Reasons You Shouldn’t Fuck Kids

Reason #239: Deep Dark Places
May 14, 2011, 12:14 pm
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Last night I was in a deep dark place, emotionally.  My husband was out at a meeting for transgendered people, and he went there dressed as a woman.  I sat home, alone, contemplating my life and how I got here, and where I am to go in the future.

I came to think about G-d.  It was one of those times where I thought that if there is a G-d, He is mean.  He knew about that babysitter and totally let her come into our lives, and fuck my brother and I when we were vulnerable.  She is the reason that while I was sitting there alone last night while my husband gallivanted around with other men dressed as women, that I was able to be here not only alone, but also afraid.  I have been afraid of the night ever since she came into our life.

G-d also knew about my husband being a woman inside when I married him.  G-d knew, but I didn’t know.  I feel betrayed by G-d, and also by my own lack of intuition that allowed me to be in this place – married to a man who is a woman inside.

It is not the first time I have been in a dark place.  I cried pretty much the whole night, and after my husband got home, I wanted to be supportive of him, because even though this is all so hard for me, it is also terrible for him.  He did not choose this, he wouldn’t want this, and he can’t change it.  He certainly wouldn’t want to lose his wife and the rest of the life he built, and this speaks to the depth of the need inside him to be his true authentic self. So, here he is going through this enormously difficult thing, and I wanted to be supportive of him.  Instead, I failed miserably, cried with him, and told him I wish I were dead and that I don’t want to see what life has in store for me anymore.

It is not the first time I have wished for death, which is why you shouldn’t fuck kids.  The experience of surviving child sexual abuse makes us actually want to die many more times in our life.  That death is on you. I began thinking about death when I was 12, and got real serious about it when I was 19. Now, I am a mother, so I would not take my own life.  I may be sad, but I am not that selfish.  I have seen what happens to children when they don’t have a proper mother here on this Earth.

I talked to my Aunt about the fact that I had no premonition or intution or bad feelings when I was getting married, and how betrayed I feel by that.  She said that maybe I had no intuition about it because if I had a bad feeling about it, I wouldn’t have gotten married to him and had this baby.  She said maybe I was meant to get married to him and have this baby.  She said maybe we were meant to be in each other’s life in this way, and that had G-d warned me about it beforehand, I wouldn’t have fulfilled my destiny.  That made me feel a little better about it, a little less betrayed.

But I was still in a dark place, emotionally, when my husband got home.  He held me as I cried, and told me that even though our marriage was ending, that we would never have to be truly alone because we’d always have best friends in each other.  I found that to be comforting.  He also said “You know, I always comfort myself with something that you told me once.”

I said “Yeah?  What’s that?”  He said, “You told me that the Universe will take care of us, in spite of ourselves.”  We both laughed a little about that.

I woke up today feeling a little better than when I went to sleep.  I can see the dark place from where I am, but I am not down in it this morning.  He’s going to another meeting tonight, so I invited a female friend over to be with me tonight.

Reason #217: Bill Zeller
January 27, 2011, 12:25 pm
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We lost another survivor to suicide today. Bill Zeller, 27 years old, was pursuing a doctoral degree in computer science, having earned his master’s degree from Princeton in 2008. He had a beautiful, bright future, but he could not get over his history of being raped as a child. Like many of us, he thought his trauma would always be his life, his past would always be his present and future. I wish he had known how much better his life would have gotten.

Most survivors have flirted with suicide, including myself, and this is why you shouldn’t fuck kids.

I did not know Mr. Zeller, but I sure do understand the kind of pain that being a survivor of child sexual abuse causes.  I understand feeling so fucked up and ‘otherized’ by surviving the abuse that suicide seems like the most natural answer. Every time one of us loses our battle with suicide, we all lose. When we kill ourselves, our abusers win, and another of us is silenced forever. I beg you, if you are thinking about suicide at all, please, please, please call 1-800-SUICIDE (1-800-784-2843).

Bill Zeller left a suicide note explaining why he decided to end his life.  He asked that anyone who post the letter do so in its entirety.  So, out of respect to a fellow child sexual abuse survivor, I am posting his suicide note in its entirety.

Here is his letter:

I have the urge to declare my sanity and justify my actions, but I assume I’ll never be able to convince anyone that this was the right decision. Maybe it’s true that anyone who does this is insane by definition, but I can at least explain my reasoning. I considered not writing any of this because of how personal it is, but I like tying up loose ends and don’t want people to wonder why I did this. Since I’ve never spoken to anyone about what happened to me, people would likely draw the wrong conclusions.

