Reasons You Shouldn’t Fuck Kids


Reason # 282: I want to lose weight
February 27, 2012, 9:01 pm
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I walked into my therapist’s office last week, and said “I want to lose weight, and I want you to help me.”

She said “Okay, let’s work on it.”

I said, “Here’s the thing though.  When I think about losing weight, I think about being in a thin body, and then I feel much more rapeable.  It’s kind of a 1, 2, 3 thought process for me.  First I will lose the weight, then I will be thin, then I can be raped much more easily than I can in this fat body.”

She has tried to argue the logic of this with me before.  She has tried the whole ‘fat women get raped too’ spiel, but that hasn’t convinced me to stop being fat.  She has also tried the whole ‘healthier women can run away from rapists better than fat women’ thing too, and that also has no effect.  I said as much to her in this session.

She once explained to me that when logic and emotion meet in an argument, logic must always defer to emotion’s reasoning.  She said that when you try to attack an emotional argument with logic, you will always lose. The emotional person will always win, because no matter what logic you throw into the argument, the emotional person will always come back with an emotional argument.  That’s why her logic about rape happening to fat people didn’t mean anything to me; my argument for being fat is not logical in the first place, so logic won’t win the argument either.

She said “Why don’t we talk about why you think that if you lose weight it is easier to rape you?”

I said “Well, it’s irrefutable fact.  When I was in a smaller body, three people used my body against my will.  I know for sure that when I am smaller, people use their bodies to hurt mine.”  Then I started to cry, and I said “To be very honest with you, it was only in the last year of our marriage that I stopped being SO afraid that my husband would rape me, and I was able to sleep comfortably next to him at night.”

She looked so startled by this admission, and said she hadn’t realized that. Then she asked me why this admission made me cry.  I said “Because I am ashamed!  Look at us!  He never wanted to even have sex with me, and here I was afraid of rape for 8 of the 9 years we were together.  Even in the last year, I was still afraid of it.”

I am ashamed of my thought process, I guess. I am ashamed of how truly distorted my cognitions are.  H/she was a sweet loving husband, and rape would have been the furthest thing from his mind.  H/she didn’t even want sex!  But we did cuddle and kiss a lot, and I guess I always assumed that his baser instincts were going to kick in, and I’d be surprised by him raping me, and so I felt I had to be hypervigilant in bed against him.

I said “The thing is, whenever I got really afraid in bed with him, I automatically lost the power of speech too.  I wanted to talk, but I couldn’t figure out how to do it.  So I would lay there terrified, staring at him, wanting to speak and unable to.”

She started talking to me in a really soft gentle voice.  She does that whenever I cry, especially about the sex abuse.  She said “You go back to being a little girl who can’t talk.  When these things happen, you forget you are an adult, and you go back to being a little girl.”

She’s right.  I want to lose the weight, I really do. But in my mind, losing the weight makes me vulnerable.  Thinner = smaller body = little girl’s body = more vulnerable to rape.

I walked in to that session saying I want to lose weight.  I left that session and literally drove to McDonald’s. I have been binging ever since.



Reason #145: Dr. Quinn, Medicine Woman

I was watching this episode of Dr. Quinn, Medicine Woman (on TiVo), where this guy raped a teenaged child, and murdered an elderly woman’s husband.  They had a trial, and he was pronounced guilty, and it was decided that he would hang for it.  All the townspeople got pretty excited about it, and pronounced “Ladies and Gents, we have ourselves a hangin’!”

My first thought was how beautiful it was that the whole town rallied around this girl to support her, and to support the death of her rapist.  Can  you imagine how much quicker all of us would heal if all of our friends and neighbors supported us and believed us like this?  In real life, children are raped every day, and whole towns of people call us liars or whores.  

I thought about the public hanging option, and I thought about it in terms of my three abusers. 

I thought about my brother.  He was a child when he started molesting me.  If I was somewhere between 6 and 8, that would have made him somewhere between 8 and 10.  Should he hang for what he did?  I mean, he said he was sorry and I believe he truly is.  No, better not to hang him. 

Then I thought about my father.  He’ll never be able to admit what he’s done.  But we are healing.  Or at least we are trying to.  I don’t particularly want him hung either. 

Then I thought about the babysitter, whose hurts against me are so bad I couldn’t even type “my babysitter”, lest she be even more intricately involved with me than she already was.  She needs to be “the” babysitter, not “mine”.  My immediate thought, filled with revenge and hatred was “Fuck yes, hang her”.  But the truth is, I don’t know her well enough to pronounce this declaration of death on her yet.  Who is she?  Were we the only ones?  Did she fuck other children before/after us?  Is she still raping children?  Has she turned her life around, asked forgiveness, done healing work with those she has wronged?  I want to believe yes.  Maybe she was just a scared confused teen whose father or stepfather or whoever was fucking her.  Most probably this is the case.  Still though, it is quite a decision to go from victim to victimizer, no?

And these are all the thoughts I have running through my head as tears seep from my eyes while watching an episode of Dr. Quinn, Medicine Woman on TiVo.  This is why you shouldn’t fuck kids.



Reason #38: Zoloft

I went to the doctor a few days ago for my ever-increasing anxiety and depression. The nurse asked me what I was there for, and I said “anxiety”. The nurse took down my info and said “the doctor will be in in a minute”. As she was leaving the room, I touched her arm and said “Do people come here for this?” She said “Yes. It’s better to get it now than when it is too late and it is controlling your life.” Too late for that lady, I thought. I started to cry. She was VERY nice. She hugged me. G-d bless these wonderful nurses.

The doc came into the room. I told her the truth, that I was anxious and it was interfering with my life. I find myself cancelling events so that I don’t have to leave the house. When I am outside, I am afraid in the parking lot, and the mad dash from the parking lot to whatever building I need to get to is overwhelming. I am terrified of rape, I told her.

When I described what was happening to me in the parking lot with the hypervigilance and the terror, she added “the looking over your shoulder constantly”, and I wondered if she, too, was a survivor. Then she said that she likes to prescribe zoloft because it doesn’t cause dependence, (though you do have to wean on and off this drug), and because the side effects are minimal in her experience. I agreed to medically drug myself for the first time in my life.

I have always been against the use of pharmaceuticals for this issue for myself. Politically, I feel like drugs have always been used to silence women. And who are women? Survivors. Men fuck us in so many ways our whole life, and then when we react to it, they drug us into a stupefied silence. So I have been against it.

But my life has become – bad. Writing this blog has been difficult, and trying to maneuver through memories constantly makes me feel like every parking lot is filled with scary bad men waiting to hurt me. When it gets to the point where everyone is bad, it is time for me to realize that it’s not the whole world that is bad, it’s me that is fucked up. So I agreed to the drug. I took my first dose today.

This is why you shouldn’t fuck kids. If that babysitter hadn’t started this whole ball rolling, my brother never would have fucked with me. My dad, who knows. If these events hadn’t happened, I would be a very different Butterfly today.




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