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The taboo of non-existent parental love

Yeah, I know. If those people in the picture above were real farmers, their clothes would have holes, the fabric would probably be significantly fibrillating and they would be dirty. What you see here are just stupid actors.

Actors play out ideals. How it should be.

My mother claims she loves me more than any woman ever will. I do not believe her, because I do not feel loved. I do not love her.

My father is a rather distant, if sympathetic guy. He was not around when I grew up and he never expressed any kind of emotion towards me. I deeply wish that he would tell me he loves me.

But what if he does not? Hell, everybody keeps dribbling deep down, you love your mother. The truth is: Deep down, I want to massacre her. It is the law and a vague gratitude for my life that keeps me from doing it.

Just because you love your mother or because you made a mistake in renouncing her, that does not mean the same applies to me.

But these are the things nobody talks about. It is so unspeakable that people rather keep pretending to love each other their whole lives than to face the excruciating shame of emotional realities.

Hate the mother or hate the lie?

My father grew up as one of two brothers. The other brother was mommy’s favorite and got spoiled. My dad decided that such is life and let it go – at least that is what he says. His brother eventually killed himself, crippled by his entitlement.

When I asked my father, he told me that he never wanted a kid. It did not bother me back then. Nowadays, I am angry. I am coming to realize how much I would have wanted him to be there and tell me he loves me. I cried a little about it, because it is such a new emotion to me, previously buried somewhere inaccessible, between homophobia and paranoia.

But the more I think about it, the more I realize that I can not hate him for not loving me.

Love is spontaneous. Have the right person, the right partner, the right kid with the right temperament and intelligence, et voila. Evolution likely somehow selects for those that are lovable, even in boys.

But have a kid that you did not even want, that is too annoying and aggressive or too meek and passive, too smart or too dumb, wrong gender – or skin color – and the love goes down the drain. Why waste love on something that is not what you want?

All that remains is the societal obligation to love.

The birth of my hatred is – I think – not in the absence of love.

It is in the pretense of love.

I feel terribly abused by my mother’s love. How she empty-gazedly clings at me when we meet. I want to run away from it. Is that how love is supposed to feel? I do not believe it.

It is a horrible act that we are forced to play.

As far as I can think back, when somebody asked for my emotions, my first impulse was to gauge which emotions they expected me to display, to then display them.

The truth is, emotions are simple creatures. Do you love me? No matter the potential to hurt, the answer is really simple in all truth. The emotion is either there or it is not. No obligation, no guilt, no shame can change whether you really like, love or respect somebody.

It can only change your answer. Hello, feminism.


I do feel guilty of pretending, too. Pretending to love my mother. At the same time, I feel guilty for not really loving her, not being good enough for her. Double bind, ba-blam. The crime of absent love compensated by the crime of fake love.

Do you love your mother? It feels less like a simple question than a threat. You better say the right thing.

I did it with so many people in my life. They deserve to hate me for the betrayal.

But at least I finally gave those people a chance to hate me. I told them what I really thought of them; those were some nasty words.

I ended the pretense, at least for now. It hurt. But finally there is peace in my head. For finally all those people know me. Yes, they hate the real me, but I no longer have to pretend to like them, either.

My deepest wish at this moment is that my mother would just find the honesty to tell me she never really loved me. I mean, how could she? I literally brought her near to psychic collapse many times, simply by being who I am. She sent me away from home. She did not respect my wish to be alone.

She is that one great supposed love in my life until yet. But I do not love her. I must tell her that I hate her. Yes, I hate her simply for who she is. Because take away the status of the mother and all that stays is a frail and mentally ill girl whom I have no tolerance for and no wish to be in a relationship with. Does that make me an asshole? Maybe. I am what I am.

But I can not fake love. I mean, yeah sure, I can fake it. But by faking it, I can not make it real.

Amateur theatre

There may be families in which the kid is fully loved by father and mother. They may be damn near perfect. But that is the way of evolution: It selects for the best, for those that make it work.

The ideal family is not the norm, it is an ideal. A caricature. The elite.

And I just wish, wish desperately, that me and my mother could have a really honest conversation. Where she would look into my eyes and tell me that she does not love the person that I really am. That she only tried to fake reality, tried to see in me a kid she would rather have wanted. Or a man she would have needed.

