“The stars are not for man” —Karellen in the novel Childhood’s End.
As I said in the comments section of my previous post today, it is foolish to be a cosmologist when your race is being actively destroyed. This is not the time to fantasise about space travel, but rather to travel into inner space; that is, to fulfil the mandate of the Oracle of Delphi. A quote already cited in this blog (and on a page of my Day of Wrath) sheds light on the subject:
Only a ripe artist, one thoroughly acquainted with the workings of the mind, can be successful here. This is why psychological self-portraiture has appeared so late among the arts, belonging exclusively to our own days and those yet to come. Man had to discover continents, to fathom his seas, to learn his language, before he could turn his gaze inward to explore the universe of his soul.
We are commanded to know the universe of our own soul! I iterate: it is madness to start planning interstellar travel without first knowing oneself, knowledge that implies knowing what causes the darkest hour of the West. That is why it is worth quoting some passages from Benjamin’s book, Consumption, whose blurb I quoted a couple of days ago.
The key to understanding psychosis is what Colin Ross calls the problem of attachment with the perp, a concept explained in my Day of Wrath. Well into the book, Benjamin wrote:
I love my father. It is the deepest, most intrinsic love and one I could never shift or diminish, even if I wanted to. It brings me to tears as I think about it… But then I remember (and how could I forget?) these terrible childhood tortures on my father’s part…
One of the things Neanderthals don’t want to understand is that the mind is like the body: it has a breaking point. Primitive people, whom we revile as “Neanderthals”, seem to be saying—so alienated are they by their work ethic—that despite all mistreatment the human mind is infinitely resilient. The truth is that, just as it is not the same for the body to fall from one metre, three metres or from an aeroplane, the same is true of the mind: there are orders of magnitude in which the self can, literally, break.
In Benjamin’s life, and I am not only referring to his first trauma with his father when he was just five years old (the “apple episode” that I won’t recount here), there was also trauma at school. I am referring not only to bullying but also to the rape by a traitorous government that imported non-whites, including teenagers, due to the self-hatred that the English have suffered since 1945: a madness, alas, shared by the entire West.
I would like to quote a passage from Consumption after the rape of a mudblood that the author experienced at the age of six:
…I cannot remember as she [his mother] drove down the long evening lanes, the sun reddening in a haze over the yellow fields, and I sat way down in the seat, the seatbelt pulled down over my stomach, my legs curled up tight in the lock of my forearms, foggy, and faint in mind, with soreness all over, and with nothing I could have been able, or, tragically, allowed to say.
I never mentioned this incident to my parents afterwards, not once, for at least twenty-eight years, though I knew of it the while, even when they were, in some way, aware that I had had bad times at school. They still have no real clue, and I was brushed aside with an “Oh, that’s terrible. Oh, did that happen to you? How awful!” of polite disbelief when I did mention it to my mother, crying and raging down the phone, her reception the same as if it were a coffee morning anecdote in passing, or a fanciful tale for inadvertent amusement, as narrated by my aunt in one of her drunken outbreaks of hysteria. Each new time I tried, periodically over years, I’d hear an “Oh? Really? That’s not good to hear” from her, as if her memory too was missing over the occurrences, and she was instead hearing for the first time, and, dogmatically, she has always been known to tell others that “his early life was good” and “no, nothing ever happened to him, he had a good life with us” and words to that effect, all a further torture for me, as if she was honest, and as if it were her place (and her place alone) to say…
The gulley where I was molested
I did not blame my mother at the time for not helping me, and was unsure even how she could have. I could not register the pain myself and, bizarrely, forgot soon enough as times moved on, relegating it to a small corner pocket of an otherwise full and engaged mind, but as an adult, I raged mercilessly at her for her disbelief and was more than wounded.
This is where the soul murder only begins, plunging the child into a spiral of amplifying abuse until his mind collapses. When parents without empathy don’t understand, or do not want to understand, why their child no longer wants to get along with their schoolmates, instead of blaming the environment they blame the child: courtesy of biological psychiatry, although there are still professionals who realise that the fault did not lie with the child. Benjamin tells us:
Indeed, my thorough lack of interest in football was one of the prime reasons that my parents, in some heightened suspicion of me, took me at this age [seven years old] down to the village surgery to request an autism evaluation…
…given that I was used to being heavily bullied, “he dislikes noisy groups of children.” Though the GP listened to their unfounded complaints, did a few simple tests on me, and gave me the all-clear almost immediately, telling them quite bluntly to go away and stop speculating, I was left upset by this lack of faith on their parts, and the initial zeal of their incorrect sentiment offended me a little, acknowledging to myself that, for some frustrating reason, they had been swift to pathologise my innocuous – and totally normal – childhood behaviours, and still somehow, despite capitulating outwardly, could not entirely take the doctor’s firm “no” for an answer, confident in thinking themselves equipped to know my health better.
