A place for a


My mother’s psycho games

I know I whine a lot about my mother. Well, I like whining. I wanted to call this article Momma’s psycho games originally. It is catchier, but who would actually Google that? Sure, people Google weird things. 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 pretty 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 too shocking to accept, 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

Let’s whine

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. Had I been angry, she would have known she still has power. 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 of my own appartement behind 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 my privacy, 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 “mommy was right, the world without her really is too cruel” 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.

Declining dependency

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 read her stupid happiness books 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 nice to my mother. 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 childish independence. 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, my grandmother 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 grew the balls to tell her I did not care about her.

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. PerfectThat is just what mommy had in mind, fucking whore. That somebody come look after her and give her the time of day.

Passive aggressive hell.

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, a perverse kind of relief 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?

Stupid bitch.

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 just give in and be normal?

But I can not help myself. I know it will hurt me and I do it anyway. I feel ashamed of doing it, but I do it anyway. Because I just fucking yearn! for that freedom, no matter how much it hurts and destroys me. I just want to feel like a separate, individual person. 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 act all deep. 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 my music, some of my work. That stupid little sense of parental praise comes in. How I hate it today.

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 the best way to protest is to let go. To stop seeking situations in which protest 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.

1 vote

2 Pingbacks/Trackbacks

  • Pingback: My mother’s psycho games | Manosphere.com()

  • thordaddy

    If a picture speaks a thousand words then that picture speaks at least a volume or two. Clearly, your mother and grandmother genuinely feared you physically from probably around the age of 11 upwards. Your father is also most likely very physically large and struck fear in their hearts and minds. You have never considered a real female submission to physical fear leading to despairingly supplicant reaction. And then add your perverse thoughts which ALWAYS bubble to the surface whether ultimately articulated or not and you must consider yourself the antithesis of what you believed yourself to be IN THE EYES of your mother. This very much can explain her behavior IN SOME RESPECT.

    • Very interesting observation. That thought never once entered my mind.

      My father is actually quite small, but strong. He was not around, though, so that theory lacks a bit.

      What perverse thoughts?

      you must consider yourself the antithesis of what you believed yourself to be IN THE EYES of your mother

      That sentence is a bit ubiquitous. Please elaborate.

      Still intriguing. I wonder where that train of thought may further lead.

      • thordaddy

        Define “small” IN RELATION to your mother and grandmother.

        And physically, you wore your BAD thoughts on your appearance whether you could CORRECTLY perceive that from a third person perspective or not. Clearly, you are much larger than your mother and grandmother. So if you are small then they are extremely small in relation. The same simple dynamic is stil at play.

        • My father is about the size of my mother. I am 6 feet.

          My bad thoughts still had a source. Do not tell me that I was born ‘bad’. I do not buy into original sin.

          It may explain supplication, but it does not explain the whole lot of other emotional abuse. I refuse to take the blame for their behavior. They were my guardians and there to take care of me and they did so shit-poorly.

          • thordaddy

            So you are a “giant” in relation to your parents… Not blaming you for that dynamic… Only illuminating another real aspect of female reptilian brain. Size matters. There might have been a traumatic break between momma’ little boy and real physical threat based on simple biology. You just suddenly became big and foreboding.

          • That may be an aspect, but I know that my mother suffered from mental illness long before yhat. She always wore short hair and used to date a stupid jerk, from what I hear.

    • I have meditated about why I have the feeling that everybody is just out to get me and trick me and destroy my soul. Whether it is true or not, I asked myself: Why would they want to do that? Why would the people who originally did that want to do that?

      And the answer came straight like a spear: Because they fear me.

      They see the nuclear bomb in my eyes. They see that I can set their world on fire if they say the wrong thing.

      That is why they fear me. At least those who are shorter and weaker than I.

      Cowards. That rage wants to be heard by this world. But there was no one to listen. Everybody covered their ears and now they fear I will make them listen.

      I will. One way or another.

  • Wald

    The loathing in that picture is palpable.

    Your mother looks absolutely evil. Your grandmother looks lost, apathetic.

    You look like you’re trying your hardest to appear normal.

    I applaud you for having the temerity to post your picture.


    • Interesting how you see evil in my mother in this picture. The thought intrigues me, although I can not follow; possibly because I just know her how she is. Mind elaborating what you see?

      Yeah, granny kinda really is lost. I wonder what to make of her. Best to stay away for now.

      Well, yeah, story of my life. Trying to appear normal. No idea if such a thing even exists.

      Temerity, not so sure. Maybe it is just blissful ignorance to the possible consequences. When I started to write this blog, life always felt like shit, so I did not quite understand the big deal about how painful it is supposed to be to write honest stuff.

      • Wald

        When you see someone smile, if it’s genuine, the eyes smile alongside the face. Your mom’s eyes express derision and pain. Try this – put your finger on the screen, just beneath your mom’s eyes, covering the rest of her face. What impression do they give you?

