterfly, I tell myself.  Wait, was that something?  Listen, listen, listen.

She said “What if there were someone there? What happens then?”

I explained how I had given this a lot of thought, and how I would run and get the baby and lock the door and call the cops.  How I keep a pair of scissors on my headboard and I would grab them and stab him.   I keep a heavy flashlight and then I would hit him across the head.

Then I said “But the truth is, at the end of the anxious scene in my head, I am always bloody and battered and then I have to go to the hospital and tell everyone what happened to me.”

She said “And what if that happened?”

Here’s where I started to cry, as usual in her fucking office apparently. I said “Then I would know this horrible thing had happened to me, and I would have to walk around everywhere as if nothing had happened, when really this terrible thing had happened to me that split my world apart.”

She said “Is that maybe how you feel right now? That this terrible thing happened to you and you have to walk around knowing it happened to you but you have to act as though it didn’t?”  As usual, she reads my mind.

I nodded and looked at her through tears, and said yes.

This terrible thing happened to me.  This babysitter came into our home and my brother and I were so small and we were so trusting and our parents were in the middle of getting a divorce, so we were just getting used to living with only mom instead of a mom and a dad.  And mom left us to do whatever it was that she just had to fucking do that night, and hired this terrible woman to keep us safe for the night.  And instead of keeping us safe, that babysitter hurt us, irrevocably.  She asked us if we wanted to play a game, and we didn’t have a choice in playing the game, and she hurt me and she hurt him and she hurt us and we’ve never been the same.  And since her arrival into our lives, I have been terrified of the whole world ever since.  She hurt us, terribly, and it was really scary and we didn’t have anywhere we could go or anyone we could tell and we knew for sure then that evil exists and could come get us any time we were caught unaware.

Before her, my heart was whole and my smile was real. This terrible thing happened to me, she did this terrible thing, to us, and every day since I have had to smile and act as though I am whole, when really I am broken and shattered into a million little pieces.  That’s why you shouldn’t fuck kids.

Reason #193: Shopping for a therapist

So I’ve been shopping for a therapist lately.  As my regular readers already know, I already have a marital therapist, and we determined that my fucked-upness is fucking up my marriage and possibility of having another baby, and so it would be best for me to find my own therapist.  As most of you probably know, finding a therapist that you like can be difficult.  I once read a study that said that no matter what else happens in therapy, when people like their therapist, their chances of healing are much greater than those who didn’t like their therapist.  So, even if you have fucking Carl Jung himself as your therapist, if you don’t like him, you’re not going to get any better.

So, I called some therapists and left some messages.  I have seen so many therapists in my life already, and 95% of them have been total crap.  But I had two really great ones, and I am seeing a really great marital counselor now.  So there’s hope.

Anyway, one of them calls me back, and this is how the conversation went.

Doc: “Hi, this is Dr. ThinkI’mGreatButReallyISuck.  You left me a message.  I need to let you know that I am not accepting new patients until November.”

Me: Oh. Well, I guess that will be okay, it’s only 2 months away.

Doc:  I see.  What are you looking for exactly?

Me: I need someone who has some expertise in the area of child sexual abuse.

Doc: I see.  Is that because you are a survivor yourself, or is your child a survivor, or is it someone you know-

Me: (cutting her off) It’s me.

Doc: I see.  Have you ever been in therapy before?

Me: Yes.

Doc: I see.  And how long ago was this?

Me: (Starting to feel weird – do I have to tell her about my past therapists?  I don’t know her at all, and I already had to tell her I am a survivor, and I feel vulnerable.)  Uh, look, this is getting kind of weird.  You’ve been asking a lot of questions, and I haven’t gotten to ask you any.  I feel like I am telling you my life story, and I am trying to ascertain if you are even someone I should be seeing or not, and it seems like you are interviewing me before I have even made the decision to see you.

Doc: (defensive)  Well, I am just trying to see if you need someone earlier than November, and you said you were-

Me: (cutting her off): I don’t think this is going to work.  I’m sorry.

