Reasons You Shouldn’t Fuck Kids


Reason #193: Shopping for a therapist

So I’ve been shopping for a therapist lately.  As my regular readers already know, I already have a marital therapist, and we determined that my fucked-upness is fucking up my marriage and possibility of having another baby, and so it would be best for me to find my own therapist.  As most of you probably know, finding a therapist that you like can be difficult.  I once read a study that said that no matter what else happens in therapy, when people like their therapist, their chances of healing are much greater than those who didn’t like their therapist.  So, even if you have fucking Carl Jung himself as your therapist, if you don’t like him, you’re not going to get any better.

So, I called some therapists and left some messages.  I have seen so many therapists in my life already, and 95% of them have been total crap.  But I had two really great ones, and I am seeing a really great marital counselor now.  So there’s hope.

Anyway, one of them calls me back, and this is how the conversation went.

Doc: “Hi, this is Dr. ThinkI’mGreatButReallyISuck.  You left me a message.  I need to let you know that I am not accepting new patients until November.”

Me: Oh. Well, I guess that will be okay, it’s only 2 months away.

Doc:  I see.  What are you looking for exactly?

Me: I need someone who has some expertise in the area of child sexual abuse.

Doc: I see.  Is that because you are a survivor yourself, or is your child a survivor, or is it someone you know-

Me: (cutting her off) It’s me.

Doc: I see.  Have you ever been in therapy before?

Me: Yes.

Doc: I see.  And how long ago was this?

Me: (Starting to feel weird – do I have to tell her about my past therapists?  I don’t know her at all, and I already had to tell her I am a survivor, and I feel vulnerable.)  Uh, look, this is getting kind of weird.  You’ve been asking a lot of questions, and I haven’t gotten to ask you any.  I feel like I am telling you my life story, and I am trying to ascertain if you are even someone I should be seeing or not, and it seems like you are interviewing me before I have even made the decision to see you.

Doc: (defensive)  Well, I am just trying to see if you need someone earlier than November, and you said you were-

Me: (cutting her off): I don’t think this is going to work.  I’m sorry.

Doc: (pause) Okay.  (click)

Now I guess I have to call some more possible therapists.  But honestly, I already just saw one a few weeks ago who turned out to be an idiot (because she couldn’t keep up with the conversation, and I tend to go quick), and now with this last phone call, I don’t feel like it.

My marital therapist has offered to be my personal therapist.  It gives me a weird feeling, and I am not sure what to do.  On the one hand, she seems to really understand me.  On the other hand, there’s the weird gut feeling I have every time I think of seeing her as my personal therapist.

There was a spider in my room last night.  I think the Universe is trying to tell me something.



Reason #185: That fucking ant
July 16, 2010, 2:19 pm
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We’re sitting in our marital therapy session, and I spent the majority of the session crying.  What’s funny is that with my other two therapists, I cried maybe twice in their offices.  With this new therapist, this is my 3rd time crying in the six months or so since we’ve been seeing her.  This makes me think that perhaps marriage, and the intimacy that is required of good marriage, hits me in a place so deeply that it makes me cry.

Anyway, so we were talking about the ant that fell on my face while I was sleeping.  That fucking ant.  That motherfucking G-ddammed horrible shithead of an ant that has torn my whole sense of safety in my home to complete and utter shit.  That fucking ant.

In therapy, I projected everything at the huz.  How I need to leave this marriage because he doesn’t want another baby, and this ant made that clear.  How I am tired of fighting with him about it.  How he obviously doesn’t care about me. 

She says “Wait a minute.  Last week, you were both taking some great steps, and you felt like you were really moving towards something great together as a couple.  Last week, he assured you he does want a baby and that he does care about you.  So let’s take a step backwards and discuss how an ant means the dissolution of your whole marriage.”

So we started talking about it.  As we were talking about it, I realized that it was ME who was afraid of having a baby, and that fucking ant was the crack in the system that showed it to me.  I have been unable to sleep in our bedroom since that ant fell on me.  I have been living on edge ever since that ant fell on me, because that ant, as miniscule as it is, is proof that things can and will touch you, by surprise, without your permission.  Can you imagine trying to care for a newborn while being afraid of your own bedroom?  Me neither, and that realization was fairly upsetting.  That fucking ant.