Where we can acknowledge that it was all a farce. Where we can see each other as separate human beings who do not belong to each other.

Then I could feel some sorrow and eventually forgive. Because I do feel some compassion for her as a human being and even if I hate her, I do not want her to have to pretend to love me.

But I do not think she is capable of it. She sees or wants to see something in me too much. Maybe I am wrong, but I do not want to risk opening myself up like that to her, only to have her lie to me. I will write her a letter instead.

If she loves me, she must let me be without her.

Because the tiny bit of love that I feel towards her – that human compassion – dictates me to wish her the best for herself, even if that is without me.

Thus I can not understand how she can claim to love me, yet not understand my wish to be without her. That can not be love.

I am so tired of pretending. After 26 years of my life, after two years of loneliness, there is little heart left in me. Little trust in other people. Little courage to love or desire at all. Even less to pursue desires.

I am so tired of pretending. I just want to speak it out loud, call it what it is, without her carrying on the act like a mindless zombie. I want to stop it.

I am so tired of pretending. Of giving emotions because you deserve them instead of because I feel them. Of receiving emotions because of your pitiful obligation instead of because you really feel them.

I am so tired of pretending. I want to escape the madness of being alone with my observations. I want to escape the madness of people carrying on with the act and shaming me for my ideas, making me question my sanity. I want some clarity.

God, I am so fucking tired of all you sheep. Can you not just go and die? Just show me something real. Fucking show me something real. You hate me? Good, at least that is real.

Evolution did not mean for everybody to love everybody. Not every bird baby learns to fly. Not every man is born a lion.

And that is cool. Because as long as it is real, I can deal with it.

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  • Smokingjacket

    “I want to escape the madness of being alone with my observations” The only way you’ll escape this state is to leave behind absolutely everything that brings up associations with your earlier life, otherwise your inner state will keep on reflecting the outer state of the world you inhabit. Even, unintentionally you probably visit or pass by places in your city that you associate with past events in your life.

    Germany is a big country, would you not consider living in Berlin or Frankfurt for sometime and leave your past associations behind in Munich? Besides, you can return in a few hours anytime you like.

    As for your parents and the question of them loving us, well, there’s no natural compulsive to love anyone or anything in this world, besides few of us actually know what we want when we demand to be loved? I’m not sure if either of my parents loved me, they said they liked me, but, that’s not the same thing, is it. At times, I felt a rage of hatred towards my mother as she could be so manipulative and caustic when the mood suited her, and, I guess it was this moodiness of her nature that’s never allowed me to trust her at any intimate level. I suppose the “pretense of love” allows most people to co-exist in relationships of all different shades and hues without ever having to face the fact that perhaps we don’t or maybe didn’t ever love each other.

    The demand to be loved, and loved alone and singularly is a hugely loaded concept. The one making the demand has to know what love is in the first place and what sacrifices in terms of one’s independence and liberty the loved person, if a child, or a husband will surrender in order to be loved fully. Most people are not born with an innate capacity to love, but, it can be taught only if one actually wants to be loved in the first place.

    • Moving away does not help. I carry the problems with me. But as I already mentioned, the meditations are a great help.

      I kinda like the honesty of your parents. At least some mental clarity. But then again, would I have ever questioned the world in the profound way I do, had I not been as mad as it gets?

      Love should ideally be unconditional. If one has to make sacrifices for it, it is no longer unconditional and thus worthless.

      • Smokingjacket

        I like the idea of unconditional love, but, can any of us demand this from another human being? Can most human beings even provide it, perhaps some, but not that many I suspect. The only unconditional love that we can aspire to is perhaps that of God or the love that some say makes up the universe, perhaps, a lack of this love is an integral but very tough part our “human” existence on this planet.

        • Well, you can demand nothing. We already closed those doors, have we not? If we could demand it, thete would be ni need to debate whether we can demand it. Wait. May depend on the definition on demand.

          • Smokingjacket

            Shut that door! I hear the angels coming, yes they’re blowing on something…what is it….a trumpet, a saxophone, no it’s a handkerchief with your name on it.