chance to let down my guard and feel comfortable at home. That would be the ugliest form of letting myself go.
I’m quickly finished with my loud pee—because I didn’t really have to go—and pat myself dry. I used to often hurt my labia because I wiped too hard. I don’t do that these days. In part because I learned in therapy to be nicer to myself—and also to my labia. But I haven’t mastered it in all areas of life.
After I’ve nicely wiped, it’s time for the tape test. I wrap a strip of tape three times around my fingers, with the sticky side facing out, rip it partway through with my teeth, and then rip it free from the dispenser with my fingers. I learned this move from my mother. As a child, I saw her do it often. She did a lot of things with her mouth. It made a big impression on me as a child. I often saw her with a mouthful of thumbtacks, or upa ladder with a mouthful of nails. And I would think,
I want to be like that, too
. And it worked. Unfortunately I became too much like my mother. It’s horrible being like her. She’s a very unhappy, aggressive woman, and now, so am I. Bad genes and a bad role model.
When I had to tell my family that I never wanted to see my father or mother again, they were all shocked. Which is normal. Particularly those on my mother’s side—they lectured me about how I should think it over again. I told them that I had already thought about it a lot and always came to the same conclusion: my life would be better without my parents. They needed to be punished for their conduct—forever. They didn’t deserve children. First and foremost they didn’t deserve to have my dead brother as their child. The poor kid—all that he had to go through! He missed his father so much, far more than I did. And because my dear brother is dead, the case against my parents is intolerably strong. For his sake I must keep the flame burning.
The entire family said things to me like, “But your mother loves you so much.” Yeah, I said, she loves me too much—she won’t let go of me. She wants to dictate and control everything. I’m only allowed to be the way she wants me to be; otherwise I should just not be at all. I told my relatives, “She wraps her arms around me, and if I try to create even a little space between us so I can be myself, be somewhat independent, and take a step away from her embrace, I look down at my body and see that her embrace has left me battered and bruised.”
“But your mother loves you so much. She was such a good mother to you.” Yeah, yeah. When you were around she played the fun, creative clown, the unflappable, child-loving mother.But when we were alone with her, she let out the overburdened beast. She just ran around screaming. She was always on edge. It happens with so many kids at home. I have trouble not falling apart with just one child! But I don’t fall apart, and as a result I think I’m a tiny bit better than my mother—for one thing, I don’t hit my child. I’m sure she convinced herself that she didn’t ever resort to corporal punishment back then, that she never hit her children. But she did. It goes like this, in case someone wants to re-create it at home: you hold the child’s arm tightly in the adult hand, and then, with all your might, you send a sort of jolt through the child’s entire little body. You use the whole body as a sort of whip—you push the small, easily dislocated arm, then swing it powerfully in the opposite direction. The child’s body almost rips itself free of the arm, and it hurts the child so badly that he or she can barely breathe for a quite a while afterward. I can still remember looking at my mother in disbelief after she did that to me. I could never understand how my clowning mother could do that to me.
My relatives think I’m lying when I tell them my impression of my own mother. They simply can’t comprehend that she has two faces. I learned that from my mother, too: if I’m going to get
I’m quickly finished with my loud pee—because I didn’t really have to go—and pat myself dry. I used to often hurt my labia because I wiped too hard. I don’t do that these days. In part because I learned in therapy to be nicer to myself—and also to my labia. But I haven’t mastered it in all areas of life.
After I’ve nicely wiped, it’s time for the tape test. I wrap a strip of tape three times around my fingers, with the sticky side facing out, rip it partway through with my teeth, and then rip it free from the dispenser with my fingers. I learned this move from my mother. As a child, I saw her do it often. She did a lot of things with her mouth. It made a big impression on me as a child. I often saw her with a mouthful of thumbtacks, or upa ladder with a mouthful of nails. And I would think,
I want to be like that, too
. And it worked. Unfortunately I became too much like my mother. It’s horrible being like her. She’s a very unhappy, aggressive woman, and now, so am I. Bad genes and a bad role model.
When I had to tell my family that I never wanted to see my father or mother again, they were all shocked. Which is normal. Particularly those on my mother’s side—they lectured me about how I should think it over again. I told them that I had already thought about it a lot and always came to the same conclusion: my life would be better without my parents. They needed to be punished for their conduct—forever. They didn’t deserve children. First and foremost they didn’t deserve to have my dead brother as their child. The poor kid—all that he had to go through! He missed his father so much, far more than I did. And because my dear brother is dead, the case against my parents is intolerably strong. For his sake I must keep the flame burning.
The entire family said things to me like, “But your mother loves you so much.” Yeah, I said, she loves me too much—she won’t let go of me. She wants to dictate and control everything. I’m only allowed to be the way she wants me to be; otherwise I should just not be at all. I told my relatives, “She wraps her arms around me, and if I try to create even a little space between us so I can be myself, be somewhat independent, and take a step away from her embrace, I look down at my body and see that her embrace has left me battered and bruised.”
“But your mother loves you so much. She was such a good mother to you.” Yeah, yeah. When you were around she played the fun, creative clown, the unflappable, child-loving mother.But when we were alone with her, she let out the overburdened beast. She just ran around screaming. She was always on edge. It happens with so many kids at home. I have trouble not falling apart with just one child! But I don’t fall apart, and as a result I think I’m a tiny bit better than my mother—for one thing, I don’t hit my child. I’m sure she convinced herself that she didn’t ever resort to corporal punishment back then, that she never hit her children. But she did. It goes like this, in case someone wants to re-create it at home: you hold the child’s arm tightly in the adult hand, and then, with all your might, you send a sort of jolt through the child’s entire little body. You use the whole body as a sort of whip—you push the small, easily dislocated arm, then swing it powerfully in the opposite direction. The child’s body almost rips itself free of the arm, and it hurts the child so badly that he or she can barely breathe for a quite a while afterward. I can still remember looking at my mother in disbelief after she did that to me. I could never understand how my clowning mother could do that to me.
My relatives think I’m lying when I tell them my impression of my own mother. They simply can’t comprehend that she has two faces. I learned that from my mother, too: if I’m going to get
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