A place for a

18.02.2015

No, mother, no, fuck you, oh god, no, please, no

It’s my holiday. I have borrowed my mothers car.

I visit a place of my childhood. I am living an adventurous life, walk paths I haven’t walked before.

Then I see the cliffs across the lake. The cliffs from my childhood I always wanted to climb. They look dangerous. I remember that this holiday stands under a motto. Do the bold thing. I understand. Yes!

I climb into the car to drive around the lake. Drive around my home where accidentally my parents live. My neighbor says: Your parents miss you. I decide to say Hi. I am strong. I enter, my own man, telling of my adventures. Neither my mother nor my grandmother, my only real family, approve. Okay, as expected. I am offered christmas biscuit. With my last will power I refuse. I am shaken by their insensitivity. You fuckers never cared about my health!

I stand up, want to leave. The room becomes small. My mother sits on a squishy, triangular gymnastic ball that is blocking the way. Why won’t she move? She doesn’t look at me. Who is this person? Known hatred flares up. You fat cow, move! I ask her politely to move. She says no. Why. “I won’t allow you to do it.”. She doesn’t look in my face, there is no emotion in her voice. I clam up. My throat closes, my heart begins to race. Indiscriminate terror creeps up in me, beyond anxiety of death. It’s the thundering heartache of the hunted deer that realizes it has been set free without any chance to ever get away, with a chain fastened to its mind. I don’t fear bullets, I don’t fear death. I am terrified to lose my soul because I see in my mothers eye that she has a deal with the unholy presence himself. He is in the room. Invisible, but perceivable, like paralyzing gravity; not to be looked at for the sake of sanity. That’s why she is apathetic. She sold her soul to him long ago and asked only my soul in return. She is looking at him.

It’s just a fucking squishy triangular gymnastic ball. I kick it aside, it has the consistency of jelly. My heart is boiling. Guilt stings in my side. I hate, I despise her for her slothfulness, endlessly and passionately. As she falls, her jabbering body shifts out of its human form; the fleshy mass slowly moves to approach me. In trepidation I run, on my toes. I crush closed the door behind myself. I hear a bloodcurdling cry of my mothers. It’s not a mothers cry; it’s the perverted cry of a child who is afraid to lose the cat it planned to torture to death. It’s hard to turn the key to close the door behind myself. I am beyond panic. Everything shrinks, warps and the air, rather the ether around me is odorlessly smelly, occult and dark. I lose control of my motor capabilities.

I need to get in the car. I try to open the door of the neighboring room where the car is parked. No, mother, no! Desperation. The contours of reality break up and form burning edges in front of endless darkness. It’s your car, but you said I could use it! Existence disintegrates. Oh god, no, mother, fuck you, no, please, NO! My dream tears apart. I never had a chance.

I wake up before tears can find me. I am filled with ardent hate. I want to take a baseball bat and smash my mothers head. I want to see her teeth fly and her brain splattered. Only so, I feel, can I find peace. I am confused as whether I need to do this to my real or internal mother.

Yes, I dreamed this. Yet it’s not consoling. The outerworldish fear of something ineffably wicked and cripplingly evil is real and lays itself as uncanny-beyond-description gloom over my soul when I face real challenges. I felt this every time my mother ever petted me or took me in her arms. I never understood the feeling, having long given into it, having distanced from my feelings and self-compassion as much as necessary to be able to bear it. I foolishly became proud of it. That’s one explanation at least. The other is that drugs and dreams amplify perceptions and emotions. But even then, the terrible is not an amplification of subtle beauty.

I never miss my mother. I never think of her but in times of deepest need and illness. And I am learning to take care of myself in these times. People say I’m cold. Well, fuck you; you are idiots.

And I must never ever again accept a gift from my mother. I must not take the car.

But I realize that my psyche, my molded mind and my harmed body are the car I could’ve taken (and will take?) to the cliffs. It’s mine, it’s MINE! And it isn’t. I don’t know if it will be. Well, let’s see if I can dream this again, without visiting at home.

Lessons to learn

The above text was written in a very emotional post-dream state, as if in trance. Bear in mind that these feelings are territory I am only recently discovering after my Ayahuasca ceremony. What’s interesting about it, though, is the feeling of terror, the fear of the occult. It may really be just an intense form of fear, but the religious tint of the feeling and thought is what fascinates me.

Yes, I consider myself to be very rational and I would have called myself an atheist earlier and maybe that extreme orientation is the reason for me being overzealous now.

Now, I’m not really saying my mother has a pact with the devil. Maybe she does! But it may just be a symbol of the mind. Doesn’t sound as intriguing, but I’d rather fight a explicable entity than the devil. Curiously, I feel like the feeling had tried to disguise its nature from me my whole life. When I let myself perceive it, my thoughts go like: Where did my mother meet him? Where did she lose her soul? What dark place has she visited? I feel compassion. To a person she could have been, a live that could’ve been lived. And though it may be symbolical in nature, it helps me to have clear feelings.

Why do I feel this when my mother clings to me? I guess if the only person I was given as a guardian clings to me for hope, to a clueless child, my instinct tells me I am doomed.

If you felt an emotional response to the story or have an interesting thought, please feel invited to comment.

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  • Brett

    You’re a great writer. After re-reading the first part it makes more sense knowing it was a dream. Reminds me of my mother and her parents, and the thoughts they elicit in me. I also learned not to accept gifts from haters of any sort. Gifts are emotional anchors they use to manipulate you.

    • Glad it spoke to you.

      Indeed, gifts sound so nice, yet always create a debt. That is why today, whenever somebody gives me something significant for free and doesn’t want me to repay them, I tell them that I will not owe them anything for it.

      Unfortunately, especially with women, they accept it in the moment, but later on they will feel cheated and demand and expect some niceness back or whatever – and you will feel the need to reciprocate somehow, too. My grandmother offered to buy me a car several times. I told her to tell me what she wants for it. She eventually told me she wants me to be nice to my mother. I told her fuck it, I don’t want your car. On another occasion, I took this principle to the extreme and when a girl I disliked offered me a cookie, I wanted to pay her and when she didn’t want that, I refused the cookie. She was absolutely offended and told me that I must see her as a slut, to which I replied with a silent gaze of bewilderment.

      It’s true, Brett. Gifts from women are things they give to you so that they can feel better about themselves and something from you in return. They will never admit it – and maybe don’t even know it – but we people are probably somehow wired that way, so it works. Better to refuse it. Otherwise, with smaller things, it is probably smart to train yourself against the guilt and accept things without acting on the need to give something back.

      Oh yeah, admiration, praise and compliments can act as such gifts, too. With the subtle difference that they can be “taken back”. Pride is a bitch.

  • Wald

    The feelings you have towards your mother are as alien as the feelings I have for my father are to you.

    So I’ll just say this:

    “Beware of Greeks bearing gifts.”

    Wald

    • That is good. It means that not all women are like my mother – a comforting thought.

      I will beware of it.