Mind-Fucking

      Children are shockingly easy to mind-fuck.  

      I witnessed quite a spectacle this morning when I was out and about, doing my shopping: a mother torturing her child.

      I haven’t had any experience with children since I was a child myself, so it’s difficult for me to guess the ages of the young ones, but this one looked to be about five years old.  Mom was standing at the steps to the subway station.  The boy was eight feet away.  He was frozen.  He was crying.

      Mom was telling him that it was time to get on the train and go home to receive his punishment. 

      The boy shook his head.  He was scared.  He didn’t want to go to his mother, but what could he do?  There was nowhere else to go.  He was trapped. 

       He kept say no, and that he was sorry.  There was a lot of emotion in his voice and he seemed close to panicking. It was a touching display of groveling, really.  I didn’t learn how to beg until adulthood.  It was forbidden in my parents’ households, presumably because it was too similar to complaining.  My father banished me from his sight for even crying in front of him (he did give me a pass when the cat, Tiger, died).

       Mom of the Year here looked very composed.  That’s what made such an impression on me: this wasn’t a case of a tired, harried adult losing her temper and snapping at a brat, or even swatting his ass.  A parent could have the patience of Job and still get exhausted with children’s histrionics from time to time.

       Nope.  Mom of the Year here was enjoying herself.  I saw that very clearly.  I’d recognize her expression at a thousand paces.

       I’m not in the habit of meddling with strangers–I would sit in a busy waiting room all day without once initiating conversation with the person next to me–but in this case, I felt obliged to say something.

       “It’s easy to mind-fuck children, isn’t it?  A person could do it all day.”

       Mom looked at me, brought back into reality, and the spell was broken.   She walked to her child, grabbed him by the collar, and started towing him to the stairs. Poor little guy.  He’d be better off in an orphanage.  Children are slaves in our society.  It makes me sick sometimes to think that anyone who wants to can essentially get their own little slave and do whatever they want to them.

      Occasionally, in my role as a professional sadist, I will make the object collude with me in his own oppression.  I don’t do it often because it’s psychologically dicey for me, but I have done it.  More than once. 

        I tell them, you know.  I warn them to be careful with what they choose to tell me…or any other mistress, for that matter.  I tell them that I am paying attention, studying them, listening carefully as they give me the keys to unlock them.  To dismantle them.  My father is the cruelest person I have ever met.  I reject him insofar as I am able, but that cruelty is still my birthright, and I have a talent for it.  It is one reason I do not want children.

       I got a priest this week…the fourth one of my career (that I know of, of course.  If they come in wearing street clothes and don’t mention their vocation, I’d have no idea).  Culturally, I suppose, I’m still a Roman Catholic, but in the last few years I’ve become so anti-clergy (of all religions) that I can barely sit through Mass on Christmas, and it’ll be a cold day in hell before I call one “father” again. It’s not even the stupid religion that gets on my nerves, it’s the power of the institution.  It angers a lot of them if you don’t address them by their titles, which really tells you something about how they consider themselves.

       He told me his secrets.  I listened carefully and absorbed it, and I told him that I was going to use it to hurt him.  He knew, and he told me anyway, because that is what he wanted.  I took it all in, examined it, and turned it over in my head, while I got in touch with my father.  

       I distilled the priest’s secrets down to a poison, because that is my father’s talent, which he passed on to me.  

      I whispered to him in the dark, and, like King Claudius, I dripped his poison back into his ear. 

       The first thing that I made him do was to look into the mirror and slap himself.

       This is my house, and there is no escape.

       Nobody here gets out alive.


7 thoughts on “Mind-Fucking”

  1. Your father let you cry when your cat died wow such generosity such compassion! He sounds like even more of a shithead than your boyfriend Dr. Mengele!

    where did your mother find this jerk? no offense but whenever i read about him i want to punch him in the neck. At least Dr. Mengele is funny, in a crazy doctor-from-hell sort of way

  2. Next time find out the name and report to the relevant authorities?
    Next time go to a protestant service at Christmas? Try and find a mainline protestant church with a woman on the pulpit?

    1. Find out the name? How? “Ma’am, would you produce your identification and then wait here while I call the police and CPS?”

      Tell the relevant authorities what, exactly? A mother was taking her son home to be disciplined and he didn’t want to go?

      If I ever witnessed a case of child abuse that the authorities could stop, I would report it. I actually did call CPS on a neighbor once. The boy was never in school, covered in scabs, filthy, and mom’s boyfriend, the man of the house, referred to the boy as “shithead.”

      I am an atheist. I am not going to a protestant church. Protestant clergy sucks too, they just don’t have the institutional power and wealth to abuse that the Catholics have. They’re as obnoxious as the Catholics, just in different ways, and I think women in any clergy need to have their heads examined. No church has ever been a friend to women. At least priests got power; women didn’t even get that, except for other nuns and the children they could lord it over.

      There is a wonderful congregation of UU here in New York that I attend a few times a year when the mood strikes me.

  3. Hi Margo

    Yup, we are frequently the most horrible to the ones we love. Parents are horrible to their children, kids are horrible to their siblings, etc. Some are worse than others. A lot worse. I don’t pretend to understand it and I don’t condone it, but I see it all the time. That said, I don’t believe that we are inherently cruel, it is something that is learned and if it is learned than it can be unlearned.

    Mike

  4. Your treatment of that woman was to defend on the side of that child. Using it to defend rather than to tear down. You have transformed the agression and that makes all the difference. And what you said to that woman, you are my new hero.

    1. Thank you for this kind comment, Roy.

      This was a tricky piece of writing for me. I keep coming back to it. I think it has a lot of potential, but I didn’t quite pull it off.

      There was nothing else I could say to her. I thought about saying “Happy Mother’s Day!” but the situation was inappropriate for sarcasm.

      Abusers are like roaches: they flee with the lights are turned on.

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