You Don’t Want To Make Mommy Mad Do You? – listener email from “Trill”

You Don’t Want To Make Mommy Mad Do You? – listener email from “Trill”

I am 23 years old, trans FTM, pansexual orientation, single parent, raised in a severely dysfunctional home with my mother, step-father and half-brother. We have different dads, same mother my father cut ties before I was even born, I never had contact with him. I was constantly told my father never loved me and he didn’t want me

At the age of 3, I was molested by my brothers’ father. I discovered this through family and a police report I found in my teens. He went to jail for 2 years and I was forced to continue seeing him during holidays, family events etc. I remember being made to sit on his lap, stay at his house, years after the initial abuse. I was told not to “rock the boat” to insure my brother’s relationship with him and my mother’s monthly child support checks. My mother worked a lot so I was the one to look after my younger brother, this was my job. It was also my job to run my mother baths and bathe after her long days at work as a hairdresser, give her massages while she was nude, cook dinner, clean, clean , clean the house was never clean enough. I always slept in the same bed with mom, I always asked why I couldn’t have my own room like my brother, and she ensured me it was because she wanted to keep me “safe”! Her favorite phrase when I would attest was, “You don’t want to make mommy mad, do you? How creepy. Bare-assed beatings with a leather belt were the norm. Sometimes she switched it up by making me go outside and pick switches off of the tree, my brother was forced to watch and encouraged to participate by calling me names while I was getting beat. These punishments were usually “awarded” to me after I refused to obey my mother’s antics. I was more than often called names, told I wouldn’t amount to anything, never showed any positive physical affection, and was never told “I love you”. My mother’s terms of endearments were more along the lines of, “I can’t believe you actually did that right”, “you would look so much prettier if you dressed more feminine”, “no man is going to want you if you keep eating like that”, “I only keep you around because you clean the house good.” When I was 7 she remarried to a disgusting man, I was beat twice as much, exploited twice as much and so miserable. I was in constant competition to get my mother’s attention. She showed her husband love, care, everything I wanted. I was tossed to the side. UNTIL, I was sought after as prey to my step-father, creepy comments, prolonged stares, vulgar gestures. The nightly baths and pampering continued with my mom, during this time she would tell me how she wasn’t being pleasured correctly, how my stepfather was unemotional to her feelings and thoughts. But I was mommy’s little girl who listened, obeyed and took care of her. After a year of them being married I was introduced to their bedroom. I was made to watch, made to stand in front of him like a show horse as he commented and criticized every inch of my body as my mother laughed. This and more extremes occurred during the duration of their 10 year relationship. There was no privacy, no doors on rooms or bathrooms, I was never allowed to have friends, call my family, or use a computer. I was my mother’s entertainment. I came out to my mother as a lesbian and was immediately thrown out of the house and ostracized for this. I dressed very masculine and always have except when mom would dress me in dresses and bows to parade around to her friends as the perfect mother. My sexuality infuriated my mother. I was kicked out of the house and became homeless and heavily dependent on drugs, casual sex and various other high-risk behaviors. Around 2012, my mother divorced her husband. She was so lonely, I was asked to move back in, I did. The emotional abuse was the worst it’s ever been. Ridiculed and berated daily. I had no identity; I was my mother’s toy, that’s all I knew. I craved to be treated like shit; the intensity of that dynamic was so appealing to me. I felt guilty for trying to take care of myself. Guilty for practicing self-care. Unsure if I could make my own decisions. Unable to trust anyone. This is not love. After some separation from my mother I gave birth to my son. This is my purpose, I truly believe. My son was my saving grace. My mother treated my son in a manner I have never seen, with love, respect, care, everything I yearned for as a child, even now. I resented this of course, but understood if my son has a positive connection with her than it would be worth it. This was short-lived. Her negative and manipulative behaviors started to arise. I packed my shit and moved to Colorado. After I moved our relationship was almost non-existent. Let me remind you that my mother thrives on men. She only knows self-worth as being a man’s servant. She has been single since she divorced my step-father and has been seeking to get gratification out of me and my son. I will NOT allow it. 4 months ago she called my phone, saying how lonely she has been and that maybe I should come see her and we could introduce a sexual relationship between us to try and fix our relationship. I told her to go fuck herself and never contact me again. I blocked her number and deleted her from all social media.


Because of this person I have tried to commit suicide 3 times, thought I was worthless, ugly, useless, fat, stupid, etc. I trusted her with every ounce of my being. I trusted a monster that used me as a pawn in her game. I no longer take blame. It is NOT my fault, I am worthy of love and respect.

For anyone dealing with this, you are not alone. You are worthy, smart, important, respected and understood. You are worth so much and you deserve to live life that is positive and full with happiness and self-growth.

Again, thank you Paul for allowing me to share my story.

There are tons of more fucked up stories and scenarios that have happened with my mother, if I can provide anything else, please let me know.

Thank you for your podcast. Words can’t describe the gratitude.