From: dnelson@icaen.uiowa.edu (David Nelson)
Subject: *spoiler*  A Perp Flame
Organization: Iowa Computer Aided Engineering Network, University of Iowa
Date: Wed, 23 Dec 1992 08:56:15 GMT

Psycho Spew #57


                                   Dear Mom

                                    - or -

                      Damage Report from the USS Survivor


Lookit.  I've never had the guts just to sit down and even *think* about
telling you this, much less writing about it.  I've been so terrified of
facing the very memories that I've avoided them.  I wouldn't even let
myself *consider* telling you this.  I still might not.  It's damned
hard to take a stand against God.

And, yes, I get bloody fucking sick of hearing adult people play the
blame-game and shove off everything from obesity to nail-biting on their
parents.  I am vomitoriously weary of "Inner Child" horse crap and
psychobabble and everything else that comes out of the 12-step shuffle.
But, me, I've got a *major* bone to pick with you, bitch.

I know that you were sick.  I know that you were abused.  I know that
you're *still* sick.  That doesn't change a thing as far as the *rage*
I've bottled up for the last 32 years.  So listen up, and listen good...

Good job, woman.  In a handful of hours' time, spread out over
I-can't-remember-how-many weeks or months or years, you managed to twist
my entire life.  If your aim was to devastate and pervert an otherwise
precocious and potentially useful human being, you certainly got the job
done.

Number one, it was so traumatic that I couldn't even let myself remember
it until I was 30-something years old.  It took me that long to get that
far away from contact with you, before I could even *cope* with what you
did to me.  Yes, you did it *to* me.  I was a child.  I was powerless.
*You* did it to *me*.  You bloated, sack of adipose-laden dung.

When you took that hair brush and shoved its handle up my ass, you not
only ripped tender pink flesh, you ripped my very soul.  Did you know
that I am awakened on some mornings by that sensation?  Yes, I relive
you raping me, even now, 32 years and 300 miles away from it.  Your
legacy lives on in my asshole and subconscious -- you wretched,
promiscuous, psychological pus-bag.

Did it ever occur to you, in your egocentric frenzy, that I didn't
*mean* to wet the bed?  Was this a half-baked innovation on some
pseudo-Freudian, Dr. Spock-ian child-*rearing* (heh!) scheme?  From
which Reader's Digest did you get your notions on child discipline?  Or
maybe you picked it up from a porn magazine?  You know, those incest
scenarios over which you used to cream your over-stressed stretch pants?
Moot point.  I have already inferred that you were "acting out" your own
rape at the hands of some sadistic monster.

Know why Swedes like ludefisk?  Cuz it tastes *just* like Mom!!  Incest
is a relative thing. Ha ha.   Ha.  Yes, I am Swedish from both sides.
We're Swedes, Mom.  Who would want me if I wasn't good enough for my own
mother?  Right?  And you just *know* how much I enjoyed it when you came
on to me after Dad left and I was 16.  Yum yum.  It's every guy's dream
to see his mother parade around the house in a see-through nightie and
making suggestive remarks.   Jesus, was that hole in your crotch
insatiable or *what*?  When it didn't make me want to vomit, I was
*much* amused by statements like "incest is such an outdated taboo."
Yeah, right.  Sure did *me* a world of good to have you try to seduce
me.  You betchya. My mother, the fuckpig.

They say that revenge is a dish best served up on a cold platter. Well,
you certainly were cool as hell as you lectured me so condescendingly
about wetting the bed and explaining so carefully how this wouldn't be
happening if I'd been a Good Boy.  You evil cunt, I was four years old.
Four-year olds sometimes wet the bed.  Sorry to have been such an
inconvenience after *you* brought me into this world.  My humblest
apologies, monster.

Did it ever occur to you that a child gets his ideas about God from his
parents and how they act?  Do you realize that for my entire life I have
viewed women as God?  And that I internalized your weirdness so that I
was alternately drawn to SLUTS and sweet, innocent girls?  Sluts like
*you*, Mom.  Innocent girls like *you* weren't innocent.  Get the point,
oh bitchqueen from hell?

Do you remember me seeing you fuck the neighbor when I was 4?  I watched
his sperm gush out on your stretch-marked belly, and your dangling
milkbags.  And how you moaned and writhed in a ecstasy of hedonism.  You
fucking whore.  Do you know what it was like growing up in a town small
enough that your own mother's sleazebag reputation followed you around
like stink on shit?  I grew up in the shadow of shame and sluttery.
Thank you *so* much, Mom.  It wasn't like I already had enough problems
because Dad was a drunk.  Nope.  You had to add to it with your rampant
lust and indiscrete harlotries.  Yippy Yi-oh!  Welcome to the
whore-dogie hoedown.

