Jan 01


I read this post/cartoon a while back. I’ve been too afraid to write this ever since. I am going to try now.

Trigger warning cause this one’s going to be fucked up, but I don’t know how else to say it.

Ever look at your child and wonder, “Will I rape him/her one day?” I have.

Ever scrutinize all your snuggles for evidence that you are turning into him, the man who stole your childhood, your trust, your future? I have.

It wasn’t so hard with my son. He liked a quick hug and then to do his own thing. It is harder with my daughter. The scrutiny that is. Not desire, because I don’t feel desire for children. She likes her belly/backed rubbed, her under arms tickled, raspberries on her belly. Am I hurting her somehow? She clearly wants to be snuggled, but maybe I’ve done something and don’t realize I am touching all wrong. Is that a question normal people ask? Or maybe it is her age that makes it hard. Seven. One year younger than I was the first time he raped me. One fucking year. Staring at her, I can’t fathom the size I was then. I can’t imagine why, what happened to make me an object. To make me a victim. To make him a predator.

And I wonder, will it happen to me. Did he infect me with his poison? Am I irreparable? Is the question alone proof of my disease? That I can even ask that first question makes me terrified.

Is it only child rape victims that ask this question? What about child rapists? I wonder if they ask the same questions before their first victim. Is it a parallel we will always share and no other? Unless we cross the line of course. Become both.

I thought for many years that being a victim increased my likelihood of being a perpetrator. Believed it. Feared it. Questioned it. The cartoon’s premise gives me hope but hope isn’t enough. Because some victims do grow up irreparable. Some victims become the monsters in their own closets. Maybe not most, but some.

Some. One. Even the tiniest possibility is terrifying.

Please don’t let me be part of the some. Please don’t let me be broken.

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