My first memories as a child are of being raped, repeatedly. This has affected every aspect of my life. This darkness, which is the only way I can describe it, has followed me like a fog, but at times intensified and overwhelmed me, usually triggered by a distinct situation. In kindergarten I couldn’t use the bathroom and would stand petrified whenever I needed to, which started a trend of awkward and unexplained social behavior. The damage that was done to my body still prevents me from using the bathroom normally, but now it’s less of a physical impediment than a daily reminder of what was done to me.

This darkness followed me as I grew up. I remember spending hours playing with legos, having my world consist of me and a box of cold, plastic blocks. Just waiting for everything to end. It’s the same thing I do now, but instead of legos it’s surfing the web or reading or listening to a baseball game. Most of my life has been spent feeling dead inside, waiting for my body to catch up.

At times growing up I would feel inconsolable rage, but I never connected this to what happened until puberty. I was able to keep the darkness at bay for a few hours at a time by doing things that required intense concentration, but it would always come back. Programming appealed to me for this reason. I was never particularly fond of computers or mathematically inclined, but the temporary peace it would provide was like a drug. But the darkness always returned and built up something like a tolerance, because programming has become less and less of a refuge.

The darkness is with me nearly every time I wake up. I feel like a grime is covering me. I feel like I’m trapped in a contaminated body that no amount of washing will clean. Whenever I think about what happened I feel manic and itchy and can’t concentrate on anything else. It manifests itself in hours of eating or staying up for days at a time or sleeping for sixteen hours straight or week long programming binges or constantly going to the gym. I’m exhausted from feeling like this every hour of every day.

Three to four nights a week I have nightmares about what happened. It makes me avoid sleep and constantly tired, because sleeping with what feels like hours of nightmares is not restful. I wake up sweaty and furious. I’m reminded every morning of what was done to me and the control it has over my life.

I’ve never been able to stop thinking about what happened to me and this hampered my social interactions. I would be angry and lost in thought and then be interrupted by someone saying “Hi” or making small talk, unable to understand why I seemed cold and distant. I walked around, viewing the outside world from a distant portal behind my eyes, unable to perform normal human niceties. I wondered what it would be like to take to other people without what happened constantly on my mind, and I wondered if other people had similar experiences that they were better able to mask.

Alcohol was also something that let me escape the darkness. It would always find me later, though, and it was always angry that I managed to escape and it made me pay. Many of the irresponsible things I did were the result of the darkness. Obviously I’m responsible for every decision and action, including this one, but there are reasons why things happen the way they do.

Alcohol and other drugs provided a way to ignore the realities of my situation. It was easy to spend the night drinking and forget that I had no future to look forward to. I never liked what alcohol did to me, but it was better than facing my existence honestly. I haven’t touched alcohol or any other drug in over seven months (and no drugs or alcohol will be involved when I do this) and this has forced me to evaluate my life in an honest and clear way. There’s no future here. The darkness will always be with me.

I used to think if I solved some problem or achieved some goal, maybe he would leave. It was comforting to identify tangible issues as the source of my problems instead of something that I’ll never be able to change. I thought that if I got into to a good college, or a good grad school, or lost weight, or went to the gym nearly every day for a year, or created programs that millions of people used, or spent a summer or California or New York or published papers that I was proud of, then maybe I would feel some peace and not be constantly haunted and unhappy. But nothing I did made a dent in how depressed I was on a daily basis and nothing was in any way fulfilling. I’m not sure why I ever thought that would change anything.

I didn’t realize how deep a hold he had on me and my life until my first relationship. I stupidly assumed that no matter how the darkness affected me personally, my romantic relationships would somehow be separated and protected. Growing up I viewed my future relationships as a possible escape from this thing that haunts me every day, but I began to realize how entangled it was with every aspect of my life and how it is never going to release me. Instead of being an escape, relationships and romantic contact with other people only intensified everything about him that I couldn’t stand. I will never be able to have a relationship in which he is not the focus, affecting every aspect of my romantic interactions.

Relationships always started out fine and I’d be able to ignore him for a few weeks. But as we got closer emotionally the darkness would return and every night it’d be me, her and the darkness in a black and gruesome threesome. He would surround me and penetrate me and the more we did the more intense it became. It made me hate being touched, because as long as we were separated I could view her like an outsider viewing something good and kind and untainted. Once we touched, the darkness would envelope her too and take her over and the evil inside me would surround her. I always felt like I was infecting anyone I was with.

