A place for a

23.11.2015

Your mother is a whore

Your mother is a stupid cocksucking whore. Why would she not be? If no woman will ever love you like mother, is it not time to stop wondering why no girl is like momma and start wondering why your mother should really not be the same stupid bitch? What a strange irregular woman!

Is it really that implausible to believe that – at least metaphorically -, you were covered with the cum of dozens of men when your mother shat you out?

But nature here provided you with the mother-son bond. A genetical benefit of the doubt. A mythic spiritual tunnel for convenient bullshit-feeding.

It is undeniable that the archetype of the mother in its purest form has intense healing power and is a source of love and strength. Yet it must not be forgotten that during childhood, the person who is our mother becomes a mere carrier of that archetype. A mask we put on her, so that we can trust blindly. The person itself is, of course, as flawed as everybody.

Questioning the mother

My mother abused me, a friend’s mother abused him. Hell, the world is full of female abuse. Borderliners, narcissists, codependents, psychopaths and more. The variety is all yours. And yet it seems a natural instinct to discard all those things as abberations. There is, of coursemy mother and then there are abusive mothers. Two different worlds, for sure!

Weird, right? All that evidence of female abuse is out there. And yet our subconscious rejects it with ease. It is acknowledged as information, but it hardly ever really pushes through the defense to alter our idealized perception. If it does, it takes a long time and is painful. And even then, we may find it hard to detect the patterns in our own lives. We may develop the skill to judge a man’s game as an observer, yet fail to incorporate it into our personal interactions, because something is just different.

A woman fondling her little boy because no man is around to satisfy her sexually? Putting a pencil or finger up his ass, maybe? Oh, nobody will ever know. And the kid will be the first to forget. Forget to survive. He will grow up feeling strange shameful and arousing emotions in his ass and maybe wonder whether he is gay. He will have a seemingly natural fascination with existentialism, melancholy, morbidity, darkness and death. He may draw skulls. He may have scary nightmares and menacing visions. He will conclude he is just different. Never will reality occur to him: That hell is the appropriate emotional landscape for a desecrated motherly love.

Is that woman evil? Or is she simply a woman who had no one around to satisfy her needs? Just an irresponsible single mother perhaps, victim of her own emotions? Or is she herself a non-conscious abuse victim who reenacts on you?

When we are in love – or when we are sons – our women seem just perfect. Maybe that is the point of love, as my commenter Smokingjacket remarked. Maybe love is not about seeing the world realistically, but about taking the risk of letting someone put a blindfold over our eyes and hoping that the things we oversee will not destroy us. Maybe we need that, at least with mother, to be able to learn and soak up her knowledge in our young years.

And a baby likely needs the mother archetype desperately, so any abuse in that time will be subject to a defense mechanism. The brain’s automatisms contain a filter maybe, a reality filter. The filters conclude that those moments of abuse must have been a distortion of reality, a misperception. A biological auto-correct function. We feel anguish, but mother says she loves us. So we auto-correct, to learn the truth from the horse’s mouth.

But who is that person?

But who is mother?

No, not the archetype.

Who is the person that fulfilled the function of mother for you? What do you know about her?

Is it not curious how little of her you know about her as a person? As an individual? At least to me, it seems like my mother was a mere brainless vessel dedicated to either coddling or terrorizing me. But did she ever express any individuality? Did she ever tell me of her past? I find it hard to remember a single instance of that. I often asked her about her mental illness, but only got vague answers. I felt like she owed me an explanation, but she played the victim of my curiosity, so I let it go.

Anyway.

It is as if she lived only for me in that time. I can not believe that that is a good sign, though. But maybe women really just are that vapid, just servants of society and procreation.

Once, she told me about a man she had had. Some kind of loud dude in a pub who drank and sang. He recorded a tape for her, with his music. She found it horrible, but hey, he was her boyfriend. Or lover. Whatever. It probably did not matter.

