Empathy

I think tomorrow I will continue the series on Simms’ book on Hitler, but I wanted to talk about something else tonight.

Not long ago I visited a former friend with whom I used to play chess several decades ago and saw him so deteriorated that I wrote many pages in my journal about him. These days I’ve been watching YouTube videos about malignant narcissism that, in addition to profiling former friends like this guy, portrayed my late mother’s personality.

Since I am adding a final chapter to the third book of my trilogy, related to her death and its family consequences, I will not continue the translation of the previous two volumes before that third book is completed in my native language: something that doesn’t depend on me, but on how the random situation in which I find myself unfolds. (I may soon travel to the south of the country looking for some cheaper housing than the high prices of the capital.)

I consider intuitive psychology, something not taught in universities, to be my forte. So in this post I’d like to talk about something related to both the aforementioned former friend and my late mother.

Empathy is not the same as sympathy or even compassion. We can empathize even with someone who wants to kill us, in the sense of picking up on his vibes, reading his mind and warning us. What I see as serious with the people mentioned above is that they are practically devoid of empathy. They treat us as ‘egoic’ objects in the sense that they cannot perceive us as entities with a will of their own, but rather project their psychological structures onto us.

The big flaw I see in the YouTube videos on malignant narcissism is that it isn’t the same thing to stop seeing, say, that guy from the chess club with whom I played decades ago after a new encounter, as it is for the child to leave his narcissistic mother or father who is undermining his soul. They are entirely different things, in that on one, as adults, we have the power to make a clean break and on the other, the child has no power to walk away from the toxic parent.

In a way I envy Tyrone, who now rots in jail in an Orwellian UK, because his formerly abusive mother at least tried to apologise to him, even telling him to read Alice Miller: the intuitive psychologist who saved me in 2002, as I recount in the first volume of my trilogy.

Someone who hasn’t processed his grief with a schizogenic mother, as the chess friend, is doomed to a perennial depression in which he wants to drag others into his maelstrom. And I don’t think anyone who has had extremely toxic parents who omits to write his most painful memories, even if that enterprise takes decades (as in my case), can heal his soul.

Unless I die first—I would like to live another thirty years!—the time will come when I will use this site not only to announce my autobiographical books that I will be translating into English, but to discuss their content and even detail issues that don’t appear in the trilogy. It is a thousand times easier to save the Aryans from extinction if one knows oneself because the psychological traps into which the racialists fall, for example what I was saying yesterday in ‘The Gatekeepers’, can be overcome by pure autobiographical insight.