One of the things that has created a terminal rift between people and me, in the sense that we see reality upside down, is that I believe the problems that weigh down our souls must be vented: which is what I do in my autobiographical trilogy.
In the world of normies, one only vents to an empathetic partner (they are rare, though they do exist) or tries to vent to “professionals of the deaf”: clinical psychologists and psychoanalysts, who were trained not to listen to their clients (anyone who doubts this should consult one of them to test this claim, and/or read Jeffrey Masson’s books).
Due to the precarious situation I find myself in after the biggest blunder I committed in my life as a grown man—agreeing to the sale of my parents’ house where I lived (I only received a sixth of it)—I recently sent my brothers a couple of long letters. In the last one I confessed something they didn’t know: the trauma inflicted on me by our parents resulted in me being homeless for a time in San Rafael, California, from late 1987 to early 1988. This happened while they were studying for degrees and thriving in life simply because they weren’t mistreated by our parents.
After almost forty years of living in a tent in a Kentfield mount, they’ve only just found out because communication between siblings has always been practically nonexistent—like in many other families.
Sharing our sorrows is essential for healing. Of course, it causes a huge stir if it’s done at a family gathering because these things are supposed to never happen in upper-class families. But the most horrible thing in my life wasn’t what happened to me in the neighbouring country to the north, where I lived alone, but what had happened to me a decade earlier, when I was in my teens.
Taboo, taboo, taboo! How can people not realise that if we don’t break the taboo of talking about the effects of hell at home, we will never heal?
Considering that the Indo-Aryans had their caste system and that the whiter one was in ancient India, the higher one was in the social hierarchy; that in ancient Egypt there was a sign separating the south from the north that said Negroes couldn’t cross it; that the pre-Christian Visigoths killed anyone who interbred with mudbloods, etc., it’s clear that racism wasn’t invented by Hitler, and that before WW2 it wasn’t the ultimate taboo.
No: racism isn’t the ultimate taboo; telling one’s tragic story is.
A few years ago, a commenter named Patrick used to comment in the discussion threads of this site; he seemed to have had emotional problems. And I even corresponded with another American, a friend of Jake F., who had serious problems with the psychiatric system in his country. I would like you guys to comment here again and even follow the steps that Benjamin and I have taken (today I received a letter from Ben with the covers of his collection of letters. That’s a wonderful catharsis in the healing process!).
As many visitors know, this site attempts to transvalue Christian values to the values of ancient Hellas. That means replacing the Hebrew decalogue with the inscription of the Oracle of Delphi, whose commandment is that we should know ourselves.
If any visitor has a testimony he would like to share in this forum, please let me know and I will publish it here.
If there is an ultimate way to heal, it is to share these kinds of things not only in writing, but in person: as I would like to do in a house where several priests of the sacred words live.
That will be our home…
