Reasons You Shouldn’t Fuck Kids


Reason #325: The Man in the Closet in the Hotel Room
September 16, 2014, 3:19 pm
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I had to go away to a conference again, and this time I went with someone from my new job. A new friend who seems very nice, but kind of plays her cards close to the chest. I have told her a tiny bit about my childhood, opened up a little bit to share my world. She has been safe to confide in so far. I haven’t ever said anything about my PTSD though, because it’s work and I don’t want work people to know that I am so fucked up because then they will think I can’t do my job, and so far I have been able to do my job no matter what. If anything, my job has always been the only place in my life where I have experienced success.

So anyway, we had to stay in a hotel for this conference. Remember how I had to stay in a hotel for that conference a few years ago with the woman who used to cut herself, and I got scared of the imaginary man behind the curtains?

So this time I remembered to check the fucking curtains. We settled into the hotel room, we both got changed for bed, talked for a long time, and by midnight we laid down in our respective beds. We turned the lights out except for the bathroom light. You know, now that I think about it, my friend was the one who left the bathroom light on and the door opened. I wonder if she doesn’t like sleeping in the dark too? Or I wonder if it was her way of being kind to me?

So I laid down in my bed and I went through a mental checklist. I had already made sure that the door was locked in every possible way, and I checked behind the curtains. We were on the first floor, which is inherently unsafe, but I couldn’t control that. I didn’t check under the beds. I shifted in the bed so I could see under her bed. It was way too low to fit a human being under there. THE CLOSET. I didn’t check the fucking closet. I started panicking. He could be in there right now, waiting for us to fall asleep so that he can rape us by surprise.

I tried to talk to myself in a soothing way. There’s no one in there, Butterfly. There’s no one in the closet. I had such a strong vision of a man hovering over me in bed, breathing on me, me paralyzed with fear. He’s here. He’s waiting for me to relax and lose my attention on him and then he will pounce on me. I can’t. I can’t go to sleep like this, knowing he is in there. I just can’t. I leap out of bed and check the closet. I am breathing heavy and scared, and I hurriedly open the closet door. There’s no one in there, thank G-d.

I walk back to my bed and I see that my friend is staring at me with a WTF expression on her face. I am too tired to make something up. I explain that I have to check the closet or I wouldn’t sleep all night. Her face changes a little bit, but it’s an unreadable expression, and I can’t tell what she thinks. It almost seems to confirm something for her, but I can’t be sure. I don’t care.  I am just so grateful that I was able to check the closet and that no one was in there and that I can go to sleep already.

This kind of humiliating shit is why you shouldn’t fuck kids.



Reason #319: What PTSD Looks Like

Yesterday I came home from work and I was already hypervigilant because I knew I was coming home to an empty house.  My ex wasn’t home yet, and my son was still at school, so I was scared.  But I tried to remain calm.

I walked in the house and closed the door. I heard a noise behind me. I let out a blood-curdling scream. He’s here, I thought. He’s here and he’s going to hurt me.

It turns out that the noise was the sound of my dog yawning.

After I realized the source of the sound and calmed down, I looked out the window.  Did the neighbors just hear me scream like that? They already think we are nuts, this will just confirm it for them, I thought.

This is why you shouldn’t fuck kids. We acquire post-traumatic stress disorder as a means of surviving such an aberrant set of actions in our childhood. But it makes us scream when our dogs yawn.



Reason #316: One great step forward, one normal step back
September 9, 2013, 4:11 pm
Filed under: fear, night, survivor, Uncategorized | Tags: , , , ,

Last week I did something incredibly courageous. I took a shower when no one else was home. I really wanted to take a shower, and gosh darn it, I took one! It was WONDERFUL.  Generally, since the shower is such an issue for me (see this and this post), I have to wait until someone is home so that I can feel safe enough to shower.  But not last week! I fucking showered! And it was fucking great!

With every step forward, there is a step back.  Sometimes the steps forward are like giant steps, and sometimes they are more like baby steps. Last week’s shower was a fucking giant step. But progress is never linear. It doesn’t follow a straight line up.  It’s just not how progress works. Not with surviving child sexual abuse, and honestly, not with anything else either. So this week there was a minor setback.