Relationships didn’t work. No one I dated was the right match, and I thought that maybe if I found the right person it would overwhelm him. Part of me knew that finding the right person wouldn’t help, so I became interested in girls who obviously had no interest in me. For a while I thought I was gay. I convinced myself that it wasn’t the darkness at all, but rather my orientation, because this would give me control over why things didn’t feel “right”. The fact that the darkness affected sexual matters most intensely made this idea make some sense and I convinced myself of this for a number of years, starting in college after my first relationship ended. I told people I was gay (at Trinity, not at Princeton), even though I wasn’t attracted to men and kept finding myself interested in girls. Because if being gay wasn’t the answer, then what was? People thought I was avoiding my orientation, but I was actually avoiding the truth, which is that while I’m straight, I will never be content with anyone. I know now that the darkness will never leave.

Last spring I met someone who was unlike anyone else I’d ever met. Someone who showed me just how well two people could get along and how much I could care about another human being. Someone I know I could be with and love for the rest of my life, if I weren’t so fucked up. Amazingly, she liked me. She liked the shell of the man the darkness had left behind. But it didn’t matter because I couldn’t be alone with her. It was never just the two of us, it was always the three of us: her, me and the darkness. The closer we got, the more intensely I’d feel the darkness, like some evil mirror of my emotions. All the closeness we had and I loved was complemented by agony that I couldn’t stand, from him. I realized that I would never be able to give her, or anyone, all of me or only me. She could never have me without the darkness and evil inside me. I could never have just her, without the darkness being a part of all of our interactions. I will never be able to be at peace or content or in a healthy relationship. I realized the futility of the romantic part of my life. If I had never met her, I would have realized this as soon as I met someone else who I meshed similarly well with. It’s likely that things wouldn’t have worked out with her and we would have broken up (with our relationship ending, like the majority of relationships do) even if I didn’t have this problem, since we only dated for a short time. But I will face exactly the same problems with the darkness with anyone else. Despite my hopes, love and compatability is not enough. Nothing is enough. There’s no way I can fix this or even push the darkness down far enough to make a relationship or any type of intimacy feasible.

So I watched as things fell apart between us. I had put an explicit time limit on our relationship, since I knew it couldn’t last because of the darkness and didn’t want to hold her back, and this caused a variety of problems. She was put in an unnatural situation that she never should have been a part of. It must have been very hard for her, not knowing what was actually going on with me, but this is not something I’ve ever been able to talk about with anyone. Losing her was very hard for me as well. Not because of her (I got over our relationship relatively quickly), but because of the realization that I would never have another relationship and because it signified the last true, exclusive personal connection I could ever have. This wasn’t apparent to other people, because I could never talk about the real reasons for my sadness. I was very sad in the summer and fall, but it was not because of her, it was because I will never escape the darkness with anyone. She was so loving and kind to me and gave me everything I could have asked for under the circumstances. I’ll never forget how much happiness she brought me in those briefs moments when I could ignore the darkness. I had originally planned to kill myself last winter but never got around to it. (Parts of this letter were written over a year ago, other parts days before doing this.) It was wrong of me to involve myself in her life if this were a possibility and I should have just left her alone, even though we only dated for a few months and things ended a long time ago. She’s just one more person in a long list of people I’ve hurt.

I could spend pages talking about the other relationships I’ve had that were ruined because of my problems and my confusion related to the darkness. I’ve hurt so many great people because of who I am and my inability to experience what needs to be experienced. All I can say is that I tried to be honest with people about what I thought was true.

I’ve spent my life hurting people. Today will be the last time.

I’ve told different people a lot of things, but I’ve never told anyone about what happened to me, ever, for obvious reasons. It took me a while to realize that no matter how close you are to someone or how much they claim to love you, people simply cannot keep secrets. I learned this a few years ago when I thought I was gay and told people. The more harmful the secret, the juicier the gossip and the more likely you are to be betrayed. People don’t care about their word or what they’ve promised, they just do whatever the fuck they want and justify it later. It feels incredibly lonely to realize you can never share something with someone and have it be between just the two of you. I don’t blame anyone in particular, I guess it’s just how people are. Even if I felt like this is something I could have shared, I have no interest in being part of a friendship or relationship where the other person views me as the damaged and contaminated person that I am. So even if I were able to trust someone, I probably would not have told them about what happened to me. At this point I simply don’t care who knows.

