Reasons You Shouldn’t Fuck Kids


Reason #250: I fucking hate ‘survivor sleep’
July 12, 2011, 12:53 pm
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Last night was my fourth night sleeping alone in the other bedroom.  On the third night, I got a wave of panic and crawled into bed with my (ex?) husband/(wife?). I am (I guess?) separated from him (kind of?) even though we are living in the same house (and due to finances, we will be staying together physically for a while.)  Anyway, I felt so uncomfortable there that I got up in the middle of the night and went back to my new room.  I was so proud of myself when I woke up in the morning yesterday and realized I had made a courageous move in the middle of the night.

When we moved here, I never would have guessed that I would be sleeping in the little room.  I mean, we moved here as a married couple sharing a bed.  Now we are two separate people in two separate rooms living one weird life together.

I was up until around 1:30AM last night, and I heard my husband snoring away in the other room.  I am so fucking resentful today, so filled with anger and sadness about my situation.  Everything is overwhelming.  I cried in the shower today about the state of my life.  I am tired.  With less than six hours sleep, I can’t help but be tired.

‘Welcome to survivor sleep’, I keep thinking.  Survivor sleep is really one of the big fuck you’s of surviving child sex abuse, in my opinion.  The reason it’s one of the bigger ones is that it is a nightly thing, and the lack of it fucks up everything else.  It’s hard to be rational or healthy (or even happy) when you are lacking sleep.   And you know you are just going to have to face the same situation again tonight.  And the next night, and the night after that.  And over and over and over again.  I hate survivor sleep.

Studies have shown that reduced sleep actually reduces how long you live.  So the way I see it:

Child sex abuse –> survivor sleep=lack of quantity/quality sleep —> reduced life expectancy.  That’s why you shouldn’t fuck kids.  It literally kills us.



Reason #249: ‘Survival’ sleep
July 8, 2011, 5:52 pm
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I am thinking of trying to sleep in the new bedroom alone tonight.  It will be my first time sleeping in there alone, but I feel like I have to do it.  I keep telling myself “This is my life now”, so that I stop longing for what I used to have and instead get used to what is.  This is what is right now.  This is my life now.  It sucks and I hate it, but I feel like I have to start relying on myself more. 

I hate the idea of trying to sleep tonight.  I hate ‘survival’ sleep, the kind that comes when I am afraid of the night and alone.  Every noise is something to wonder at.  Something to control my breathing for. It’s so different than easy sleep, where I enjoy sleeping, and where the sleep is restorative.

I haven’t met even ONE other survivor out there whose sleep isn’t fucked up from surviving the sex abuse.  I figure it is because that is when we are at our weakest, because we are most unaware of our surroundings when we sleep.  We unwittingly show our jugular when we sleep, even though we try so hard to be hypervigilant.

When I was 23, I used to push a dresser in front of my door every night. It fucking sucked, because inevitably I would have to pee in the middle of the night.  So I would have to push the fucking dresser away from the door, go to the bathroom to pee, come back to the room, push the dresser in front of the door again, establish safety in the room, try to relax enough to fall asleep, etc.

My dressers are way too big to push in front of the door now, and plus, I have a young son who sometimes has bad dreams, and I want to be able to run to him if I hear him cry.  So the dresser is out.  At least this room only has one closet to check in every night, and only under the bed too.  That’s not that bad, I guess.

The whole situation kind of sucks shit, if I am being honest.

‘Survival sleep’.  Fitful shitty sleep that comes as a result of surviving horrible shit like child sexual abuse. The 249th reason you shouldn’t fuck kids.



Reason #203: A truck on my street
November 16, 2010, 11:52 pm
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Today, I was driving home in my car, and when I pulled up in my driveway I noticed a truck driving down my street somewhat slowly.  I was getting out of the car and meant to get the mail out of my mailbox, but I got so freaked out by the presence of that slow-moving-truck that instead of getting my mail, I panicked and fumbled and opened my garage door and ran in and closed it real quick and breathed really hard and my body was shaking and I hurried to see my doggie who I knew would make me feel better.  Once inside, I couldn’t quite catch my breath and I was just so afraid and I couldn’t stop shaking.

Later on, the huz got home and I asked him to bring the mail in.  In the rain.  But I was honest, and I told him why I didn’t get the mail.  It was humiliating, like so many other times I have had to come clean with whomever about some shit like this.

I bet that when non-fucked kids see trucks on their street, they think it’s a truck on their street.  When I saw it today, I thought it was some predator looking for prey.  I didn’t want to be that prey.  I have been that prey before.

I think everyone’s a predator.  Maybe I’m right, maybe I’m wrong.  Who knows.



