I know I whine a lot about my mother. Well, . I wanted to call this article Momma’s psycho games originally. It is catchier, but who would actually Google that? Sure, . But anyway.
The picture in the top of this article is a symbol for, fuck no. It is just an ugly bitch and a bit of Photoshop. And yet the more I have my distance from women, the more I see a certain wickedness about them that scares me. Like the light of the angler fish, women project a perfect lovely surface that at all times manages to hide the undertow.
Yeah, I know. Who am I to judge? I’m not all that myself and some of my thoughts and feelings are wicked as well.
People are savages. If not superficially, then at least profoundly.
Maybe the only thing that keeps surprising me about what I find out of my mother and women is that there is a voice in my head that screams No, that can not be true, I must be wrong. Almost as if there was a little policewoman in my head who said No, go think elsewhere, whenever I tried to reveal the secrets that my head holds anyway. It is the policewoman who finds the discovery , not me.
No one taught us how to talk to ourselves. It happened through osmosis. We silently repeated the same speaking patterns, words and phrases to ourselves that others had spoken to us out loud.
– Mike Cernovich, Gorilla Mindset
This stuff happened somewhere between the time I moved out of home and the time I finally told my mother to fuck off and leave me alone. It is not only about my mother, it is about my grandmother, too. My family consists of these two bitches, basically. Truly a life that started out in the gutter. Sniff, sniff.
When I came back from having met my father in 2013 and made the decision to move out, when I told my mother and grandmother so confidently and without hesitation or guilt, there was a profound sense of shock in her eyes. . But I was ridded of all the dramatic and intense emotions she could use to manipulate me. My grandmother looked into my eyes and coldly said: What did your father do to you? He changed you. I swear, if I could, I would kill him. I felt an indistinct chill down my spine and thought that I was looking into the eye of evil. Something has been torn away from this person and and this something was me.
I had just escaped a life as property of these two hags and how? Through sheer luck.
Cutting the umbilical cord
The feeling of closing the door ofbehind me, how marvelous. The first time sleeping over there and the heartwrenching feeling of freedom. And still, I was my momma’s boy deep inside. She still had my number and could call me whenever she wished to do so. It would take some time for me to dare and demand , something I hardly knew.
The first six months went by pretty smoothly, although my mother started to deteriorate. I was happily immersed with contracts and productive work to a degree that made me indifferent to any trouble outside my four walls. But the diry work of separation was not done yet.
There were many visits of my mother to my new home. She regularly brought me food. The Czech specialities that I liked. Bribe for my soul.
I enjoyed it and I figured it would not hurt me. I was annoyed by her calls and everything, but so what, right?
Middle of 2013, I had my graduation ceremony in London. Something in my head kicked in. I call this something the “” reflex. I observed this on multiple occasions, usually after longer or shorter periods of acting out in the wish to separate and be alone. It feels like a wave of overwhelming sentiment and ridiculously banal love.
In this particular case, I felt the strong need to have a photograph of the event together with my family – momma and grandmomma. To have that bullshitty memory of success and a degree by some state monkeys. Bravo, Tom, bravo, you are a good man.
The wish just seemed so, I do not know, right. Such a perfect cliche I could finally be a part of.
Look at me with those two ugly bitches. Damn, I am such a talented smiler. I held that one for about 30 seconds. You just gotta ignore that the facial muscles hurt – you know, like lifting.
And once more the superficialities make it all look perfect. The blue background, the smiles, the perfect lighting. We are all such fucking perfect monkeys. Now that I think of it, this makes me appreciate the movie American Beauty in a whole new way.
It really is all about appearances. I just never felt it could have anything to do with me. I mean, come on, do not be a troublemaker, eh heh.
On that trip to London, I also kissed an old love of mine. Stupid bitch she was. Once I stopped pretending to be nice, she told me the kiss was horrible. It hurt me and I told her to go fuck herself.
Sometime after that trip, I read The Fountainhead. That book deeply confused me and being a little monkey, I adored Ayn Rand almost unquestioningly. The book confronted me with my sexuality in a way that the other book had avoided. It also made me question my previously perfect loyalty to being a corporate sheep. I did not entirely solve that conflict for another two years.
But despite running away from my sexuality and staying a corporate idiot, it motivated me to at least otherwise express my character more honestly. I stopped smiling. People started telling me they liked the smiling Tom more.
I started developing discipline and regularly did bicycle tours into the mountains.
Still in contact with my mother, I occasionally borrowed her car. Unthinkable nowadays. Once I got lost in the mountains and she worried herself to death. I decided to not tell her what had happened. I wanted my pain for myself. Yet now my neutral face made her force me to and try to fix me; she even gave me one as a gift for my next birthday. I wonder, why did it not work for her, the stupid whore?
As time progressed, I could not suppress my wish to hear less and less of my mother.
Somewhen around 2014, my mother and grandmother started to make plans to buy me a car. I was hesitant, but still somehow played my part in the game.
