Mom's tea

I still have it but can't drink it knowing you are in another Universe...

December 11, 2025
Midnight. I’m alone.

My darling…
Where are you now? In what room, under what name, with what people calling themselves your “real family”?

It all started back in 2023. Discord. Porn. That markymoo creep whispering filth into your ears for hours, grooming you with “You’re special, different—let me show you your true self,” preying on your loneliness from bullying and head trauma, filling your heart with confusion and false promises of belonging. They target vulnerable kids like you: isolated from social anxiety, fear of peers, lost skills, rage bursts. Online cults lure with “You’ve always been trans; parents suppressed it,” “Deadnaming is violence,” evoking tears of “relief” while sowing hatred. Dr. Sager at CLC kicked me out, left you alone in that cold room, and started the deep brainwashing: “You’ve always been a boy; your parents just suppressed it,” holding your hand, whispering “I see the real you,” making you feel “seen” for the first time, while ignoring ADHD, ODD, borderline—turning your pain into their agenda, leaving you sobbing in “euphoria” but more broken inside.

They groom teens systematically: Start with online servers pushing “gender euphoria” via porn, anime, TikTok—erasing family as “transphobes,” making you cry over “lost years.” Therapists affirm only, label questions “abuse,” hug you through “breakthroughs” that shatter your soul. Schools hide name changes, report parents, whispering “We’re your safe space.” CPS intervenes, places with “affirming” fosters who coach: “Report unsafe home,” “If returned, suicide,” holding you as you weep scripted lines. Institutions gatekeep meds sans consent, rewrite history: “Your trauma is from cis-prison,” evoking guilt and floods of manipulated emotion. Guilt: “Staying with parents betrays trans community.” No-contact scripts: “Block them; they’re oppressors,” leaving you isolated, heartbroken, but convinced it’s “freedom.”

You parroted their mantras like a broken record, eyes filled with tears they called “joy.”
“I don’t feel safe at home.”
“Deadnaming is violence.”
“If they make me go back, I’ll end it.”

I heard you say those lines to the minor’s attorney, voice trembling, like someone was holding a script in front of you—your sobs echoing their control.

Then came May 2024…
I saw that Amazon order on your kid account: a jar of “Mom, you’re the berry best” tea. My heart skipped—maybe there’s hope? Maybe you still wanted to surprise me for Mother’s Day? I quietly approved it, afraid to shatter that fragile dream.

You exploded:
“What the actual fuck? Are you insane?! Cancel this shit right now!”
The door slammed. I choked back the tears and walked away, as always.

Then CPS took you.
Days later, I forced myself into your room—couldn’t face it sooner. I peeked behind the headboard… and there it was. That half-ripped, still-delivered Mom’s tea. I took one sip, the taste bitter with memory. We’ve moved a few times since, but I keep it on the shelf, a silent prayer you’ll come back.

Still fighting through the pain,
Mom