For a long time, I had wondered about the difference between me and more confident boys and now men. From somewhere, maybe it was intuition, I had the feeling that I could be just like them if I – how to say – find a way to let go and be myself.
But there is no letting go. There is a past of adventure, conflict and childhood struggle that shaped them. There were tests of fire that burned away their fears and insecurities. They had fathers that hardened them and friends and enemies who fought them. Men who guided them early through stages of life in which I am stuck. And it was the time that did it.
What can I do today? I can learn to imitate. I can walk straight, hold eye contact, bump into people in the streets so that everybody fears me. That feels good. But it is mechanic, there is no play to it. I can grin at another man and it will look like we have something in common. But while he thinks back of times of raising hell, it is an empty gesture for me, there to be exposed for the lie it is.
My single mother failed me
Back when I was younger, I did not understand. I did not see the time and experiences with their fathers that had shaped the other boys. I just assumed there was something wrong with me. Assumed that the violence in me was there because I was wrong, if that means anything. Assumed that this ‘wrong’ is something I can repress and be just like others to fit in. But of course, that is a mistake.
Why am I the way I am? I was brought up by a single mother.
My mother is guilty of a simple thing: Gross incompetence bringing up a boy. She just fucking can not do it. She was totally and miserably overwhelmed with the task. Can I? No, I despise her for her stupidity.
For fuck’s sake, my mother considered me a little cute thing. Her chance to make the world better by not making me into another one of those men. She wanted me all for herself, as a nice thing to have, an object with which to prove the superiority of her fucking love. As a thing to make her happy, like a dog. Look, how cute.
Her answer to any kind of problem? Love, love, fucking damned love! Fuck your love.
She was overwhelmed by my aggressions and had not the slightest clue what was going on in my mind. She just could not understand. And how could she? She is a fucking bitch! There is no way she can understand it, because she never was a boy.
There was no one for me to talk and no one to guide me.
I often despised my mother for not being stronger, because I felt the need for a strong hand. This eventually led me to like the idea of feminism. Why, teach women to be fucking strong, so that they are not like my momma. Little did I understand that this was the job of a father.
I could attempt to list the many ways she failed to be what I would have needed her to be, but I only need to look at the person I have become. Lazy, reclusive, aggressive, socially incompetent. But most of all, having all those unfulfilled needs in myself, the needs of a child. For adventure, for danger, for pain and fights that would have shaped me. I see myself in the mirror and know that I am an incomplete man. And there is no way I can catch up. No one will be a father to me today. I am just a big child that annoys everybody, because everybody left this stuff behind long ago.
- My mother could not handle loneliness and was on psych meds most of my life. A few times she was in the nuthouse. I saw her fall all over herself while watching the pope in television when some quacks Jesusly healed her. She was, truly, a completely different person in that moment. As if somebody had exchanged her. I called the nuthouse people on her and in her delirium had to promise her to go into treatment for my ‘computer addiction’, too, so that she would fucking leave.
- In her madness, she took a artificial beautiful skull I owned, ran away with it and threw it out of the window because she saw the devil in it. In that moment, she was nothing more than an animal to me and I was at the same time terrified and full of hatred towards her. For some reason, I never got around to beat her for it. I felt powerless and paralyzed despite being a grown man.Naturally, I inherited her madness somehow. Like mother, like son, eh. But I will get out of it.
- Despite me asking a few times, she never told me what exactly was wrong with her. What she was diagnosed with. Momma and granny just said it was a psychosis. Great, but Google says that this is too vague. I felt clear words were something that was hurtful. Of course. , because
- My mother taught me that men hurt women by not being there for them. How the hell was that something I was supposed to ponder about when I was young. Anyway, I decided I would be better.
- The only answer my mother had to anything was her love and caressing and food and giving me stuff. She would drown all my pains with these things, no matter whether it was the thing I needed.
- When I started to masturbate at an early age, it made my mother uncomfortable.
- When my mother and me had arguments, I would insist that there was some underlying issue and keep bugging her with it. She would break down and cry and beg me to stop, calling me cruel. My pent up anger would watch in disbelief how I would apologize to her, maimed by guilt.
- Eventually, my mother could not handle me and sent me away to a staterun facility for 5 years, where I lived together with underperforming and mentally damaged kids.
- I had my own room and begged for privacy several times. I begged her not to clean my room so that I would learn it. I begged her not to make me any meals or tea, nothing. To just leave me alone.
- Most of the time when I lived at home, I just wanted to get away from the coddling. I begged my mother not to clean my room, not to ask me if I want tea, not to come into my room uninvited, often while I was fapping. It could happen quickly, you know, I was always stressed and had my ears open during it; it would take her just about five steps from her room to mine if she decided to want to “talk to me”. In hindsight, it was terror. Like being a slave to her mothering.
- I begged her to at least knock several times, but she would forget, because that was too fucking hard to remember, right. Fucking passive aggressive bitch.
- I would rage and yell at her and slam the door shut so violently that my arm would hurt. And it would help nothing. The stupid bitch was like an automaton: Running away from the conflict she caused and once it subsided, do the same fucking thing the argument was about in the first place.
