Reasons You Shouldn’t Fuck Kids


Reason #248: The Address Book

I have been telling myself that everything is going to be okay, that I will be okay sleeping by myself, that the room is all pretty for me now with the new wallpaper, that it’s probably one of the nicest bedrooms I have ever had the privilege of being in, etc.  I am trying to convince myself that this kind of heartbreak is survivable.  I survived the child sex abuse, but as we all know, surviving is what it is.  And so far, there are 248 ways that surviving it has fucked me again in the last two years since I have been keeping this blog.  (The reasons would probably be in the millions if I had started keeping this blog right after that babysitter fucked my brother and I, over 30 years ago.)

I felt courageous today.  We’ve been sleeping in the guest bedroom for the last few nights because I saw an ant downstairs, and I was afraid to sleep in the bedroom where an ant last fell on my fucking head.  (That was a year ago, by the way.  Knowing that the year anniversary of that event was coming up scared me out of sleeping the last few weeks.  That’s why you shouldn’t fuck kids.  Fucking PTSD.)

Anyhow though, the huz and I have been sleeping in the guest bedroom the last few nights.  I figured it was a good chance for me to get used to sleeping in there anyway.  I am grateful the huz was in there with me though, as just moving in there on my own would have been painful and scary.  That’s how sweet my husband is, by the way.  Even though I am leaving him because he is becoming a woman, he is still kind enough to sleep in bed with me because he knows I am afraid.

Anyway, so the huz and I were cleaning out the guest bedroom today. The huz said “Oh, here are some old address books of yours.”  I glanced up from where I was to look over at the address books in his hands, and I said “No, those aren’t mine.” 

He said “They’re not mine either.”  He brought them over to me.  I said “Maybe I put them there for the E-Bay pile?  Let me see them.”  (We have been collecting things to ebay or give away, so as to declutter ourselves a bit.)

I looked through them and said “Hmm, it’s weird, these kind of look like my mom’s handwriting.  Why would I have her old address books though?”  Then I realized what they were.  Remember a while ago when my mom left her address books here because the babysitter’s name/number might be in them?  With my marriage completely disintegrating, I totally forgot about those address books.

I threw them in Michael’s hands and said “Get them out of here.”  I didn’t want them tainting my new room, the room I have been trying to convince myself I am going to be safe in.  He immediately took them away and put them somewhere.  I don’t know where and I can’t know right now.  He came back in to where I was and he could see I was shaken up.  He put his arm around me and said “I’m so sorry.  What a terrible way to come across that stuff.”

I started to cry.  I am in the room that I am in because my marriage is no longer my marriage, and the last thing in the whole fucking world I needed to see today was a reminder of the babysitter that has scared me for life.  We stopped cleaning for the day and agreed to come back to it.

Today was a sad day.  It would have been a sad day without that address book.  But Jesus Christ, it was made so much worse by finding that thing. This is the 248th way that being a survivor has fucked me again. 

The huz agreed to sleep next to me again tonight, for which I am eternally grateful.



Reason #241: A New Bedroom for me
May 22, 2011, 12:02 pm
Filed under: Uncategorized | Tags: , , , ,

Since my husband has figured out that he is a woman inside, and my marriage is over, we have been talking about us moving into separate bedrooms in our home.  Luckily, we happen to have a guest bedroom.  It is much smaller than our master bedroom and it is covered in really ugly wallpaper that we always meant to change but never got around to it.

When I told my mom that I am going to be the one that moves into the guest bedroom, she said “Why?  Why can’t he move into the other bedroom?”

I got embarrassed.  It’s not the first time my survivor issues have crept up in unexpected places, unexpected conversations.  The reason I have to move into the other bedroom is that the smaller bedroom is a lot less frightening for me.  The Master bedroom has four closets to worry about people hiding in, all kinds of nooks and crannies to shine a light in before I go to sleep, etc.  Just too many places for me to be worried about.   Too many places for me to be afraid of.

The smaller bedroom is like a square, and the only places I have to worry about are the one closet and under the bed.  It’s just a much easier bedroom for me to live in, if I have to live in a separate bedroom from my husband. 

When I said all this to my mom, she said “Oh sweetie.  I’m so sorry honey.”  And then I started to cry, as I have every day since this whole mess started.

Having to take the smaller shit bedroom upon separating from my husband.  That is the 241st way that being a survivor of child sexual abuse has fucked me again.




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