I feel an evil inside me. An evil that makes me want to end life. I need to stop this. I need to make sure I don’t kill someone, which is not something that can be easily undone. I don’t know if this is related to what happened to me or something different. I recognize the irony of killing myself to prevent myself from killing someone else, but this decision should indicate what I’m capable of.

So I’ve realized I will never escape the darkness or misery associated with it and I have a responsibility to stop myself from physically harming others.

I’m just a broken, miserable shell of a human being. Being molested has defined me as a person and shaped me as a human being and it has made me the monster I am and there’s nothing I can do to escape it. I don’t know any other existence. I don’t know what life feels like where I’m apart from any of this. I actively despise the person I am. I just feel fundamentally broken, almost non-human. I feel like an animal that woke up one day in a human body, trying to make sense of a foreign world, living among creatures it doesn’t understand and can’t connect with.

I have accepted that the darkness will never allow me to be in a relationship. I will never go to sleep with someone in my arms, feeling the comfort of their hands around me. I will never know what uncontimated intimacy is like. I will never have an exclusive bond with someone, someone who can be the recipient of all the love I have to give. I will never have children, and I wanted to be a father so badly. I think I would have made a good dad. And even if I had fought through the darkness and married and had children all while being unable to feel intimacy, I could have never done that if suicide were a possibility. I did try to minimize pain, although I know that this decision will hurt many of you. If this hurts you, I hope that you can at least forget about me quickly.

There’s no point in identifying who molested me, so I’m just going to leave it at that. I doubt the word of a dead guy with no evidence about something that happened over twenty years ago would have much sway.

You may wonder why I didn’t just talk to a professional about this. I’ve seen a number of doctors since I was a teenager to talk about other issues and I’m positive that another doctor would not have helped. I was never given one piece of actionable advice, ever. More than a few spent a large part of the session reading their notes to remember who I was. And I have no interest in talking about being raped as a child, both because I know it wouldn’t help and because I have no confidence it would remain secret. I know the legal and practical limits of doctor/patient confidentiality, growing up in a house where we’d hear stories about the various mental illnesses of famous people, stories that were passed down through generations. All it takes is one doctor who thinks my story is interesting enough to share or a doctor who thinks it’s her right or responsibility to contact the authorities and have me identify the molestor (justifying her decision by telling herself that someone else might be in danger). All it takes is a single doctor who violates my trust, just like the “friends” who I told I was gay did, and everything would be made public and I’d be forced to live in a world where people would know how fucked up I am. And yes, I realize this indicates that I have severe trust issues, but they’re based on a large number of experiences with people who have shown a profound disrepect for their word and the privacy of others.

People say suicide is selfish. I think it’s selfish to ask people to continue living painful and miserable lives, just so you possibly won’t feel sad for a week or two. Suicide may be a permanent solution to a temporary problem, but it’s also a permanent solution to a ~23 year-old problem that grows more intense and overwhelming every day.

Some people are just dealt bad hands in this life. I know many people have it worse than I do, and maybe I’m just not a strong person, but I really did try to deal with this. I’ve tried to deal with this every day for the last 23 years and I just can’t fucking take it anymore.

I often wonder what life must be like for other people. People who can feel the love from others and give it back unadulterated, people who can experience sex as an intimate and joyous experience, people who can experience the colors and happenings of this world without constant misery. I wonder who I’d be if things had been different or if I were a stronger person. It sounds pretty great.

I’m prepared for death. I’m prepared for the pain and I am ready to no longer exist. Thanks to the strictness of New Jersey gun laws this will probably be much more painful than it needs to be, but what can you do. My only fear at this point is messing something up and surviving.


I’d also like to address my family, if you can call them that. I despise everything they stand for and I truly hate them, in a non-emotional, dispassionate and what I believe is a healthy way. The world will be a better place when they’re dead—one with less hatred and intolerance.

If you’re unfamiliar with the situation, my parents are fundamentalist Christians who kicked me out of their house and cut me off financially when I was 19 because I refused to attend seven hours of church a week.

They live in a black and white reality they’ve constructed for themselves. They partition the world into good and evil and survive by hating everything they fear or misunderstand and calling it love. They don’t understand that good and decent people exist all around us, “saved” or not, and that evil and cruel people occupy a large percentage of their church. They take advantage of people looking for hope by teaching them to practice the same hatred they practice.

