Book II
Chapter One
I returned home from Brookside Child & Adolescent Inpatient Unit a changed boy. By then, I was an adult, having just passed my 18th birthday, and was considerably heavier, on the borders of obesity, a consequence of the antipsychotic medication I had been placed on without consent (for supposed paranoia towards my father’s enervating hostility). I was nursing a tender, wounded arm, the tissue not yet healed atop the wracked site of my unsuccessful skin graft, pink, sore, and ugly to behold.
But more than this, I was changed in character. The morose, tormented inner nature remained as it always had. Still, my incapacitating passivity had been broken down and disintegrated, turned instead to moody defensiveness. I was already more worldwise and weary for it, tired out by death and misery, and from the recent loss of some of my friends, either by suicide or geographical dislocation, and cynical, my grief mixed with simmering anger at the outright betrayal of their parents. Of the staff employed to tend to them – and to myself – eyes opened to a bleaker, crueller world.
I was also angry at my own parents for having abandoned me there for so long and for having closed their eyes and ears to my self-reported psychic pain and to my explanations of what hurt and what could and would help that. The things they should have done (or not done) immediately to assist me, instead of throwing me to the wolves, as I saw it, by subjecting me to intensive psychiatric treatment that did nothing for my crippling sadness and self-hate, having never broached the root cause of my problems, and that served only to humiliate me, and laden me down with pejorative labels, my body already brutalised and made shameful by pharmaceutical drugs and by official neglect. […]
To balance this out, I watched The Blue Planet nature documentary and various smaller nature and history recordings, aware suddenly, once I was home, that I had a vast expanse of time to kill, and with no real plans for the future. When I was at school, I had always looked forward to university, if only to escape my then environment. Still, a whole year spent in a psychiatric unit had thrown me sideways and put me off course, and though I had completed my A-levels long distance from inside, despite the initial low expectations of the unit’s supply teachers and with the necessary grades to be able to apply for bachelor’s-level study, I was psychologically detached, and had fallen to bad habits, lethargy getting the better of me, and besides, was too low in confidence to make the next move, unsure even of what to apply for to study. […]
[…] my school acquaintances having become a thing of the past, who never contacted me in any way once their own more regular education had finished, or indeed throughout my unit stay. Any lingering acquaintances from my sixth form years, whom I had thought could have even been seen as friends given our proximity, I now realised were not loyal to me and had no affection for me or concern for my plight once it was broadcast to them that I was ill at all, and perhaps even from long before. The others from the unit – those who were still alive – were either still in intensive treatment at Brookside or had been moved on to medical assistance at other units, sometimes far from our location. […]
My father, himself a recovering alcoholic from many years before, abstained totally from drinking, having realised it as a problem, as with his former heavy smoking, both habits picked up in his preadolescent childhood […]
It never occurred to me then as being irresponsible that it was my father providing me with the money to purchase these beverages, at about £20-30 per weekend, and I simply saw him as I always had in that regard, as a very generous father. Neither did it occur to me to question the ease with which he settled on giving me money for that purpose, especially given that he had his own prior experiences with regular intoxication and addiction, all before I was born. All I had to do was ask, and I did not get annoyed then or put any pressure on him for the cash.
As for the effects on me themselves, I found myself happier drunk. Not a euphoric happiness, but a sustaining, sedative calm, blotted out of reality, and chemically divorced from my mental pain, made somehow stupid, and cut off from all higher thought, whether painful or merely academic. Still self-harming regularly and with no habit of readily reporting this to medical staff, as I knew the consequences of such action would have adverse complications for me. Besides, I was conditioned not to expect genuine psychological aid in the long run. I also found, bizarrely, that the alcohol, the K Cider in particular, functioned as a very effective physical pacifier for my flesh-tearing wounds, acting almost as an unofficial painkiller […]
[…] sometimes sleeping for almost twenty-four hours, awakening late on the following evening with a fresh, pressing hangover that never felt any easier, much as my tolerance for alcohol had swiftly shot up to outrageous levels.
My father also purchased cigarettes for me, in big, blue twenty-pack cartons of Richmond Superkings, noticing that I had picked up the awful habit from the middle of my stay in Brookside, and I smoked daily and smoked more when I drank, often getting through almost two packs a day. All the terrible ideas I had shied away from in childhood were manifested in me, and I saw nothing wrong with them. After all, what was something as ‘innocuous’ as a cigarette, or an eight-pack of Budweiser or Red Stripe, compared with the knowledge that your parents had betrayed you emotionally every day for over a decade, and were continuing to, or to the sting of rape, or the distant, buried agony of hands and mouths between dark trees, never acknowledged but never entirely forgotten?