The therapist said “What if the ant falls on you?”  I said “Then it will have touched me without my permission.” 

She said “Okay, and what then?”  I said “Well, it can go in my ear.” 

She said “Okay, and what then?”  I said “Well, sometimes bugs get stuck in people’s ears.  Then I would have to go to the hospital and get it surgically removed. As a matter of fact, that is a major reason that children in the inner city visit the emergency room.”

She said “Okay, and what then?”  Here’s where I started to cry.  I said “And then I would have to walk around knowing that there had been an ant in my ear and I had to have it surgically removed, and everyone would act like I was normal, and I would know I wasn’t.  I would have been through this horrible thing and I would have to act like nothing happened in my every day life, when really my whole life had been torn apart. And I would be afraid every day after that because I would know for sure that ants fall in your ear.”

She said “Oh sweetie.  So you never get to ‘okay’, do you?  There’s always something worse down the line, and nothing ever gets to the point of okay.”

I looked at her through tears, and the truth is, ‘okay’ was never even a thought in my mind.  She was exactly right. 

She said “You have lived your whole life trying to navigate down such a narrow path so that danger never comes near you.  Really, if you think about it, it’s quite a smart strategy, and it has helped you survive terrible things.  But it’s not working for you anymore.  That little girl inside you is so afraid and she keeps alerting you to all possible dangers, and the adult you is suffering along with her.”

The truth about that ant is that it proved to me that no matter what steps I take to be safe, I am never 100% completely safe.  That ant is the crack in my system, the chink in my armor.   And if an ant can fit through the cracks of my system, who knows what the fuck else can fit through there?   And now I am worried that if something as small as an ant can show me my fragility and my lack of safety, I feel hopeless as to ever feeling safe again.  Hopeless.  That’s why you shouldn’t fuck kids.

P.S.  I made an appointment with a second therapist.  I hope she is good.



Reason #148: Arguing with the therapist
January 25, 2010, 1:37 am
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So, this week the huz and I went to our marital therapist’s office, and it came up in conversation that our son’s crib is still in our bedroom.  The therapist’s reaction was so visceral.  She was like “He has to be in his own room!”  And I said “Why?”  She said “Well, you’re not having any sex.”  I said “Well, we weren’t having any before he was conceived either.”  (Seriously folks, when we knew we wanted a baby, we made a concerted effort to have sex 3 times, and thank goodness, one of those times was successful.) 

Her reaction made me feel ashamed though.  The thing is, we were ready to move him to his own room a long time ago.  But he would scream and cry for hours, and I just didn’t feel right about it.  I remember all too well what it was like to cry myself to sleep, and I don’t want my son to have that memory too.  Plus, I think we all know how I feel about cry-it-out bullshit.

You know, in the wild, no sane animal puts her young out to sleep far away from her.  I have seen enough human animals in my lifetime to understand why this is so.

Anyway though, that argument with the therapist made me feel weird.  I am not ready to give up on her yet, but now I need to find my balls and talk to her about it when we go back to her this week.  I felt judged, and it made me feel vulnerable because she knows my sex abuse history.  This is why you shouldn’t fuck kids.



Reason #138: Another fucking therapist
December 16, 2009, 2:29 am
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Tomorrow the huz and I are trying out yet another fucking therapist. The use of the word ‘fucking’ in there is actually a double entendre, because literally we are seeing her to help us learn to fuck each other, and also I am using it as a curse word because it’s our third fucking one.

We saw our first one when we first got married and realized we weren’t fucking each other. We knew it was weird because we were still newlyweds in our first year of marriage or so, (and aren’t newlyweds supposed to be fucking each other senseless?). She was a complete quack, and by the third session she had disclosed to me that she came from a family of gypsies, she told me the price she had paid for her home, the fact that her daughter was an aspiring singer, and that her boyfriend helped her fix up her home. That’s way too much self-disclosure for my comfort level. I like to go ahead and have the therapy sessions focus on my shit, not the therapist’s.