A random example:

“I am personally convinced that if a Muslim truly believes and obeys the Koran, he will be a terrorist.” – George Zeller, August 24, 2010.

If you choose to follow a religion where, for example, devout Catholics who are trying to be good people are all going to Hell but child molestors go to Heaven (as long as they were “saved” at some point), that’s your choice, but it’s fucked up. Maybe a God who operates by those rules does exist. If so, fuck Him.

Their church was always more important than the members of their family and they happily sacrificed whatever necessary in order to satisfy their contrived beliefs about who they should be.

I grew up in a house where love was proxied through a God I could never believe in. A house where the love of music with any sort of a beat was literally beaten out of me. A house full of hatred and intolerance, run by two people who were experts at appearing kind and warm when others were around. Parents who tell an eight year old that his grandmother is going to Hell because she’s Catholic. Parents who claim not to be racist but then talk about the horrors of miscegenation. I could list hundreds of other examples, but it’s tiring.

Since being kicked out, I’ve interacted with them in relatively normal ways. I talk to them on the phone like nothing happened. I’m not sure why. Maybe because I like pretending I have a family. Maybe I like having people I can talk to about what’s been going on in my life. Whatever the reason, it’s not real and it feels like a sham. I should have never allowed this reconnection to happen.

I wrote the above a while ago, and I do feel like that much of the time. At other times, though, I feel less hateful. I know my parents honestly believe the crap they believe in. I know that my mom, at least, loved me very much and tried her best. One reason I put this off for so long is because I know how much pain it will cause her. She has been sad since she found out I wasn’t “saved”, since she believes I’m going to Hell, which is not a sadness for which I am responsible. That was never going to change, and presumably she believes the state of my physical body is much less important than the state of my soul. Still, I cannot intellectually justify this decision, knowing how much it will hurt her. Maybe my ability to take my own life, knowing how much pain it will cause, shows that I am a monster who doesn’t deserve to live. All I know is that I can’t deal with this pain any longer and I’m am truly sorry I couldn’t wait until my family and everyone I knew died so this could be done without hurting anyone. For years I’ve wished that I’d be hit by a bus or die while saving a baby from drowning so my death might be more acceptable, but I was never so lucky.


To those of you who have shown me love, thank you for putting up with all my shittiness and moodiness and arbitrariness. I was never the person I wanted to be. Maybe without the darkness I would have been a better person, maybe not. I did try to be a good person, but I realize I never got very far.

I’m sorry for the pain this causes. I really do wish I had another option. I hope this letter explains why I needed to do this. If you can’t understand this decision, I hope you can at least forgive me.

Bill Zeller


Please save this letter and repost it if gets deleted. I don’t want people to wonder why I did this. I disseminated it more widely than I might have otherwise because I’m worried that my family might try to restrict access to it. I don’t mind if this letter is made public. In fact, I’d prefer it be made public to people being unable to read it and drawing their own conclusions.

Feel free to republish this letter, but only if it is reproduced in its entirety.

Reason #186: Damaged Goods

When I was 19, one of the reasons I wanted to kill myself was because I felt that I was damaged goods.  Do other survivors ever feel this way, or is it just me?

This concept of ‘damaged goods’ keeps coming back to me, as a theme in my head, ever since that wriggling fucking ant fell on my face while I slept. I am obviously still ‘damaged’, since a fucking ant can drive me right into weeks of crisis.

Many religions teach about women needing to be ‘pure’ when they get married.  Pure, so that men know they are buying whole goods, not damaged ones.   I’m Jewish, and in Judaic law, an incest survivor who was incested before the age of three is still considered to be whole, while a four year old who is raped by her father is considered ‘unpure’.  ‘Unpure’ children who are survivors of rape are not allowed to marry into the Levy or Cohen tribes, because we are considered too unpure for that. 

I was pretty disheartened by the whole thing.  Of course, I could go on for a while about the ways that fundamental/Orthodox religions fuck kids left and right by making them lesser than.  I understand enough now to understand that religion is/was created by men, and men wrote their Bibles and their Talmuds and their laws to suit their needs.  Some of these men were bad and some of these men were good.  I subscribe to a G-d that loves me, all of me, and wants me to heal.  However, when I read about this ‘unpure’ shit, it only reinforced my notion of myself as damaged goods.

