When little boys hate their mothers...

I have been posting lately on emotional incest. It’s not a pretty topic. However, due to a very powerful counselling session and prayer session, I no longer feel shame over the attachments I used to have with my mother. The attachments are cut, and that part of my life is over. 

However, I have been writing and thinking a lot about this topic, and trying to rewire the way that my brain works, and the way that I orient myself in relationships — especially with women. 

As I write this, I am seeking to dig deeper into the topic of emotional incest between a mother and a daughter. I have a few clues. I don’t know which one to start with, and so I will list them, and see where it goes.

1. There is a “ghetto-slang” insult “mother-f—er.” What is the significance of this? 
2. I saw a post on twitter one day. It was a screen-shot of someone else: a woman was trying to defend her incestuous sexual relationship to her son. Twitter was responding with rage, outrage, and disbelief. But somewhere, there was a woman who genuinely thought this was fine: and where there is one vocal example, there are more who are being silent. 
3. Some boys & men hate their mothers. Emenem, for example, used to (maybe still does) have a punching bag in the form of his mother that he beat up on stage. Why? Why so much hate?
4. I remember talking to one of my counsellors one day. He was reflecting on why some children — some as young as three or four — could be soooo angry. “What causes such a small child to be filled with rage?” He had a lot of experience with dysfunctional families. He concluded, “I think it is when they see deep hypocrisy. When they are told to do one thing, but see their parents doing something completely different.” Parenting can cause very deep emotions in children. Emotions they can not fully understand, or control.
5. A woman at our counselling retreat reported that one of her sons had that level of hatred for her. She trembled as she said that his hatred actually made her afraid. Was he hitting her? What would cause a child to hit their mom?
6. While picking up our kids from daycare, this same woman turned to one of her sons (not the one who was aggressive/violent) and said, “Thank you so much for letting me sleep with you this afternoon. I really needed that. You haven’t let me sleep with you in a long time.” The child looked up at his mom with a look of surprise and confusion. My head snapped around, and I took it in. There’s something off here… I had just just shared in group sharing with this woman about my extensive pain from my mom looking to me, her child, for emotional support. Doesn’t she get it? The moment passed, but I did not forget.  

Let’s take it from the top. In my experience, street slang doesn’t develop unless there is a reason for it. Rather, it is polite language that develops without a clear reason, other than politesse…but insults and swears tend to describe the taboo nature of the gritty realities of life as it faces us. For this reason, I think it is valid to ask about the expression “mother f—er” We could be more specific:

1. Why does the saying exist at all?
2. Why does it seem to be one of the worst insults one could hurl? It seems to sting even those hardened to other types of profanity.

Incest is terrible. And we all know that incest between men and children is far more prevalent than we would like it to be. But is there something even more shameful? Incest between mothers and their sons? Is it possible that this exists, and is even prevalent in some areas? Is it possible that even when the relationship is not sexual, there are still bonds which are confusing, troubling, cause shame, and self-loathing in the child. “What kind of a person am I,” the child may grow to ask themselves, “to have desires for my mother?” 

What does a mother do to awaken desires? She confides in her child, cuddles with her child, thanks her child, and in other ways looks to her child for emotional support in precisely the way that she aught only to look to her husband/boyfriend for support. She places adult romantic constraints on a small child. And what this does in him is that it awakens the romantic circuitry of his brain. And yes, that circuitry has sexual components. Now, we have a child who is before puberty, but is strangely interested in sex. He is a sitting duck for the pornography and dysfunction laying like traps all around the internet, and the house.

Let’s say such a child grows to be a teen. Let’s say he grows up in a rough neighbourhood. Let’s say he gets into a fight, and really really wants to hurt the other person with his words. What can he say? F—er is not strong enough. Everyone has sex. Sex is a badge of honour. What is the deepest shame? What is the deepest shame in his heart? “Mother f—er!” The words slip out before he even thinks about it. And the other boy whips around. The insult stuck. That hurt him. A phrase is born. Words with power. Like a bitter root, they grow in the abundant soil of emotional incest, left behind by needy mothers everywhere.

And let’s just continue our scenario. Let’s say those words had just a bit too much power. Let’s say the boy got beaten to a pulp for saying them. And so he crawls home to his mom, hoping for some comfort. Instead, he finds a mom with needs. She is lounging on the couch: work has been hard, she needs to vent on her son. Her boyfriend dumped her. “Come here, Johnny. Mommy needs a hug…” She’s lonely. “I texted you five times today. Why didn’t you reply?” She is feeling neglected, and wants someone to make her feel special. “Why don’t you cook me supper, like you used to?” 

Just leave me alone, mom! He runs upstairs before she can demand more from him. Likely, the pull of pornography will be his satisfaction. I’m speaking nothing but the truth here.

But she is feeling down, and needing someone to lift her up. She has already depleted the man/men in her life. But her son cannot escape. And so she just lays there limp on the couch until he obediently comes and pours his energy into her to lift her spirits, until she is finally able to get up and make him supper. If he does not serve her, will he even be able to eat?

It is costly to write these words. They hurt me. But the truths must be spoken.

At Bible school, I heard one teacher disparaging Emmenem for beating up a punching bag of his mom on stage. And true enough: that is bad form, especially as it may be encouraging literal violence against mothers. But art is meant to be truth spoken. And Emenem is known as a provocateur in the purest sense: he speaks the shocking truths that he has experienced. There is a certain purity to that. And there is a need for that. Because the truth has the power to set us free.

And so why? Why do some boys hate their mothers?

Hate? Is that too strong of a word?

Why does this emotion bubble up from deep within? Why is it that their mothers will tell them — remind them, perhaps, even well into adulthood — that these emotions were present in the child even long before the child was able to speak. “Even as a baby, you pushed me away,” my mom has told me on numerous occasions. Why is it that my older brother has told me, “our mother is like a ghost to me.” Although he cannot enunciate it, he pushed her away, and wants nothing to do with her. 

And myself? I went from a close relationship to suddenly, from the guts of me, my deepest self, vomiting it out. All of it. 

And I just never, never, never want to let that woman into my life ever again. 

Why? What is the problem? How could I ever explain it to anyone else?

“Because she loved you too much…?” 

No, but see, that was never the problem. I don’t think she ever loved me. Never. 

My heart. It hurts. But this is the truth. She never loved me. 

She loved herself. And she needed me. Oh, she needed me so bad. And so she stole from me. She stole things from me that are deep. That are so deep. They are as deep as the memory of a stuffed toy. As powerful as the smell of fresh rain. As intangible as the colour of silk. She stole from me…my childhood. Because in the cradle, she saw a little lover staring back at her. I could not be that. That little child that I was knew instinctively, I cannot be that for you, and so I pushed her away. Once a child, she was able to convince my conscious mind that this is what boys do for their mothers, and so I tried to care for her emotionally. But it just made me so tired and it never seemed to stop, and I could never do enough. 

And slowly I drifted away, got married, found other friends, grew up. And she let me. Oh, she sowed seeds of guilt in my fields, and she left hooks of obligation in my heart. But she let me love others. So long as I called every couple weeks and told her everything. Told her, and gave her pictures. And access. And lots of rights. And grandkids. Oh, did she love the grandkids. Her eyes filled with sparkling delight. So many little hearts to serve me. 

But she was wrong, and she is wrong. Those hearts are not hers. They are not hers. 

It ends here.