What was a bottle or two of whiskey compared with red human teeth gnawing at a broken, burning arm? My life had already been destroyed.
Editor’s Note:
In the following pages, Benjamin tells a couple of heartbreaking anecdotes that happened to him with his father: anecdotes that reminded me of my life, except that in my family the roles were reversed. (The passive or “facilitator” was my father, who psychotically shared the crazed mother’s vision of her eldest son.)
3 replies on “Consumption, 9”
I insist: if white nationalists integrated the knowledge that people like John Modrow, Ben and I present (vindictive autobiographers are the “messengers” of something vital to Aryan mental health), family catastrophes like those of Wm. Pierce and Don Black’s sons, and David Irving’s daughter, would be avoided.
Why don’t you pay attention to us…?
I know your question is to some degree rhetorical, but I think one answer can be found by examining the final exchange you had with ‘Jack Halliday’, where he grew incensed and sadly seems to have thrown a livid tantrum at you. I haven’t got the quotation to hand, and can’t find it off the cuff this morning, but please could you include it somehow in this reply?
As I said to you in other words by extended emails, despite the angry bluster, he sounds too repressed/shy even to write his own story, too low in confidence, behind the arrogant front. ‘I can’t, so no one can’ (so no one has to -> so no one should…).
If people don’t want to open up about their own lives (their own battered egos), no wonder they don’t want to learn from the autobiographical lives of others… nothing attention-seeking about it… it’s a mutual lesson to analyse and learn from, not a forced-empathy-soliciting ‘whiny’ sob story.
Hemiparesis is a great term to describe this attitude. I personally use the informal expression ‘armoured rocks’ to describe these sorts of minds. The stiff upper lip, ‘shut up and suffer’/’bootstrap’/Stoic argument breeds his situation (or suicides). Typical individualists also.
That’s one reason there aren’t any genuine responses on topic to this – as I said before, it’s low emotional maturity, and ‘psychophobia’: a fear or hesitation to perceive other minds/the mind at all/mental trauma/discussing the psychological. Back to opening up those cans of worms. I think lack of empathy, much as it can be seen as almost innate, is still more of a choice, unconsciously perhaps, and very deeply rooted, for self-preservation.
I gather psychology is seen by most on the right as a pseudoscience, ironically, given that it’s psychiatry which realistically holds that ‘accolade’ (and certainly in practice psychoanalysis), although I don’t deny that psychology as a formal academic discipline has been hijacked by liberal progressives, just as everything else has (as examined in the thick Springer book, Ideological and Political Bias in Psychology by Craig L. Frisby, et al.).
I ask the genuine question also: if they’re not fighting for their people – including the ones suffering the most, which I think fits Aryan child psychiatric patients as the most disenfranchised, powerless, and stigmatised group in all of society… if this, at ultimate conclusion – the 4 words – (the 14 words is a given) is not why they’re fighting… as final beautiful goal… why are they fighting at all? What world would they live in afterwards, bar one of pure misery. They would have become their slaughtered negros.
If one really doesn’t have a problem with stimulating (and allowing for) this sort of suffering, endlessly, lifetime after lifetime until death, one is part of the problem… your apt solution is mass genocides, true, but for a purpose: to cleanse a world. So this never has to happen again, in evolutionary time.
I think we’ll be waiting a long time for responses on this topic. Those who could never assimilate it, with that preternatural stubbornness… I’d gladly throw them on the pyre also, as race traitors.
Regarding Halliday, the next time I visit Marco, I’ll retrieve my DVDs from my archives from years past (yesterday I looked for them but couldn’t find Halliday’s insults on my Mac).
Halliday complained about school bullying, but like Tyrone, he didn’t want to get to know himself enough to write about his painful experiences. That’s why they both became interested in school shootings, especially Halliday, which shocked me because it’s answering pathology—traditional schooling—with pathology.
What definitely distanced me from Halliday were not only his insults, but at one point he placed Charles Manson and his clique above Hitler, whom he mocked for going to the opera. He seemed to be saying that salvation could only come from the lowest stratum of society, like Manson’s commune at Spahn Ranch, and in no way from the European high culture advocated by Hitler, who liked the Baythout Festival.
The teenage Halliday had issues with his dad, but he never spoke about them. I later sensed that other WDH commenters who admired Manson were also repressing their painful past.