The thing about damaged goods is that if they are considered to be good enough to be sold at all, they are sold at a discount.  Like day old bread or dented cans.  Those things sell at a lesser price, and then the rest is tossed out as garbage.  And that is what I felt like.  Damaged goods.  People had done things to my body, and it had a lasting physical and psychological impact, and I knew for sure that I was always going to be damaged goods, and that would mean that no one would ever love me.  I felt that I would never be able to let anyone in, and no one would even want to get in.

I am married to the love of my life.  Thank G-d.  Thank G-d.  Thank G-d. But I am realizing that I am still damaged goods.  It is apparent in every panic attack, and every bug sighting, and every fearful thought that I have to quelch in order to live.  That is why you shouldn’t fuck kids.  You damage us, and you create damaged goods.  Some of this is repairable, and some of it isn’t.

Reason #169: The Trauma Dictates
April 22, 2010, 12:59 pm
Filed under: Uncategorized | Tags: , , , ,

So we’re sitting in our marital therapist’s office, and she says we have to take little steps to get my husband and I back to fucking each other.  She suggested that we take each other’s hands and arms and massage them for 15 minutes.   We had to bargain DOWN to hands and arms because our first assignment was back massages, and I got all fucked up and panicky and I couldn’t do it.  So, now the assignment has been relegated to hands and arms.

She looked at me and said “Butterfly, if you feel yourself getting at all anxious about it, stop everything immediately.  Do not be a martyr about this, because what we are doing here is stirring up your trauma, and if you don’t like being touched, you don’t have to be.  You are the one who decides if you want to be touched or not.”

I could hear, implicitly, what she wasn’t saying.  I am an adult now, and I get to decide who touches me the way I couldn’t when I was a little girl.

Then she said something interesting.  She said “This whole time, the trauma has dictated your sex life with your husband, and our whole goal in this therapy is to stop the Ménage à trois with you, your husband, and the trauma.” 

The truth of this statement hit me like a lightning bolt.  Really, when I think about it, the trauma has dictated every part of my life.  Safety is always my primary goal, due to the trauma.  And everything I do, from not wearing gloves in the winter to checking under the bed every night to the kinds of outfits I wear so as not to attract attention – the trauma has dictated all of this.

Fucking kids is traumatic.  Some of us end up killing ourselves from the trauma of it all, and some of us survive.  In either case, the trauma dictates.  That is why you shouldn’t fuck kids.

NOTE TO SURVIVORS OUT THERE: If you feel like you have no hope and that suicide is the answer, please consider calling this 24 hour hotline: 1-800-SUICIDE or 1-800-273-TALK.  Many many times in my life, I considered suicide.  I am grateful every single day that I was never successful in ending my life.  It was worth not killing myself to be alive for all of this.  Please call.

Reason #155: Sunk Costs

The huz and I were talking about a concept he learned called “Sunk Costs”.  Apparently, in Corporate America, this term designates the costs already spent on a project.  These costs are already sunk into the project and spent, and according to the experts, you should not factor these costs into whether or not you should continue with the project.  In other words, if you’ve already spent $155 dollars on a project, but you feel like the project is going nowhere, don’t spend another $155 on it just because you’ve already sunk money into the project.  I guess it’s kind of like what all our moms have already known: Don’t put good money after bad into a failing project.

While he was explaining this concept to me, I couldn’t help but think about the costs I have sunk into being a survivor.  Now, it’s not my fault that the abuse happened to me, and it’s kind of not my fault that I survived it.  Or maybe it is my fault that I survived it, since I had opportunities to kill myself and didn’t take them.  Actually, that is very much the point.  Suicidality was one of my sunken costs of surviving the abuse.  There are now 155 sunken costs into this survivorhood project called my life, and unfortunately, I fear there will be 155 more costs sunk into surviving.

Dissociating and surviving the abuse was one thing, but the truth is that surviving child sex abuse necessitates sunken costs.  I cannot help that I am afraid of the dark or that I can’t sleep in, or that I need three blankets and a sheet to sleep at night.  All the therapies in the world haven’t helped me with these costs, and I am at the point now where I don’t think I will ever have a time where I will live free of fear.  These are some of the costs associated with surviving my abuse, and I bet if you asked any survivor of abuse about his/her costs, she’d be able to list a bunch too.  The thing is, unlike a corporate project that you can abandon even though you’ve spent a lot of money on it, I am unwilling to abandon my life.