Last night when it was time to go to bed, my ex checked under the bed and in the closet for me. She turned on the house alarm, and checked all the doors in our home to make sure they were securely locked. Then she said goodnight, and went to her room, and I stayed alone in my bedroom.  This is our usual routine. Even though I saw her check in my closet, I still couldn’t shake the fear that someone was in my closet. I knew it was my own fear, and I knew no one could possibly be in the closet, but I was still so afraid! I kept reminding myself “She checked the closet. I saw her check the closet.”  I reminded myself that when I was in the bathroom, I had my bedroom door closed.  I would have seen someone go into the bedroom. Or I would have heard them open the door and walk in.  No one could possibly be in the closet.

Then I thought about how someone could break into my home and take my son. Or rape us both. G-d forbid, G-d forbid. I am afraid right now even typing these words.

But you see what my mind did there, right?  Once I couldn’t be reasonably afraid of the closet anymore, my anxiety went to the next logical place of fear.

My therapist says that if you have done everything you possibly can to keep safe, like have a house alarm, lock your doors, and own a dog, then that is all you can do.  At that point, since you have done everything possible that you need to feel safe, you can rest assured in your own safety.

But last night it wasn’t enough. No amount of calming self-talk was enough. I was too scared, and logic couldn’t fix my fears last night. It was probably about 3AM when I finally fell asleep, after four hours of trying to calm myself enough to be able to go to sleep.

And that is the rub of being a child sexual abuse survivor.  No one sees this part, the part where we are forever scared of night and darkness and sleeping and showering because those are all things that make us vulnerable, and we understand all too well what happens to us when we are vulnerable. No one but those who live with us or those we let in to our little worlds get to see this part of us. For instance, I am meeting a friend for lunch today. She might think I look tired, and she will assume it is because I have been working so hard at work. I have been working hard at work, but you and I both know that I have also put a lot of hard work just into surviving every day and night.

Being too afraid to sleep, to the point where I only got 4 good hours of sleep last night. This is yet another effect of surviving the incest and child sexual abuse that is hidden from the world. This is why you shouldn’t fuck kids.



Reason #315: One Step Forward, One Step Back
August 27, 2013, 2:15 pm
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So you know how last week I was so courageous and I did things that scared me?  Apparently I got too cocky because G-d said “No, no, butterfly, how about fuck you instead.”

So I was feeling all good about myself because I drove myself to hard places, went to social gatherings, and didn’t let scary parking lots stop me, right?  I put up that blog post and as I was sitting there that night in my room patting myself on the back for being THAT fucking great, a spider crawls up my fucking wall.

As my long-time readers know, bugs fuck me up to no end. It all has to do with the fact that I don’t like being touched without my permission, and bugs – those fuckers – could give a shit that I am a survivor.  They don’t care that I am afraid of them, that I don’t want them crawling on me, that I will lose sleep over them, etc. They feel they have the right to exist, and apparently they feel they have the right to exist in my room.

Remember the motherfucking shithead of an ant that fell on my face when I was still married? That miserable piece of shit left me with survivor sleep for a year. A year. Last night, I was sitting up in bed frantically checking the ceilings and walls for signs of more spiders. I thought about how nice it would be to have a man beside me right now, and about how much it sucks being afraid of a spider all by yourself.

You know how you meet some women and you think to yourself “I don’t know how she does it!”  They seem to have so much on their plate, things that seem like they should break her, and yet she seems so together?  I was thinking about those women last night, and I said to G-d “I don’t think I can do this.” Last night everything seemed so hopeless. Being afraid of night and the spider seemed so overwhelming, and there didn’t appear to be an end in sight. I kept thinking about how this was going to be the rest of my life, spent anxious and afraid and hypervigilant in the middle of the night.

Eventually I put earplugs in my ears (so that spiders wouldn’t crawl into my ears) and after staying up way too late out of fear, I fell asleep. I woke up two hours later afraid of spiders.  I checked the ceiling, watched some tv with the earplugs still in, and fell asleep again. I woke up two hours later. I did the same thing again, check ceiling, tv, then sleep.

I woke up two hours after that and met my ex in the hallway, and she said “How did you sleep?” I had to swallow back tears and couldn’t answer her.

This is how surviving child sexual abuse in my childhood is fucking me up again as an adult.  This is one of those hidden ways, the kind that almost no one would ever know about unless they lived with me in my room. I can’t tell anyone about this sort of thing because I seem crazy.  But I am not crazy. I am having a reaction to terrible things that happened to me, and my fear of bugs is one of those reactions. I want to co-exist peacefully with all of G-d’s creatures, including bugs, but unfortunately I am unable to do that at this time. This is why you shouldn’t fuck kids.