My intuition tells me that he was quite the prototypical asshole and did not give a fuck about her. Not to judge, of course. I am an asshole, too, whenever I can.

Nevertheless, she told me to be a nice boy. Always. Told me I would find a girl who liked me. She educated me not into a man, but into a mirror of her as a good mother. A boy who would be nice to her and other girls. Sweet chocolate.

Are you aware that kids of Borderline mothers typically feel extremely guilty and confused about hating their mothers?

I found it hard to reconcile these two concepts, whore and mother. My mind mostly jumped between those two and never put them together to a whole. I thought I needed to disregard one concept to accept the other. Either way, I was amputating my intellect.

So yeah, my mother likely was a stupid bitch when she was young – although she would probably just say: Ah, we were kids, it meant nothing!

The hamster hamsters it all away and instead of being honest and preparing you for the kind of girl she likely was herself, you have to put up with her shamefaced distortions of reality. She paints it as harmless and cool and I mean, now she is mature and knows what matters, right? So she can spare you all those childish mistakes. She thinks that because she loves you madly, every girl must.

Mother versus Whore

Our Western culture of thinking is quite anti-dialectical. That is, we prefer to choose between two truths and reject the other. Capitalism versus Socialism, Good versus Evil, Mother versus Whore. We seek the holy grail of absolute truth.

We are relatively closed up to the possibility that both are not mutually exclusive. We try to use logic to choose the better one. To be right. We are obsessed with choice. What we seldom allow ourselves is to let both concepts into our souls and then just let the gut guide us from there and let our intuition find the truth.

Is it really so difficult to let go? To see mother and whore in one? The archetypes are separate, yes. But the person who embodies those archetypes for us is real. If we let ourselves see it, they are just facets of a whole.

We know all of the mechanics of game. Hypergamy. Asshole game. Daddy issues. You name it.

And yet, we do not apply it to our mother. Actually, do we even really apply it to girls? Do we just acknowledge it in an academical manner or do we allow ourselves to feel the implications? Do we feel ashamed of having been tricked? Do we feel it should not be a big deal to having to reinterpret reality completely? And the consensus seems to be: Just be a man and suck it up, be rational. But that hastiness only hurts us.

You see, to you she is mother. But what does mother mean to her? It is just an archaic self-serving instinct.

Sometimes it may be too painful to let go of the distortions of reality. Sometimes they may protect. Sometimes, empathy can ache terribly and bring up horrible memories and long forgotten emotions. True empathy forces honesty, thus it is better for a abused kid to throw empathy out of the window. Not just because of what it would tell you about another person – but because of the things it would remind you of about yourself.

Empathy is a two way street. To look into her eyes and see her completely and let her see you completely. But do you dare to venture into the darkness that is in you? Can you imagine relaxing and looking a hot girl into the eyes without saying or thinking a word? What emotions come up? Are you comfortable with all of them? If not, prepare for a ride in the abyss sooner or later. With LSD, for instance.

Reasons to hide truth

To see truth is a matter of intuition and empathy. But when truth is too disturbing, we throw those mechanisms out of the window and cling to ideology and rationalization. We put on a person-mask and imitate somebody who is not us – because being us is too darn painful.

Or we put a person-mask on somebody else. Is she a mother? Or is she the unique person called Iva Arrow? Is he an asshole and bad boy? Or is he Jack, the unique dude you know from the bar?

The person-masks blend out all the details. They hide truth. They cut off the rough edges of reality. Sometimes we need that, because to truly see a person for who they are, we have to allow ourselves to see ourselves for who we are. And if we are just starting to realize that we were abused and lied to, our organism will not allow us to do it. It will shut off. Make you feel sleepy, make you lose focus, make you feel ashamed of thinking those negative thoughts. Everything necessary to shield you from truth. Everything to keep alive the person-masks. To keep alive the archetypes. To hide the painful imperfections of reality.