Yes, my ideas about God came from you, Mama.  You taught me that God
*hurts* you for your own good.  (Boy, did *that* plug me into the cult
mentality!)  That women are all-powerful.  That woman-God *hurts* you
for your own good.

What was I supposed to think?  I couldn't make sense of it so I
concluded that I *deserved* to be ass-raped, and to have you crush my
balls until I passed out, and to have you pinch my penis.  You taught me
that womangod is *not* evil, but that *I* am the evil one.  Blah blah
blah.  The ultimate Bad Boy.  As an aside, I would like to thank you
*ever* so much for setting me up to swallow the Vengeful God notion, and
how it made me more malleable in that cult.  You have my undying
gratitude, you double-chinned, cretinous
life-support-system-for-a-vagina.

I formed my ideals for a mate based on you.  Except I didn't know it.  I
responded to it all by looking for women who were the opposite of you
(when I wasn't finding women that were emotional clones of you, such as
the nymphomaniac).  I sought out women who were consistent, honest,
gentle, nurturing, and most of all faithful.   I didn't even realize it,
but those are all the things that you are *not*.  Oh my mendacious,
manipulative, slatternly pig of a parent.

To say nothing of the fact that I tried to *be* all those qualities and
things that I desperately needed from my SOs.  Faugh!!  The convoluted
logic of a made-for-TV neurotic.  I faked it so well that even *I*
didn't know I was faking it.  When I wasn't a Victim or Abuser, I sure
as hell did a good job at playing Sigmund Fraud the Rescuer.  For months
on end, even.

You make me *sick* with what you are and what you've done.  You are the
gagaphoric center of the cosmos.  You retrograde, retchagrated
piss-lick.

And it doesn't even feel *real* for me to be sitting here and flaming
you for something that happened so long ago.  I've gone through life as
some kind of walking emotional cripple.  (Oh poor me, the Eternal
Victim. ARRRGHHH!!)  Hell, I couldn't even face my own shit so I spent a
couple of years reading up on sex abuse and trying to help other
survivors in some misbegotten attempt at working through my own issues.

I've spent so much of my life punishing myself for it all or
misdirecting the anger that it doesn't even feel *natural* to be angry
at you.  I swallowed your brain washing hook, line, and sinker.  I
believed all your lies and rationalizations about how everything was
*my* fault -- like how it was my fault for wetting the bed, or being an
energetic, curious child and how that made me a Rotten Kid.  Like that
absolved you of any responsibility for my upbringing.  Not that Dad was
any better, considering that he got pissed off at me one day and *threw*
me at the wall -- thereby making me one of those strange people who have
had near-death experiences.

WHY did you make me believe that *I* was the bad one?  Why why WHY????
How could *anyone* be that selfish?  And yet I'm stuck with the paradox
of being Just Like You -- an abusive person.  Now I can't even hold the
moral high ground.  Now all my anger at you feels like hypocritical
mouthings and blame-shifting.

What you did to me and who you were to me has twisted my entire life.
Think about it, I've been through some 20 relationships, all of which
ended most tragically and painfully.  I've been abusive and weird and
dissociated in every relationship.

While I'm at it.  Thanks for fucking up my sex life.  I've lived with
shame about my genitals and body for my entire life.  I have *never*
been comfortable with my body since you tortured me.  I have done
everything from trying to drown my sorrows in wet pussy to clinging to
celibacy like some kind of salvation.  To say nothing of the times of
premature ejaculation based on resentment toward women.  I've lived with
this awful confusion about the distinction between sex and love --
forever!  I've fallen in lust and thought it was love so many times that
I can't even count them.  And I've encountered sincere, genuine love
from others, and rejected it because it seemed too tame and boring and I
couldn't *trust* it because it was so foreign to me.

Inside me, there is this vacuum-pit, some sort of existential vacuum you
left me with.  There is this voice inside my heart that asks, "if my own
mother didn't want me, what right do I have to live?"  Well FUCK YOU!!
(It is, after all, what you are good at.)  I *do* have as much right to
live as anybody else.  How *dare* you do this to me??  What gave you the
right?  Might?  So you imprint me with all these twisted ideas and
conclusions as a result of raping your own child.  Why?  WHY???!   How
could you say you loved me and *do* something like that?  There *is* no
love.   Love is a lie.  Love is a convenient, comfy feeling akin to
masturbation, isn't it?  Isn't that what you demonstrated to me, that
love is getting laid?  That the only "real" love is giving up
everything, all power, all self-interest, every last shred of human
dignity?  Isn't that what love is, sacrificing myself and being an
emotional punching bag for a woman?