 



Reason #286: Can She Hurt Us Now?

I was talking to my therapist about the babysitter, and how I think a lot of my general anxiety/phobia has to do with her.  Since I don’t have conscious memory of her, I am basing this on circumstantial evidence.  All my fears started after she babysat us, but before my brother ever touched me.

Lately, we have been drilling down through a bunch of shit to get to the real issue: the babysitter and her effects on me. I told the therapist that a part of me almost feels like I made a childhood pact with my brother to keep silent about everything, and that if I tell, I am breaking that pact.  It’s an odd thing, because he later became one of my abusers. But we were SO young when she fucked us, and it’s almost like surviving a war together.  In actual adult combat wars, soldiers call each other “battle buddies”.  I guess that’s what we were – battle buddies – before he became my next battle.

The therapist said that whether or not there was an actual pact, there was certainly an air of implicit silence.  Then I told her that I think we were both afraid she would hurt us in some way if we told.  (Truth be told, I am afraid even as I write this.) She reminded me that I am an adult, and no longer a child.

I looked at the therapist and said “Can she hurt us?”  The therapist said “How do you mean?”  I said, “I mean, now, can she hurt us?  Can she find us and hurt us?”

She said no. I said “How do you know?”  She said that the babysitter was only interested in fucking kids, she doesn’t want adults.  She reminded me again that I am an adult, and that I have the power.

I know that logically it doesn’t make sense to wonder if the babysitter could hurt us now. I understand that. But in all honesty, where is the logic in any of this?  It isn’t logical to fuck kids, but that happened to me.  It also isn’t logical for a brother to use a sister in a sexual way, or for a father to look at his daughter as a wife, but those things happened to me too.  So why should ‘logic’ be the dictating rule here?? Why should I be operating from a ‘logical’ standpoint when none of the originating actions were logical to begin with?

So who knows if she can hurt us now?  Why is that fear any less real than anything else?  The therapist said that when I think about her, I am using a child/adult dynamic with her, and that I revert to my young self.  I’m sure she is right about that.

Can she hurt us now?  I have no idea.  But it sure is scary to think about, and it makes it hard to think about telling too.



Reason #262: It has been a shit year
October 31, 2011, 7:49 pm
Filed under: Uncategorized | Tags: , , , ,

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 #251: It’s Okay to Fall Apart a Little

I was talking to my mom last night about the debacle that is my fucking life right now, and she commented on how sad I sounded.

I started to explain that I had been having trouble sleeping now that I am in a room by myself, and how I have been getting about five hours of sleep a night, and how this level of tiredness is probably affecting the rest of my life.  She interrupted my explanations to say: “Sweetie, it’s okay to take the time to fall apart a little.  This is a really major thing that has happened to you here; you’ve lost your marriage.  You’re doing everything you have to to survive, and if you need to fall apart in the rest of the time, it’s okay to do that.”

I thought it was absolutely one of the kindest things anyone has ever said to me.

Last night, as I was doing my nightly routine of checking in the closet and under the bed and then trying to fall asleep afraid (that’s why you shouldn’t fuck kids, by the way; I hate my nightly routine), I was contemplating what mom had told me.  She gave me permission to “fall apart a little”, which is really tantamount to giving me permission to feel what I need to feel.

It’s so different when you are surviving incest and child sexual abuse.  People in your life either minimize it (so they don’t have to feel it with you), or tell you all the positive shit you have going on in your life (“you are doing so well with <insert other area of your life here>!”).  No one says ‘Holy shit, what happened to you was so fucked up, it breaks the fucked up scale.  It’s okay to take the time to fall apart a little.’

While my current life has also knocked me flat for a while, I do not want to die. Surviving incest and child sexual abuse, however, almost killed me.  That is why I want to say this to all my survivor readers out there, and all the supporters of survivors that read my blog:  It’s okay to fall apart a little.  What happened to you or your loved ones was wrong; wrong on a terrible level.  You were betrayed, and you didn’t deserve it.  It wasn’t your fault.  It’s okay to take the time to fall apart a little.  It’s okay to take as much time as you need to feel it all.  And when you feel ready, it’s also okay to put yourself back together as slowly as you need to.




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