It kind of reminds me the book “Nuts” by Claudia Reilly. (This book was made into a movie by the same name, with Barbra Streisand. Great movie, and also, incidentally, the subject matter is an excellent example of why you shouldn’t fuck kids.)  In the book, the title character Claudia is a prostitute whose john tries to kill her.  She defends herself and ends up killing him instead.  When she discusses her thoughts on the matter, she says something like “He can take my body, my breasts, my vagina.  But G-d-dammit, he cannot take my life.”

I guess that is how I feel about the costs I have sunk into surviving this abuse.  It’s true that I have sunk a lot of costs into surviving child sexual abuse now.  And if I have anything to say about it, I’ll be sinking a lot fucking more.  Because I’ll be alive.  And that alone will mean I am one of the lucky ones.  That is why you shouldn’t fuck kids.

Reason #95: Bad Dreams of Adult Survivors Committing Suicide
June 3, 2009, 11:24 am
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This morning I woke up from yet another child molestation dream. This is really starting to suck, let me tell you. I think that dream I had where the father was raping the daughter – I think that was inspired by SwordDanceWarrior. I think yesterday’s dream where the little boy was getting molested – I think that was about V. And today’s dream, well, I think that is inspired by OnionGirl.

In today’s dream, a friend of mine was an adult survivor of childhood sexual abuse (like myself). In the dream, she killed herself, and we were all at the funeral. Her molester was there too. We all knew she killed herself because of what he did to her. After the funeral, I walked up to him and yelled “This is all your fault!” He got mad and kicked me. He was afraid of being ‘outed’ for the monster he is, so he reacted in anger with violence against me. I grabbed his leg and turned it in a way that legs don’t go. He reacted in pain, and I got afraid I would break his leg, so I let go. He reacted to that by kicking me again. At that point, I got mad at everyone else standing there watching. I mean, we were in a circle of friends here, all of us who had known and loved the girl who killed herself. Why weren’t they helping me fight this scary man who was hurting me?

This is child molestation dream number 3. I pray there is no number 4 to write about tomorrow, because these seriously suck. I talked to my husband about this morning’s dream, and he said that maybe this is me working out the fact that I am actively fighting child sexual abuse now. Maybe he’s right. Either way, this is yet another reason why you shouldn’t fuck kids.

Reason #91: We Tend to Kill Ourselves

You know that Mormon sect leader, Warren Jeffs – the shithead who is in jail for forcing his 14 year old niece to marry some guy. It turns out he molested some of his nephews. One of them (Brent Jeffs) was on Good Morning America, talking about how he and his brother were molested by Warren Jeffs. Brent’s brother couldn’t be on the show with him because he killed himself.

When I saw the picture of his brother, I cried. I always cry when I see people who feel suicidal or have committed suicide. I remember all too well what it was like to think that there’s no way out of this misery, that I would always feel this way. I think that most of us survivors flirt with suicide at some point in our survival. I am damn glad to have survived, but I take no pleasure in being the only one, which is why you shouldn’t fuck kids.

This entry goes out to all my fucked brothers and sisters. If you are considering suicide, stop for a minute and call 1-800-suicide which translates to 1-800-784-2433. When I was suicidal at 12 and 19, I truly thought I would be better off dead. I thought that my pain would never end, and that my whole life would be lived as terribly as the first 19 years had been. I was wrong, dead wrong. If I had killed myself, I wouldn’t have found my best friend and married him, had my beautiful son, and started this blog. I know that when you are in the depths of despair and everything looks like a big black tunnel with no end, everything can seem so bleak, and suicide seems like your best option. It isn’t. Your pain will end, and when it does, you can take what you know and use it to help other survivors. Together we can fight and win in this war against children.

Remember what Frank Warren of Postsecret says: “The children that the world almost breaks become the children who will save the world.

Reason #80: What Came After
April 23, 2009, 9:05 pm
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I was watching this movie that I recorded on TiVo called “The Nanny Express”. The nanny character is this woman whose mother died of cancer when she was in high school. She said “I thought the months right before she died were so hard, and it turns out they were nothing compared to the next few years without her.”

That is what it was like for me, surviving the abuse. When it was happening, I thought it was so hard living through this. So hard wondering how to face my dad at the breakfast table when he was looking at me like that, so hard going to school with everyone and their normal problems when mine were mountains that I couldn’t see past.