Doc: (pause) Okay.  (click)

Now I guess I have to call some more possible therapists.  But honestly, I already just saw one a few weeks ago who turned out to be an idiot (because she couldn’t keep up with the conversation, and I tend to go quick), and now with this last phone call, I don’t feel like it.

My marital therapist has offered to be my personal therapist.  It gives me a weird feeling, and I am not sure what to do.  On the one hand, she seems to really understand me.  On the other hand, there’s the weird gut feeling I have every time I think of seeing her as my personal therapist.

There was a spider in my room last night.  I think the Universe is trying to tell me something.

Reason #185: That fucking ant
July 16, 2010, 2:19 pm
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We’re sitting in our marital therapy session, and I spent the majority of the session crying.  What’s funny is that with my other two therapists, I cried maybe twice in their offices.  With this new therapist, this is my 3rd time crying in the six months or so since we’ve been seeing her.  This makes me think that perhaps marriage, and the intimacy that is required of good marriage, hits me in a place so deeply that it makes me cry.

Anyway, so we were talking about the ant that fell on my face while I was sleeping.  That fucking ant.  That motherfucking G-ddammed horrible shithead of an ant that has torn my whole sense of safety in my home to complete and utter shit.  That fucking ant.

In therapy, I projected everything at the huz.  How I need to leave this marriage because he doesn’t want another baby, and this ant made that clear.  How I am tired of fighting with him about it.  How he obviously doesn’t care about me. 

She says “Wait a minute.  Last week, you were both taking some great steps, and you felt like you were really moving towards something great together as a couple.  Last week, he assured you he does want a baby and that he does care about you.  So let’s take a step backwards and discuss how an ant means the dissolution of your whole marriage.”

So we started talking about it.  As we were talking about it, I realized that it was ME who was afraid of having a baby, and that fucking ant was the crack in the system that showed it to me.  I have been unable to sleep in our bedroom since that ant fell on me.  I have been living on edge ever since that ant fell on me, because that ant, as miniscule as it is, is proof that things can and will touch you, by surprise, without your permission.  Can you imagine trying to care for a newborn while being afraid of your own bedroom?  Me neither, and that realization was fairly upsetting.  That fucking ant.

The therapist said “What if the ant falls on you?”  I said “Then it will have touched me without my permission.” 

She said “Okay, and what then?”  I said “Well, it can go in my ear.” 

She said “Okay, and what then?”  I said “Well, sometimes bugs get stuck in people’s ears.  Then I would have to go to the hospital and get it surgically removed. As a matter of fact, that is a major reason that children in the inner city visit the emergency room.”

She said “Okay, and what then?”  Here’s where I started to cry.  I said “And then I would have to walk around knowing that there had been an ant in my ear and I had to have it surgically removed, and everyone would act like I was normal, and I would know I wasn’t.  I would have been through this horrible thing and I would have to act like nothing happened in my every day life, when really my whole life had been torn apart. And I would be afraid every day after that because I would know for sure that ants fall in your ear.”

She said “Oh sweetie.  So you never get to ‘okay’, do you?  There’s always something worse down the line, and nothing ever gets to the point of okay.”

I looked at her through tears, and the truth is, ‘okay’ was never even a thought in my mind.  She was exactly right. 

She said “You have lived your whole life trying to navigate down such a narrow path so that danger never comes near you.  Really, if you think about it, it’s quite a smart strategy, and it has helped you survive terrible things.  But it’s not working for you anymore.  That little girl inside you is so afraid and she keeps alerting you to all possible dangers, and the adult you is suffering along with her.”

The truth about that ant is that it proved to me that no matter what steps I take to be safe, I am never 100% completely safe.  That ant is the crack in my system, the chink in my armor.   And if an ant can fit through the cracks of my system, who knows what the fuck else can fit through there?   And now I am worried that if something as small as an ant can show me my fragility and my lack of safety, I feel hopeless as to ever feeling safe again.  Hopeless.  That’s why you shouldn’t fuck kids.