        Secondly – your mom’s smile is fake and a poor one at that. It’s supposed to be a toothy grin but ends up looking like a forced overbite to force herself to almost look like she’s smiling.

        Possibly, blissful ignorance. You tend to write intense things.


        • Ah. Yeah, that smile is kinda typical for her. My smile looks better, because I know how to fake that eye thing, I think.

          But let us not forget that we had to stand like that for quite a long time. I think that most people fail to make a convincing smile for as long as I can do that.


          • Wald

            I could see that.

            Ah, true. Still – that’s what I got from the first impression, rightly or wrongly.


  • Pingback: Dark realism: thoughts from the western Single Mother Societies progeny. | pop~agenda~culture()

  • Mcube

    Having looked at your other posts, and figuring out what you story and issues are, it’s clear that it is your family, specifically your mother that created a monster inside you ! I have had similar experience with my family, the problem is my dad was a bitch too, being unemployed made him more like a bitch, constant beatings and no proper guidance from him, made my mother take control of me, not allowing me to express my feelings. Looking back at my childhood, I wonder how much society has an impact on the family, the economic pressures, social pressures, the structure of our society, the question is did society create these monsters, or did monsters create this society, that’s what you should focus on.

    • Aye MCube, thanks for your comment. I can not answer those questions for you, as I do not have that insight. Do you? You seem to fit my target audience, so you are welcome to submit a guest article if you can provide those informations.

      As for myself, I am more interested in understand this stuff on an interpersonal level. Focusing on society, morals, laws all seems like a smoke screen to me to distract from that which happens in the details – in the real human interactions. You become blinded to the pain you receive in each interaction by fantasizing about what is ‘right’ or correct a thing to do.

      Did society create those monsters or did they create society? I suppose it is a hen and egg problem. ‘Society’ is an illusion. It is a word we use for a big collective of individuals, who nevertheless remain individual actors. To say ‘society is bad’ is to do those individuals with bad intents a favor; it disguises their actions so that it seems like everybody is doing something to you, while it is just one person.

      In general, though, I am under the impression that they way one perceives society is basically a reflection of how one feels himself. If you feel love and confidence in yourself, your world seems bright and on a good path. If you feel hatred, feer, anguish, the world seems like a dark and unfriendly place. And whichever of these is true, we sometimes fall pray to trying to analyze these intuitive perceptions and find reasons for them. Politicians. Media.

      Sure, there is ‘bad’ out there. But so is ‘good’. The question is which one our senses make us focus on. When we see ‘society’ as evil, we are watching the world through a filter of black and darkness. That black and darkness wants to tell you something, yes, but it is still a perception that is formed inside you. It is your darkness predominantly that you feel, so you have to wonder what it is trying to tell you. Study those emotions and you will find all your answers. Or, you will at least definitely find out what your secretly held beliefs are.

      • Mcube

        It is important to understand ‘interpersonal’ level, as I believe it is the key to figuring out this world, why what how we have come here, all comes from that basic nature of people. I’m not saying it’s ok to blame society for irresponsible people, they should face the consequences no matter what. But having to look at the whole picture is just as important, every person has their own philosophy depending on the country and culture they reside in, but the game is still the same between both sex, and the economy. Focusing on just interpersonal state is kind of like being stuck in a traffic jam and blaming others for the traffic, here it’s important to look at the big picture, I will contact you when I am ready to submit an article.

        • Well, there are other sites dealing with those issues. It is just not my focus. Although, if you wish to contribute an article, I will be grateful. But please – before you write it, send me a short summary what it will be about. I do not want you to waste time if it is of no interest to me and my purpose. I can not exactly put into words what my criteria is right now, at least not better than I already have; I just intuit whether stuff fits or not.

          If you will publish it elsewhere anyway, that is not a problem of course.

  • rox123

    Do you mind some internet psychology?
    Your mother sounds like she’s enmeshed with her mother. I have seen this in my family as well. Old women clinging to younger (obviously) daughters, eating at their lives. The kind of relationship my mother wants to have with me. Middle aged women that had horrible fights throughout their lives with their controlling engulfing mothers but nevertheless are there to administer their medication and even defend them to other people.
    The ickyness you feel towards them is because they are helicopter mothers. It’s a term for mothers that jump to their children’s help to smooth their paths and even out bumps even when children don’t need them or want them to and thus you feel like they are taking ownership of your experiences and somehow make it about them. It’s what my own mother did when she pushed me towards a ‘career’ I had no attraction to – presumably to help me – or what my mother in law did when she started preparing our wedding (which didn’t happen in the end). They are busybodies, do-gooders, loving mothers hovering above you and guarding for your well being. Their lives are hollow and they can only live through other peoples experiences and emotions.
    Oh and the guilt they instill in you … that’s when they feel you’re pulling away.

    • Yep, that rings true. There is another even more problematic aspect to it, but this is definitely important too. Thanks for your comment.