A place for a


The underbelly of the female

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.

She had my mother in her mind, who suffered from mental illness. She wanted me to keep being her daughter’s emotional tampon.

Today, I see that silent and impersonal outcry in her eyes for what it is the first time: The fatal hatred of a slave master who has invested twenty years in bringing up a little obedient sheep for the slaughter house. Looking forward to the meal. Now somebody stole it. Yes, of course she would be angry, I can understand it.

It creates an interesting perspective: The coddling, the caretaking, the mothering as the pretense, as the mask, as the play. And her face in that moment as the face of the person behind it. Uncanny. Imagine a beautiful sweet girl who wants to marry you. You reject her because it does not suit you for some reason, despite you wanting it. And before your eyes, she transform into something akin to The Thing. Then, no more bound to pretense – because she lost – she tells you with a creepy simmering monster voice: I would have gladly eaten you up, Tom, I was looking forward to you. Good for you, you outsmarted me.


And the devastation of seeing this lies in the fact that you know you would have blindly run into the trap, had not some random circumstance saved you from it. You know that it was not your reason and sharpness that saved you from the jaws of the monster, but pure luck.

You see yourself as the naive and stupid sheep that would have happily walked into the slaughter house, believing in the profound honesty of all the affection, believing you were special to be worthy of this extraordinary amount of love.

Suddenly, the world loses everything that seemed to have given it integrity before. You see that the only ones who told you you were special and deserving of everything were the ones who wanted to abuse you into being their own pet. And you see that you were completely oblivious to it.

You feel out of control. Suddenly it seems like the powers of life can lift, whirl and crush you at their whim. And all your pretense of understanding everything came from the people who told you that life consists only of the things they told you.

It fills you with awe and reverence; a profound fear of a cruel and relentless god. No, not a likable bearded man. More like a buzzing and hot energy field that will fry you at a moment’s notice without any regard for your sentiments or safety. A force so far greater than you that protest seems absurd. The most courageous thing to do, to surrender.

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  • Smokingjacket

    What an unusual metaphor like Jonah and the Whale. It’s akin to being in a submarine with that relatively safety at great depths. However the thoughts always haunt every sailor that the hull could give way at any moment and crush your whole world in a heartbeat.

    But, thankfully we don’t have to live there. The surface is clear, lucid and tranquil. The waters are warm up there and will carry you, if you know how, to more habitable shores.

    • Never heard of Jonah and the Whale. But your depiction sounds quite accurate; that is how my life felt most of the time. I am – luckily – coming to realize that my mother was the exception rather than the norm, else I would have to live on in despair. Maybe you have read stories about Borderline Personality Disordered women. They seem to be quite famous for being able to quench your soul.

      • Smokingjacket

        Most women are relatively normal- perhaps a little too much sometimes.

        • That normality seems like a desirable irregularity in my life.

  • Dan

    Will you ever stop whining?

  • One thing I had to acknowledge about my mother that she only ever loved me because I was an extension of her, along with the rest of the women in my family. Bunch of self-centered narcissists. They tried playing that game with me too, but I had a genetic disposition to reject it from a very young age. That caused me a ton of grief growing up, but now I am immune to women’s emotional manipulation. I wish I could help all men see women for what they truly are, and what they can be if left unchecked.

    • I find myself wishing to have had a narcissistic mother instead of the one I had. The narcissists at least do not pretend to love you. They allow you to close up and suffer. The women in my family always adored me like little children, making me open up, only to then suddenly switch into a bullshit mode of ‘You are evil and just want me to die’. Back and forth. Shit really gets at your soul.

      But yeah, you do have a good predisposition, as far as I can judge it.

      To see women for what they truly are, I think that you would just need to teach men one thing: To trust their own senses and observations. Unfortunately, that is where all the trouble comes in. When the women around you convince you that you are indeed mad and mentally deranged, it is only plausible to ask them for a valid interpretation of the world.

      • HAHA!!! That is the truth. I have women tell me that shit all the time, but I know better. I just smile and nod, with the occasional verbal attack.

        • Really? That surprises me. Thought I was alone with that shit. Then again, even men – on the internet – sometimes tell me my thoughts seem disordered. It is a tough nut to crack and I plan on writing an article about it: How to verify that what you are seeing is indeed the truth?

          • Trial and error.

          • Interesting answer. Then again: What if a lie was able to take you farther than the truth?

          • Oh well. Can’t always get it right.

          • By the way. Our dialogue helps me quite a bit.

          • Cool, me too. Guess we both started this life from two opposite extremes, so there is shit to talk about.

          • Out of curiosity: How does it help you?

          • I am either reinforcing my own ideas by explaining them further, or discarding them by explaining them further. I think that is why I like writing so much. When you really sit down and put some serious thought into some shit, you get a feel for whether or not it has substance. I changed my writing style tremendously due to a comment you made a while back, and I started reevaluating some of the structure of my life regarding women and free will as well. Even what I just said to you just now, trial and error. I really do not know the truth. I just go with what I think it closest to what my gut tells me. As much as I want to think I am right on some things, I could be off the mark and sometimes I am. Other times I am not. It is really not so much finding the truth anymore as it is shielding out all the bullshit and going with that instinct.

          • Interesting.

            Maybe truth is just another big lie. A red herring to chase after. Like the perfect pick up line.

            And, ironically, as long as absolute truth is not found, it can neither be refuted. Who knows, the next person you meet msy have it, right? Then again, I lived this shit for almost three decades. One would think I would have encountered truth by now.

          • I know right?!

          • Yeah.

          • I sent you a mail with a little thing that happened to me yesterday. Too funny.