Our second therapist came less than a year ago, and I wrote about our experience with her in Reason #50. She was really terrible with the sex abuse stuff, and the worst thing about her was that she thought she was good at it.

Now we have to go to yet another one, because our problems are bigger than us.

I was asking my husband why his family doesn’t believe in therapy at all. My husband comes from an Irish Catholic background, and as you know, I am Jewish. My family believes pretty strongly in the value of therapy, and his family pretty strongly believes that if you need therapy, you must be fucking nuts. Anyway, when I asked him why his family didn’t believe in therapy, he told me that his mom once said “There’s nothing about my children that I can’t fix myself”. I said “That’s all fine and dandy until someone comes along and fucks your kids. No one can fix that themselves, and certainly not your mom, because she’d have no idea where to even begin.” This is why you shouldn’t fuck kids.

Man, I hope this one works.



Reason #129: Incest Jokes
October 17, 2009, 1:18 pm
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When I was in therapy (at 19 years old, for wanting to kill myself), I told my therapist that I didn’t like it when people made incest jokes. She had no idea what I was talking about. She said “Who makes incest jokes?” I am now realizing that maybe if you are not a child sexual abuse survivor or incest survivor, maybe you wouldn’t be sensitive to this shit the way I am, so maybe she didn’t realize how we as a culture like to downplay and make fun of incest.

When I was dating blowjob guy, he told me a story about how he knew some guy whose daughter was now a teenager and wore bikinis. The guy made some joke to blowjob guy about how he had to control himself around his daughter because he found her attractive. Blowjob guy laughed while he was telling me this. As someone whose father did not ‘control himself’ around me, I didn’t think it was funny.

Last night, the huz and I went to a dinner theater event. We’d been planning it for a few weeks, we never go out and do fun things (because we have a baby), and we were really looking forward to it. The play was about hillbillies (seriously, the title had hillbillies in the name). Within the first few seconds, they started incest jokes about dad having sex with daughters, and all other family members fucking each other too.

We planned a night out, for fun. And here I am, yet again, an incest survivor, supposed to laugh and act like none of this shit is personally hurtful to me. I am unable to find the humor in child sexual abuse and incest. I was pretty pissed that we paid $70 to basically hear jokes made about the most hurtful part of my life. And yet again, a perfectly innocent night out to try and relax and enjoy life becomes a reason you shouldn’t fuck kids.

If a veteran came home from war, and we joked about the fact that he had to kill people or see his friends’ heads blown off, no one would think that is okay. Yet all of us fucked kids are subjected to these disgusting jokes that make light of not only our suffering, but also the events that caused our suffering. It’s not right, and I am ashamed that I gave my money to this dinner theater event.



Reason #57: How Many People Does It Take to Fix a Butterfly?

The other night I woke up at around 4:30AM. I just lay there in the bed wide awake. And it hit me – I hate our fucking therapist. As you readers suspected, she just wasn’t right for me. We went in for our first together session after our “separate sessions“, and she said “How did you feel our single session went?” I said “Uh, this is awkward, but to be honest, I felt like you opened a big can of worms and then left me to deal with the worms by myself. With like a minute left to the session, you were still bringing up new shit about my sex abuse. Then the session ended and I was left with a big pile of shit.” I explained how the dog stuff was upsetting, and how that happened to be one of the few things I had never previously discussed in therapy.

Dear readers, you are going to love her response to this. She said “I think you were upset because I was and still am angry at your mom.”

Isn’t that great? She’s angry at my mom. Well then, why don’t we stop the session so that we can focus on her feelings? The poor thing, having to sit there with her anger at my mother over what my brother, father, and babysitter did to me.

The more I thought about it, and mind you, it took me all this time to figure this out, I got PISSED. Seriously, who the fuck does she think she is? I am not aware that she is allowed to have a feeling about my mother. And if she is, why is she bringing it into our session? Is it meant to spur my anger towards my mother? Maybe she thinks I am protecting my mom? Let’s say that’s the case. Let’s say I am protecting my mom, because who knows, maybe I am. THIS IS MARITAL THERAPY. We aren’t here to talk about my anger with my mom – we’re here to talk about how my protection of my mom might be affecting the fact that my husband and I aren’t fucking. And frankly, I don’t think that’s the reason we aren’t having sex.