P.S.  I made an appointment with a second therapist.  I hope she is good.

Reason #182: It fucks our partners too
June 30, 2010, 2:18 pm
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Last week, the huz and I were were at our marital therapy session, and the big topic of discussion was the fact that I want another baby, and I feel like he doesn’t. So we’re sitting there, hashing it out, when finally he began to talk about how he has so much responsibility since I am so afraid all the time, and everything falls on him. This is completely true. As most of my posts show, I am afraid of many many things, and this leaves all kinds of slack that the huz is either forced to pick up or let go. I don’t like the noise of the dishwasher, I can’t shower when he’s not here, laundry machine makes noise, etc. All these things can only be done when he is home, or not at all. Sometimes I do these things when he is home, sometimes he does these things, but the fact that they are timed for only the times when he is home makes the whole thing a lot more difficult.

Then there are the other ways he gets fucked. I am afraid to take the baby for a walk by myself, afraid to take the baby to the mall by myself, etc. The theme here is ‘by myself’, and since my fear stops me from doing these things, they of course fall to him or us together. The man never gets any peace, except for when I watch the baby here at home and he goes outside by himself.

The thing is, I didn’t know he felt so fucked up by all this that it was inhibiting us from having another baby.  Now, a 2nd baby might not be in the cards for us right now for many other reasons, starting with the fact that we’re not fucking each other.  Unless a star appears in the East again, we need to start fucking each other to have a baby.  Lately it seems like he’s ready for sex, and I of course am not.  Every time I think about trying to have sex, I get all fucked up and scared.  Not at all unusual for me, as this reason has come up several times in this blog.

So, to sum up, everything falls on him, and we’re not fucking each other. That’s why you shouldn’t fuck kids.  You not only fuck us, you fuck our partners too.

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 #148: Arguing with the therapist
January 25, 2010, 1:37 am
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So, this week the huz and I went to our marital therapist’s office, and it came up in conversation that our son’s crib is still in our bedroom.  The therapist’s reaction was so visceral.  She was like “He has to be in his own room!”  And I said “Why?”  She said “Well, you’re not having any sex.”  I said “Well, we weren’t having any before he was conceived either.”  (Seriously folks, when we knew we wanted a baby, we made a concerted effort to have sex 3 times, and thank goodness, one of those times was successful.) 

Her reaction made me feel ashamed though.  The thing is, we were ready to move him to his own room a long time ago.  But he would scream and cry for hours, and I just didn’t feel right about it.  I remember all too well what it was like to cry myself to sleep, and I don’t want my son to have that memory too.  Plus, I think we all know how I feel about cry-it-out bullshit.

You know, in the wild, no sane animal puts her young out to sleep far away from her.  I have seen enough human animals in my lifetime to understand why this is so.

Anyway though, that argument with the therapist made me feel weird.  I am not ready to give up on her yet, but now I need to find my balls and talk to her about it when we go back to her this week.  I felt judged, and it made me feel vulnerable because she knows my sex abuse history.  This is why you shouldn’t fuck kids.

Reason #144: I trusted them too
January 12, 2010, 1:45 am
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I was sitting in our marital therapist’s office today, because today was my alone session.  She asked me to picture my panic when I am panicked with my husband.  I have written about these sorts of panics many times here on this blog (for instance, see Reason #114).  Anyway, she asked me to picture it.  She said “Does it feel real to you?”  I started to cry.  Yes, it felt real.  Too fucking real, so I started to cry.

She asked what was happening inside for me that was making me cry.  She said “What about the situation with your husband makes you panicked and makes you question whether or not he’s a serial killer, or anything else bad?”

I said “I had three abusers.  I trusted them too.  They weren’t supposed to hurt me either, and yet they did, and I was surprised by it.  And I don’t want to be surprised by my husband’s betrayal too.  So I keep guarding myself against a betrayal from him.”

I keep my guard up, and that way at least I won’t be surprised by it when it happens.

Constantly on guard with my sweet husband.  This is why you shouldn’t fuck kids.

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