I am jealous of her, i envy her. I wish i could be her.
Her blonde ringlets are often painted with pink and purple hair chalk, her curious and sparkling blue eyes are always asking “will you sit with me?”, her scattering of freckles across her little button of a nose draw me in to look every few days to see if there are new ones, she sings carelessly about sitting down and she loves me, she adores me. She sparks something in me. Her innocence is so powerful, she is cheeky like an actual spider monkey and airy fairy like a pink furry balloon but secretly i suspect she’s actually brewing a plan to corrupt the world using lego and pink hair ties.
I envy my daughter, I spoil her and let her get away with too much, i breastfed her till after 2 years old which for any mum is a secret high -five–me moment of triumph, and baby wore her, and she still sneaks into my bed and forces my face to hers with her little cold hands each night and says “look at me” and drifts back to sleep in her cosy abuse-less slumber and i will always allow it because in my bed at night i know she will always be safe there.
I am jealous, scared and envious of this beautiful person that i have no idea how to raise. I love all my ‘children of the corn’ the same, but my need to protect Flea is so much stronger, overwhelmingly stronger, she doesn’t and won’t need me to protect her like i will. She will be stronger than me already, she will be well informed and educated on her body and what others are allowed to do with it. Maybe; knowing me i’ll share too much with too much honesty and too much detail, and too much indecency.
I will probably never allow her to have sleepovers at friends houses when she’s 5 because her best friend is absolutely-dying for her to visit so they can destroy her bedroom and give each other mullet haircuts . I probably won’t allow her walk to the shops when shes a teen, or to school for fear of an outrageously rare abduction in a white van with lolly pops. I will probably be hated and the worst mum in the world at some point there between 5-35 because my childhood has made me feel like she will be a victim, a toy to men.
I’ve felt like and have been a piece of meat to men/man since i was a child. I treated myself as a overcooked pot -roast as a teen and young adult. When i started to grow boobies, i hid them, they embarrassed me, i wore too big jumpers because i knew men liked bums and boobies. I tried to desexualise myself as a young teen, then once puberty was in full ‘Super Sayan‘ mode, i used it, oh i sure used it. I went out all the time and got outrageously drunk but at the expense of any man/boy that would buy me a drink. I would spend full weekends doing things and never having to pay a thing because whomever was interested in me would spoil me, and sometimes i gave nothing in return and other times i came home with grass stains. I used myself, and i was used in return, and at the end of the weekend i would feel nothing but regret and shame in myself. I hated myself. I was disgusting. My relationships, all but two of them, one of those being with Batman, i was treated as i felt i was. Mouldy cold pot roast.
We frequent the local shops. We watch the people, well i do while sipping my Caramel Latte, any man that shows any attention to Little Flea, especially older men i assume he’s into kids. I assume he’s thinking vile things, i assume the worst in men. I barely can bring myself to hug men, still, to this day i feel weird about hugging men, family men, friends men, all the mens. I hug women… awkwardly hug them but i don’t feel weird about it, but hugging men… because my boobs might touch their chest and be turned on by that even though i know realistically that doesn’t actually happen. But there are so many real men that need hugs because they’re not all dementors waiting to suck the life out of children, they don’t all see little girls or me as a undercooked Pot Roast.
I am pretty certain though that so many people that haven’t been abused have these same issues with parenting daughters. But until you have been abused, you do not know first hand what that does to your soul. Its’ not what the immediate pain/pleasure and confusion does, it’s the life long part, its the uncertainty that i have experienced, there’s no way to just ‘Get over it’ there is no fix to my problems because they stem from a time where life was out of my hands, i was influenced and taught by the people that surrounded me.
I don’t believe though that any parent that has not experienced what i or any other abuse survivor has, will protect their child less but it’s the awareness we have that might help or hinder us. The signs, everything about it, i know now what to look for. I can never have my daughter experience the feelings that i have. She may be sheltered, and she may be over protected, I may actually hinder her growth as a child to teen to adult because i can’t let her go. I can imagine her saying at 15 “MUM, just because you were abused doesn’t mean i will be, you can’t keep putting this lock on my pants forever.”
The Villain, has not only taken away my childhood, parts of my soul that i feel i am missing but has in my eyes affected how i will and am parenting my daughter. This is how powerful childhood sexual abuse is. It affects my ability to trust myself with raising my own child.
I worry for her, i worry about how i could ever possibly teach her to respect herself as a child, as a teen or an adult when i had no respect for myself.