When I saw the Harry Potter movies and the mother’s love that saved him, I cried and laughed at how ridiculous it was at the same time. When I saw that happy smiling face of his mother, I just thought: Bullshit! Lie! And yet I cried, half-assedly. I had no idea where the stupid emotion came from. Ah, probably from nowhere. Probably means nothing.

Just some weird irregularity of my brain, right?

Think women are bitches? That your mother is one? Meh, your brain must have some little defect. Just forget about it. Do not dig deeper.

There is always a good reason to not see truth. It is irrelevant. Or it is silly. Or it is just your imagination. Or you are just being a pessimist and a conspiracy theorist. Or you should just fucking lighten up and get over it. Or it should not really be such a big deal. Or you convince yourself that intense emotions mean that you are on the wrong track and are breaching some godly moral norms. Afraid of hell and satanism. Or that emotions are irrelevant. Or you discard the thought and thus the emotion by convincing yourself you have already been there. Or you convince yourself you have more important stuff to do and will come back at it later. Or you think you have no right to think that thought, because you are not worthy of thinking it. Which just means that you are ashamed of the pain.

And those sad melancholic and angry songs you like to listen to? Ah, that is just a taste and a phase. It means nothing, of course.

But all those reasons just hide the true reason from you: It is too fucking painful to allow yourself to think and feel it. The shame eats you up. It covers your stomach and creeps into your chest. Who knows, maybe you feel it at the core of your existence, in your butt even. No, better not wonder what those emotions mean. Just keep running from it, it will go away. It can not be real.

Know how reality should feel? How it should feel to consider any thought or theory? It should feel like nothing at all. Like no big deal.

As always, the tip is: Take some LSD. And while tripping, read game articles. If you are new to this shit, you will be surprised about the emotions that come up. Prepare for some therapeutic bad trips.

Your mother is a whore.

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  • Anonymous age 72

    Reading your postings takes me back. When my daughter was in high school, she was in a church youth group. In college, she lived at home on a very tight budget and drove to campus 70 miles round trip daily. Her youth group was her only recreational activity.

    One of the young men in that group was engaged. She told him, “Don’t do it! She is bad news.” He did it.

    Later, he got custody of two small boys. He normally had baby-sitting for work, but one night everyone was unavailable. So, she agreed to watch them until he got home.

    When she came home, she was crying. “Dad, I went to rub the boy’s head affectionately, and he went into the fetal position, and screamed with terror. What sort of mother would make her little boy that afraid of her hands?”

    I answered, “My mother.” She was silent for a minute, then started crying again.

    • Fuck. I almost got goose bumps reading this snippet of yours. Hits home all too well. Very powerful, thanks for sharing.

      That is the stuff where horror stories get their power from.

      Fuck, this hurts.

      • Anonymous age 72

        Thank you. You know that I do understand your postings, of course.

        • Well, I reckon you were also abused by your mother and share these intimate – if terrible – emotions.

          Other than that, I can not make any assumptions. But I believe you if you say it, so thanks. It is always good to not be alone with that kind of bullfuck.

          Please feel welcome to comment anytime and as often you like. It helps.

    • Look. This picture of Voldemort in Harry Potter brings up the same emotions in me as your story.

      http://vignette4.wikia.nocookie.net/harrypotter/images/f/f9/Voldemort's_mutilated_soul.jpg

  • thordaddy

    It is very obvious from the ubiquity of evidence that the liberated “white” females of the West are bona fide self-annihilators. The defense mechanism that you speak of is now memetic “equality dogma.” The “reason” to beat your child is hatred, plain and simple… A hatred for one’s self and one’s burdensome imperfections. What “equality dogma” provides is a rationale for extant imperfection where the annihilation of imperfection SHOULD BE TAKEN AS the efficaciously laboring endeavor of the high IQ female. To put this in HBD terms, We are sons of a particular category of “white” female in constant battle with imperfection and the annihilation thereof. “We” simply represent tangible expressions of that psychological war suffered by those “white” liberated females who create life with a lingering regret and remorse.