Her “anger” was an inappropriate response for a therapist. Readers and blog commenters, you had it right all along. So, I sat the huz down (later in the day when he was awake), and I told him how I felt about the therapist. He said “No problem baby, we’ll find someone else. It’s not going to work if you hate her.” So we fired her.

In the meantime though, I made an appointment with a psychiatrist for myself. I stopped taking the zoloft a few weeks ago. Let’s be honest with ourselves – it wasn’t working for me. I was in a lovely mood all the time, but I was still experiencing anxiety and panic. I think I need more help than a primary care physician can give me, and I think it’s time to see a psychiatrist. Maybe he can find the right drug for me.

I am nervous about going to a male psychiatrist. I don’t generally seek out any males for any of my paid needs. My primary care physician, gyno, urologist, etc – all females. Even my hairdresser is female. Part of this is probably the feminist in me, in that if you can give money to female workers, you should. But the rest of it is about the sex abuse, and this is why you shouldn’t fuck kids. I don’t like being around men, especially in rooms alone with men. And that is generally what happens when you pay them to fix you – it requires time spent alone with them.

I dread the part where I have to tell him my fucking story. How many people do I have to tell what the fuck has happened to me?

It’s almost getting comical, really, all the people that I have hired to fix what has been done to me. It almost reads like a shitty joke: “How many people does it take to fix a Butterfly?”



Reason #50: The new therapist and the dog

So the huz and I are in marriage counseling, as you might know from my previous post. As any good marriage counselor does, she made us come in separately once so that she can get our history.

I saw her a few days ago for my ‘single’ session with her. She asked me about my history, my family. I told her about the babysitter and then about my brother. She immediately starts with ‘it’s okay if you enjoyed it’. Well, I didn’t enjoy it. I handled it by pretending I wasn’t there, and wishing the whole thing would go fast and be over soon. Then she says how it’s okay if he didn’t coerce me into it. I was like well I said no a bunch of times, but apparently my no’s meant jackshit to my brother.

I hate it when therapists try to jump in and fix my shit before knowing all my shit, you know?

Then we started talking about whether my brother was fucked up or not. I told her I walked in on him molesting our dog when I was a teenager. That’s when the therapist got visibly upset. (shaking my head in disbelief while writing this). Apparently it’s okay to fuck me, but fucking the dog – that’s too much.

As I sat across from her though, I too started getting upset. I thought about it, about what my brother was doing to the dog, and I started to cry inside. My sweet beloved doggie, whom I couldn’t do right by. When I walked in on it happening, I wasn’t sure what to do. I told mom about it. I have no idea how she handled it. I like to think it never happened again, probably because I took pains never to leave the dog alone with my brother again. I was terrified of him though and I am sure I didn’t handle the situation right. I wonder now what right would have been. Would it have been maybe giving up my beloved dog to a proper home? In a house of crazy, was it okay to keep the one being that loved me? I don’t know. I feel terrible about the fact that I couldn’t protect my dog.

I suppose it is easier to be upset about the dog than about me. It is easier to face, and yet more horrible to face at the same time.

The session went on, now with both of us upset. She asked me if I thought he would molest children again. I said without a doubt yes, but he is not a pedophile. There is a difference between child molestors and pedophiles (though neither are desirable). A pedophile is sexually gratified by children, whereas a child molester generally molests for power via sexual abuse. There’s a difference. Anyway, I think my brother is the latter kind. He wouldn’t go out of his way to molest a child or a dog, but the world is a lot safer if he doesn’t have any kids. (Or dogs.)

I told the therapist that I have watched him very closely my whole life, making sure he is never alone with children. If he ever got close to a kid, I promised myself I would go public with what he did to me. No child will suffer by my silence.

The therapist said that when I said that I watched him closely my whole life, she got sad for me. She said no child should have to watch anyone that closely. She is right; I am trying to protect the world at large in a way I couldn’t protect myself or my pet. This is why you shouldn’t fuck kids.




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