Reason #167: This is my car

I told the marital therapist (in an alone session) that I started being so afraid all the time after that babysitter molested me.  I was five years old (or less?) when she molested me, and after that all I could see were possibilities of hurt.  Behind every corner or door, under every bed, in every closet, and most especially every night – my world was suddenly filled with the knowledge that people will gain my trust for the specific reason of using it against me. 

After that time where the babysitter used my brother and I for her sexual gain, my world was suddenly filled with betrayal.  Worse, it was filled with the possibility of betrayal, and it is this very possibility that sits within me at all times.  Since I am seeing a marital therapist, the way that we explored it was how my panic seems to happen when the huz and I are intimate.  Many many times the huz and I have been kissing or making out, and I suddenly see my brother’s face.  And then I try and will myself back to the present, by telling myself I am an adult.  But it’s not working.  Then I see my brother and I on the couch, his head between my legs, me pretending to be the wall so I don’t have to be present.  And the huz is still kissing me, and I can’t speak, and I am afraid.  Then finally he realizes what is happening and stops kissing.

“And then there we are, no longer kissing, and I have yet again fucked it up for us” I said to her.  She said “You didn’t fuck it up.  The trauma of sexual abuse fucked it up.  If someone got into a car accident and were afraid of getting into a car again, would you think they fucked it up?  No, of course not.  You’d think they were afraid of getting into a car because they had been traumatized in a car the last time they had been in one.  This is your car, that’s all.  And you’ll get back in eventually.”

I hope she is right.  It makes me feel better that at least she believes in my ability to heal from this stuff. I want to kiss my husband.  I want to make love to my husband.  I want the power to say yes and no, the way I didn’t have power with that babysitter, my brother, or my father. 

I can’t fuck my husband, or even kiss my husband without my shit getting triggered.   That is why you shouldn’t fuck kids.



Reason #120: Child Rape dreams
August 27, 2009, 12:38 pm
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This morning, I came downstairs with the baby and kissed my husband good morning. He said “Hi Baby, how’d you sleep?” (He’d already been up for a few hours – he likes to exercise in the morning.) I said “Oh, shitty. All night long I kept having the same nightmare about the rape of a child and the rapist.” I looked up at my husband and his face looked absolutely horrified.

What’s funny about this is the fact that for him, the whole experience was beyond belief, whereas for me, this was one of a million such dreams that I have had in my 35 years on this Earth. When I get stressed, this is how I handle it, with terrible dreams of child sexual abuse. One of the many reasons you shouldn’t fuck kids.



Reason #109: The Beach House

A few months ago, the huz and I visited my aunt at her beach house. We brought the baby and had a lovely time. Last night I was talking to the huz about it, and was saying how we should go back. Then I was thinking about it as we were drifting off to sleep. Could I go there myself? I thought about it and realized I wouldn’t enjoy it without the huz, and in fact, I would be scared shitless there.

Out loud I said “I couldn’t go there myself.” The huz asked me why not. I said “Well, the door to the house is in the middle, and then my aunt’s bedroom is on one side and my bedroom is on the other side. Intruders would come to my room and my aunt wouldn’t even know.”

The huz tried to argue about the logistics of that statement, saying that the intruders would go to my aunt’s door first since it is closer to the front door. First off, how can you argue logically about fear that is not logic-based? In my head, I am an eight year old girl about to be sexually abused again, not a 35 year old woman in my aunt’s beach house in a safe community. Why would the intruders go to her room when clearly they are waiting to take me unawares, against my will?

I have had to tell him before that it is stupid to argue something that is fear-based with logic or rationality. Fear is not rational. It doesn’t listen to rational arguments. Instead it is fed by scary images and thoughts that come from real situations that have already happened to me. Where was the logic and rationale when that babysitter was fucking my brother and I when we were scared and alone and our mom wasn’t home?

I would like to visit my aunt in her beach house. I really would. But the idea of spending a terrified night or two there staring at the closet, window, and door, and deciding which thing held the most fearful prospects as I lay awake instead of sleeping doesn’t sound like such a great idea to me. People go to beach houses for vacation. I would be visiting my nightmares. This is why you shouldn’t fuck kids.



Reason #102: Listening to music
June 17, 2009, 12:45 am
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Today the huz was home from work, so I wasn’t home alone for once. I cleaned a little bit and cooked a little bit, all the while listening to a CD of one of my favorite musicians. It was wonderful. As I sang along to one of the songs, I tried to think about the last time I had put on a CD when cooking or cleaning, or when doing anything. I couldn’t remember the last time.

I thought about it. I don’t like extraneous noise when I am home alone, because then I can’t hear if intruders are breaking into my home. G-d forbid.

I was trained at an Arts High School for singing, and I have been in choirs my whole life. Singing and music is one of the few things I am sure I am good at, but I can’t listen to music if I don’t feel safe, and I don’t feel safe if I am home alone.

Not being able to listen to music when I am home alone. That is the 102nd reason you shouldn’t fuck kids.




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