After Mom divorced him, and both my father and brother were living away, I have never had to live with either of them again. It’s supposed to be good now, right? I mean, the abusers are not living with me anymore.

I didn’t understand that surviving the abuse is one thing, what comes after is real fucked up and hard. It’s been 20 years since I last had to suffer any childhood sexual abuse. I am still fucked up. I still have issues with summer blankets, nighttime terrors, fears of elevators, showering, all kinds of shit that make every day real hard. All these hard things share a common cause. A babysitter, my brother, and my father molested me when I was a child, at separate times. I have been afraid ever since. I am pretty sure that were it not for the kindness of strangers, family, and friends, I would be dead from suicide a long time ago. This is why you shouldn’t fuck kids.

Reason #49: Betrayal
February 19, 2009, 1:33 am
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When I was less than five years old, my mom innocently hired a babysitter from a newspaper ad. This teenaged girl came into our home, my mom left, and she proceeded to use my brother and I for her own sexual enjoyment. I have no memory of this, of the actual event, of this person. But right after that, I began a lifetime of hypervigilance and panic. I began covering my head while I slept. I would leave a little hole so I could breathe, but other than that I was totally covered.

I would lay there hidden under a mountain of covers even in the summer. I would be hot and sweating, but I would never even consider the possibility of less than three covers. I would lay under there wondering if the bad people could see me. If they stabbed me while I lay there, would the knife penetrate all those layers? Would they even know I was under there, under all those covers? Now that I am an adult, I know the answer to these questions is yes, so I still lay there like that. This, by the way, is why you shouldn’t fuck kids.

When I was 13, I was seeing a shrink because I was suicidal. I described to him how I was literally afraid that when I laid down, I would be stabbed in the back. I said “I know what you’re thinking – that this is some metaphor for betrayal. Well it’s not.”

It was and it is, and last night as I lay in bed huddled under the covers with the image of the knife in my back, I thought to myself “This is some fucked up shit right here.” Then I couldn’t take the overwhelming fear of the imagery in my head, the knife in my back, so I sat up and turned the tv on. The light from the tv lit up the room. Suddenly things were easier. Light makes everything easier in a world where you are afraid of the dark. As I lay back down with the covers over my head, I could see the flickering light of the tv out of the airhole I left for myself. As I tried to fall asleep, I comforted myself with this thought: ‘At least when they attack me, I will see it’.

Reason #16: Suicide
October 12, 2008, 10:14 pm
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I was 12 the first time I thought about suicide. I was 19 when I got downright serious about it. By 19, I figured that I would never overcome my shit about sex, never get over what had been done to me in childhood. I figured I would remain a hopeless virgin, and that would consequently mean I would never have love with a man, and never have children. When I realized all of that, I consciously sought out death. I wanted to die. When my friends asked me what I wanted for my 21st birthday, I told them “death”.

It took several years of therapy before I found a will to live. And a lot of tears. A lot.

I am beyond grateful that I didn’t commit suicide. I would never have met my wonderful husband, and I wouldn’t have had the chance to be a mother to my beautiful son.

The thing about suicide is that it happens when you lose all hope, and that was how I was. I had lost all hope, and I felt like suicide was my best possible option towards ending all the pain I was in. I lost not only the will to live, but the hope that life would ever be anything beyond the shitty fucked up world I had come to know. A world where adults willingly fucked children, and children were encouraged to shut the fuck up about it.

Suicidality is like living in a dark dark tunnel where there is no light at the end. I knew, without a shadow of a doubt, that my life would always be shit, and that I would always feel this way. So why not do myself a favor and end it all?

I was wrong. Thank G-d, I was very wrong. I am grateful that I never succumbed to suicide, but really, I almost didn’t make it to this place in my life where I am able to write a blog. I almost took my own life, because I couldn’t bear the thought of living in my own skin even one more day.

This is why you shouldn’t fuck kids. We tend to kill ourselves because we can’t take the knowledge of what you did to us. I am grateful to be alive, certainly. But I take no pleasure in knowing that others like me didn’t make it.

Note to those reading this blog: If you are in pain, and you feel hopeless, these people can help. You may be feeling alone, but know that you are not alone. Many people all over the world are feeling alone and sad. If you were to go into a room full of people, anywhere in the world, and ask them if they had ever felt so sad that they wanted to take their life, you would see a bunch of people raising their hands right along with you. You are not alone.

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