You trained me to interpret every relationship in terms of emotional
rape.  May you enjoy the delights of a hell filled with stuffing
Roto-Rooters up your hypertrophied genitals.

Knowing full well over all these years that *I*, the real me, had no
right to exist, I made myself into a chameleon.  My personality is a
complicated fabric of illusions woven out of who I thought *others*
wanted me to be. WHO AM I???  God knows that *you* couldn't tell me. All
*you* could teach me was that who I am is *wrong*.  And it didn't matter
*what* or *who* I was -- I was a *bother*.  Like any child, I was a
bother.  And then when I reached puberty, I was a sex object for you.
How the hell am I ever going to learn to relate to people with any kind
of mutual respect, honesty, and trust?

*Are* there any "good" women in the world?  And if there are, how can I
ever know how to recognize them?  And even if I *do* meet one, how am I
ever going to be able to think of her as decent and honest?  How can I
trust *any*one?  How can I trust myself?  How can I relate to *any*
other person when I don't even know who I am???

In every relationship, I relive that victimization.  I go into every
relationship *feeling* like my SO is all-powerful, the WomanGod.  And
what's that do?  It turns me into an abuser.  It leaves me *trapped* in
this demented, futile abuser-victim-rescuer cycle.  I interpret every
slight from a woman as a replay of you raping me.  And what's that do?
It made me capable of abusing others. God.  Damn.  You.  You taught me
the logic of rape, that relationships are power transactions.  In some
inescapable sense you created this in me.  I should have stayed with
therapy -- therapy like *you* should have had before you so arrogantly
reproduced, as if you were somehow *qualified* to spawn.

God, I hate you for that.  I curse the day I was born.  But I'm not
going to do that anymore if I can help it.  I've taken all this hate and
rage and anger that I should have directed at *you* and turned it in on
myself.  I won't do it anymore.  I've been doing it for 30 years,
punishing myself for something that *you* did.  No, all of my troubles
didn't come directly from you abusing me, but the *roots* of most of my
pain *are* from you raping me and teaching me that I am a *thing*.  You
vile, disgusting *rapist*.  You power monger. You vengeful, spiteful,
hateful parody of a mother.

Just like VD, rape is the gift that keeps on giving.  And giving --
pain, frustration, confusion, terror, self-abhorence, numbness, guilt,
emptiness, rage, hatred, depression, sluttery, denial, madness.  Thank
you *ever* so much.  I shall treasure this token of your generosity
forever.

It wouldn't be so bad if it only hurt me.  But all that confusion, and
misdirected rage has spilled out onto innocent people.  Remember, Mom,
how I said that I like sweet, innocent-type women?  Yeah, you guessed
it.  I liked gentle, vulnerable, innocent women because *I* always felt
like I was the old, worn-out whore that *you* are.  I internalized my
abuser.  And ultimately in some inescapable fashion, I have *become* my
abuser.

God, I hate you for that, Mom.  I hate you for making me into the
monster that *you* are.  And that's why I'm flaming you, because until I
put the anger where it belongs, I'm going to keep internalizing it and
punishing myself and be stuck in this horrible abuser-victim round-robin
that I would otherwise live out until I die.  Until I focus my rage
where it belongs, I have no hope of breaking the internal bond with you
and forming a boundary between you and me.

And I abhor myself for not somehow getting my twisted brain fixed
sooner, before I went on to *damaging* other human beings.  I hate you
for that. I hate my*self* for that.  I should have somehow known better.

I'll say this.  At least I *own* the things I've done.  You couldn't
even do that. You had to pretend that you knew nothing about it when I
told you that I had been sexually abused as a child.  What did I expect?
Somebody who would treat their own flesh and blood as a target of sadism
*certainly* wouldn't be capable of a simple thing like admitting the
fucking *truth*!!!  Much less take steps to atone for it or to take
steps to prevent it recurring.  No, *that* was much beyond you, you
self-indulgent, irresponsible, lying psychopath.

Well, I promise you this.  If you ever go near one of my nieces or
nephew or any other child, I will *personally* twist your head off your
shoulders and ram it up your over-streched asshole.  And break each and
every one of your torturing fingers.  No I won't.  You're not worth
going to jail for.

And that, dear sweet mother, is why you haven't seen my face or heard my
voice for the last four years.  Because I know I might beat you to
death with my bare hands.  I might take all the years of all the pain
and attempt to return it to you.

Newsgroups: alt.sexual.abuse.recovery