Reasons You Shouldn’t Fuck Kids

Reason #59: Gasping at the F word
March 21, 2009, 2:54 pm
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As my regular readers know, we have just fired our marital therapist (not for lack of need, but for her own lack of sense). Anyway, I still need to see a shrink for my own panic shit, and we still need to see a marital counselor. We can’t afford to see a shrink for me and a counselor for us though.

I was thinking about how that conversation with the insurance company would go:

Insurance Agent: I see here that you have two different therapists helping you.
Butterfly: (nodding head) Yes, that’s right.
Insurance Agent: Why do you have two different therapists?
Butterfly: Well, you see, one is for me, and one is for my husband and I to see together.
Insurance Agent: You can’t have two therapists. Insurance companies don’t pay for two therapists.
Butterfly: Well now that’s why you shouldn’t fuck kids. We need two therapists to help us survive.

Then there would be a gasp on the insurance company’s end because I said the word “fuck”. I mean, what is it with that word? It’s okay to say it at home, but out in public we all pretend we don’t use that word. And people go out and pretend they are good decent people, and then they go home and fuck kids. I figure as long as people are fucking kids, I am going to go ahead and use those words to describe it. It’s not a pretty word to hear, and it’s even less pretty to live through 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?”

Reason #50: The new therapist and the dog

So the huz and I are in marriage counseling, as you might know from my previous post. As any good marriage counselor does, she made us come in separately once so that she can get our history.

I saw her a few days ago for my ‘single’ session with her. She asked me about my history, my family. I told her about the babysitter and then about my brother. She immediately starts with ‘it’s okay if you enjoyed it’. Well, I didn’t enjoy it. I handled it by pretending I wasn’t there, and wishing the whole thing would go fast and be over soon. Then she says how it’s okay if he didn’t coerce me into it. I was like well I said no a bunch of times, but apparently my no’s meant jackshit to my brother.

I hate it when therapists try to jump in and fix my shit before knowing all my shit, you know?

Then we started talking about whether my brother was fucked up or not. I told her I walked in on him molesting our dog when I was a teenager. That’s when the therapist got visibly upset. (shaking my head in disbelief while writing this). Apparently it’s okay to fuck me, but fucking the dog – that’s too much.

As I sat across from her though, I too started getting upset. I thought about it, about what my brother was doing to the dog, and I started to cry inside. My sweet beloved doggie, whom I couldn’t do right by. When I walked in on it happening, I wasn’t sure what to do. I told mom about it. I have no idea how she handled it. I like to think it never happened again, probably because I took pains never to leave the dog alone with my brother again. I was terrified of him though and I am sure I didn’t handle the situation right. I wonder now what right would have been. Would it have been maybe giving up my beloved dog to a proper home? In a house of crazy, was it okay to keep the one being that loved me? I don’t know. I feel terrible about the fact that I couldn’t protect my dog.

I suppose it is easier to be upset about the dog than about me. It is easier to face, and yet more horrible to face at the same time.

The session went on, now with both of us upset. She asked me if I thought he would molest children again. I said without a doubt yes, but he is not a pedophile. There is a difference between child molestors and pedophiles (though neither are desirable). A pedophile is sexually gratified by children, whereas a child molester generally molests for power via sexual abuse. There’s a difference. Anyway, I think my brother is the latter kind. He wouldn’t go out of his way to molest a child or a dog, but the world is a lot safer if he doesn’t have any kids. (Or dogs.)

I told the therapist that I have watched him very closely my whole life, making sure he is never alone with children. If he ever got close to a kid, I promised myself I would go public with what he did to me. No child will suffer by my silence.

The therapist said that when I said that I watched him closely my whole life, she got sad for me. She said no child should have to watch anyone that closely. She is right; I am trying to protect the world at large in a way I couldn’t protect myself or my pet. This is why you shouldn’t fuck kids.

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