Yet the more I spent time with myself, the more I realized that I did not want to take it. It felt wrong, like another string attached. I told my granny to give me a way to earn it or leave it alone. She said I should be. I said no.
She told me I was the only grandson she cared about. With my heart tearing apart, I told her to give it to another member of the family. Refusing her gift felt like I was killing her. Today, I wonder how I even managed to pull through. I felt guilty and ashamed of demanding my . But I am glad I did pull through.
The blues pill kicks in
As time progressed, my mother deteriorated farther.
She called me with an increasingly desperate tone of voice and asked for some of my time. Damn cow always wants to talk. Talk about what? Mom, you do not care about anything I do. I could tell you about it, but you would just fucking stare at me and say Aha. And then you would pretend to actually care so that I would not feel bad about myself. Why, mother? Why can we just not talk? It is a bother.
With time, grew the balls to tell her I did not care about her.who lived back in Czech started to call me, too. She had always been bugging me about me not calling her. I had promised a few times, but simply forgotten. I did not care. She never failed to blame me. It took months before I
It tore my heart out, I do not even know why. Maybe because I did really love her in some remote sense, but just was not interested in having contact.
My mother grew depressed. Like, really deeply or whatever.
Granny keeps calling me and telling me about it. My poor mother needs me, she is so sick. I keep talking around the issue, not daring to say I do not like my mother. Once I say And what if I do not like her? and granny says shockedly: How can you even say that? After all, no woman will love you like your mother.
Let us not forget here that my mother is equally tired of my grandmother like I am of her. She can not really stand her, but keeps contact out of guilt. She also has a fat friend whom she despises and 0nly keeps contact with her because the other woman needs someone to talk.
Selfless fucking bitch.
Like in some madhouse
One day, I get a call from my mother. Another grasp for attention, I am sure. I demand to know what she wants. All I hear are some weird noises and a faint voice of my mother, talking unintelligible words.
My first thought is that this is a disgusting freak show purely designed to scare me.
But how well it did scare me. I ended the call and silently screamed at this stupid bitch for putting me through this, for demanding all this attention only to make me miserable to the existential core.
An hour later, my grandmother calls. Mommy called her, too. She is scared – of course. She wants me to go look after mommy. Perfect. That is just what mommy had in mind, fucking whore. That somebody come look after her and give her the time of day.
Angrily and annoyedly, I decline. I tell my granny that it is my mommy’s own problem. My granny once more indignatedly and shockedly hangs up. I would never have thought this of you. Yeah, none of you sheep have thought this of me. Hello, guilt.
A few days later I get to know what happened. My mommy slit her arms. For a moment,sets in, but then I hear she survived.
Yeah, right, she tried to kill herself. My ass. What is so fucking hard about killing yourself and not calling every person you know while doing it?
I passionlessly say okay. No, I will not visit her at the hospital. No, I will not bring her clothes. I do not want to see that monster. Guilt, guilt, guilt. Sometimes I think me a monster for letting my soul feel all that guilt. God, would it not be so much simpler to
But I can not help myself. I know it will hurt me and I do it anyway. I feelof doing it, but I do it anyway. Because I just fucking yearn! for that freedom, no matter how much it hurts and destroys me. . For fucking once.
Some other day, my mother and grandmother come visit me. Granny came to Munich to take care of mommy. Now they are here, in my room.
My grandmother talks serious now.
My mother sits catatonically on the couch and emptily gazes at me. I confront her, now more resolutely. Her last act was just too much. I tell her that she is a stupid attention whore. That I will not let her treat me like that.
Not a word from her. Not a slight change in her facial expression. At some point, she says something like If you think so.
Well, no, fuck, I am not certain of this. I am just throwing this at you to defend myself. And you sit there like a holy jade statue and. You stupid whore, at least show some emotional reaction. At least show that this is hurting you. Something!
She does not.
So I sit there, like in a tribunal. I let them in. Why did I let them in?
I sit there and talk about myself. Show them what a great young man I am, even if boredly. I show them How I hate it today., some of my work. That stupid little sense of parental praise comes in.
Why do I let them do it? Because this is my chance to protest, to throw something at ’em.
But it is pointless. The more I think about it, the more I am convinced that. To stop seeking situations in which can be enacted.
They walk out and I take my granny into my arms. Not my mother, she disgusts me now. She looks at me with that dishonest act and says I understand. What the fuck?
Where am I? In some idiotic Hollywood movie where everybody just verbally jots down stupid slogans and smart sentences? You understand? Fuck you!
I now tell them that I do not want to see them again.
Once and for all, for now
They come anyway. They bring food and letters to my old address. They just let it lie before my doorstep.
The good Czech homeland foods that I love.
How many times do I have to break my own heart yet to come?
I throw it into the trash container outside, including my mother’s boxes in which it is. Which makes it even worse.
I hate you for forcing my hand like this, mother.
Next time, the goodbye is final. So far.