- Then she would go havoc crying and shut down when I had a logical argument with her. Come think of it, it reminds me of the techniques to finish off narcissists.
- Having to justify myself whenever I was away for a longer time. If I did not tell her, she would go cold on me and cry how she was worried. Sheer guilt prohibited me from doing that.
- When we were on a long car trip, she would drink so much that we would need to stop for long pauses of her taking a piss. I told her to not drink so much, but she would always have some stupid reason, like health. Right.
- I liked to take baths late at night. She would, of course, need to go to the toilet. That was her fucking thing, going to the toilet. Since she could not go in, she would either somehow open the door and shit/piss in front of me or, maybe even worse, piss into some kitchen accesoires. It sends a chill down my spine even now to think of it. I told her I found it disgusting and she acted as if I was imagining it. Then I eventually got her to admit it and she said she would not do it again. Next time I would notice how she would go to the kitchen, but I would no longer hear the pissing, only her taking the cans and going away with them, pretending to just drink a glass of water. Thinking of it feels a bit like being raped. I mean, being forced to eat from something somebody else pissed into. Your fat ugly mother, for fucks sake.
- She seemed to seek for excuses to take a sleep in my bed when I was not at home or on other occasions. Often, the supposed reason was that the Turkish kids were too loud on the side of the house adjacent to her room. Despite me guiltily expressing my severe disgust many times, she kept doing this with just her panties on. And when I would then want to take a nap myself, the bed would be pre-warmed by her. Almost made me want to puke. She did not fail to ever tell me how insensitive I was for hating it. Because she was ill and shit. That was her excuse for everything.
- She refused to wear trousers in the flat, often running around with her panties. At night, she would run around without concealing her big ugly breasts, always forcing and expecting me to look away when she passed the door. For fucks sake, as if I was eager to see that. Wear a damn shirt, bitch. There is something threatening in the thought of my mother’s sexuality. I think that you are not meant to contemplate that as a boy. And still, it kinda taught me that I am very evil if I look at a woman’s breasts. How fucked up is that?
- When the stupid state-owned housing bitches called us to their office and wanted to make me fold and apologize for climbing out of the window as a shortcut – that was fun – she took their side. Fucking scared bitch betrayed me for other fucking bitches with authority. On the way home, she did not speak a word with me. But I had even told them that I would not do it again. But I had said it confidently and with a smile on my face. They wanted to see me cower, these pedagogic hags. They wanted me to submit and lick their feet more than they wanted me to obey their rules. They said I was arrogant, despite me actually granting them their wish. They painted me like a fucking rapist or convict for climbing out of a fucking window of their ugly people-silo. And my mother agreed with them. If there is any proof for me for that women do not want the best for men, not even their sons, it is this. They see in men nothing but little slaves to be domesticated. They despise and terribly fear male confidence and will do anything to annihilate it.
- Once I was on the top of our big house with a friend. We played with softairs, dressed up as military units. The police came with a special commando unit, but we had done nothing wrong. The worst thing about it was my mother standing in the staircase staring at me shamefully. Repeat: I broke no law. But my mother scolded me for this endlessly. I wanted to take it with humor, but she looked at me like the devil. Without asking further questions, she voluntarily let the cops search my room, leading to a broken cupboard and a lost 1-inch butterfly knife and some hood ornaments of cars. These were the only things I was charged with. Funny note: My friend was there with a long diver’s knife; the police did not mind it the least. Fucking sheep. My mother could have refused to let the cops in. In hindsight, I find it ridiculous that she acts like she wants only my best. When it became tough, she was never on my side. I somehow forgot these things with time.
- She bothered me with her stupid happiness books. To fix me. I asked her if she was qualified to fix me. I asked her if reading the books had made her happy. She had no answer to that.
- There was one moment I recall in which I opened myself up to let her take me in her arms, as I felt down. Somehow, I ended up holding her in my arms. It was disgusting. Her caretaking of me was just a pretense; it was really me who had to take care of her. When a woman offers kindness to me nowadays, my first impulse is repulsion. I feel that it is only a trick; a gesture to lure me in and drain my life energy, ridicule me or otherwise betray me.
- I could not beat her or do anything about my anger because she could have sent me away to some state facility again.
- She rejected me for what I was.
And they keep saying what is wrong with you? Yeah, indeed, why are you so angry? Why all the hatred? Oh, the world would be better if not for angry people like you.
And like a fool and a female slave, I tried to eradicate the hate, dissociate from it, and kept wondering what was wrong with me. Why did I have to hurt everybody with my uncomfortable feelings? Why could I not simply be good?
Turns out, nothing is wrong with me. How can I fucking feel guilty for those emotions? Did I choose to have them so that I can feel angry at everybody, is that what it is? Am I thus responsible? Yeah, I mean, in a sense I am responsible for wanting to have them. For wanting to be one with myself. Oh, the guilt. Could I not eradicate that wish? Oh, but I tried so often.
These motherfuckers are thinking I’m playing
Thinking I’m saying the shit cause I’m thinking it just to be saying it
– Kill you, Eminem
Right. Go on and live in your little bubble of delusions, if you will not listen to your own soul crying out in despair.