In the coming days I will continue reading Consumption. For now, the above quote provides a clear idea not only of the literary genre that Benjamin and I want to inaugurate, but also of why studying inner space is infinitely more important than studying outer space. The first may save the white race from its ongoing self-destruction; the second may not.
A candid psychiatric autobiography on the guilt, shame, fear, and long-term trauma instigated by parental emotional abuse in a toxic environment of schoolyard bullying, medical malpractice, molestation, and harrowing physical violence, and the spiralling personal consequences for a wounded childhood.
Beginning when Benjamin was not yet a toddler, this heart-wrenching account tracks his sad dissolution across his early life, up through school, and into the climax of the depression that engulfed his late teenage years, culminating in a terrifying and destructive psychosis and the effective murder of his soul.
Inspired by the writings of Alice Miller, César Tort, and John Modrow, this two-book life history seeks to create a new literary genre, that of vindictive autobiography, where the painful abuses of Benjamin’s parents are spelled out in full detail, and, contrary to the ‘wisdom’ of most modern psychological therapies, they are held to account and not forgiven.
As Benjamin explains:
I love my Mum and Dad, but forgiveness is not a one way street, and they have never assimilated their responsibility, apologised, or tried to make things right, instead foisting me with further trauma on the cynical, pseudoscientific victim-blaming of the orthodox psychiatric industry.
Though I was raised as a strict Catholic, my writings seek to repudiate the fourth commandment, remembering the words of Friedrich Nietzsche in Twilight of the Idols: ‘When one gives up the Christian faith, one pulls the right to Christian morality out from under one’s feet.’
sentences of Alice Miller’s Breaking Down the Wall of Silence:
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“…the wall of silence behind which society has sought to protect itself from the truth about cruelty and abuse in childhood”. (Foreword, page 5)
“Parents are indeed capable of routinely torturing their children without anyone interceding”. (Chapter 1, “Eve’s Initiative”, page 14)
“…remained completely repressed in me for almost sixty years. As a result, I betrayed that little girl [the inner girl that still inhabited in Miller’s heart]… There was no one to help me condemn cruelty”. (Chapter 2, “Out of the Prison of Confusion”, page 20)
“Hard as it is to believe, in the entire world there is not one single faculty in which a degree is offered in the study of psychic injuries in childhood”. (Ibid., page 25)
“So psychiatrists have… chosen not to know how psychoses develop”. (Chapter 3, “The Psychiatrists’ Campaign Against the Act of Remembering”, page 32)
“…that voice [of Miller’s inner wounded child], because it has taught me more than all the books I have ever read”. (Ibid., page 33)
“My justifiable anger makes me strong and aware. I can see through the lies because I have stopped forgiving, stopped praying or speculating, stopped laying the guilt on myself” (Ibid., page 35)
“…how damaging it is to preach forgetfulness and forgiveness. Isn’t that just what your patients have done their whole lives, and is that not why they have remained disordered?” (Ibid., pages 36-37)
“…what was previously regarded as a sin—criticism of our parents—is, in reality, our only chance of becoming healthy”. (Ibid., page 38)
“Psychoanalysis does not distort the truth by accident. It does so by necessity. It is an effective system for the suppression of the truth about childhood, a truth feared by our entire society. Not surprisingly, it enjoys great esteem among intellectuals”. (Chapter 4, “Blindman’s Buff and the Flight from the Facts in Psychoanalysis”, pages, 42-43)
“…fear of the truth about child abuse is a leitmotif of nearly all forms of therapy known to me”. (Ibid., page 48)
“Hate that we have experienced is not a poison, but one way out of the trap…” (Chapter 5, “The Media and the Wall of Silence”, page 61)
“To dismiss such people as ‘self-pitying’ only says something about one’s own early experiences…” (Ibid., page 71)
“And why, anyway, do human beings go on worshipping such horrific gods? (Chapter 6, “Child Sacrifice as ‘Tradition’”, page 77. Miller is referring to the god of the Jews. See also pages 193-199 of my book Day of Wrath.)
“The danger does not lie with individuals, however criminal they may be. Far more, it lies in the ignorance of our entire society… Teachers, attorneys, doctors, social workers, priests, and other respected representatives of society protect parents… Even the child protection agencies insist that this crime, and this crime alone, should go unpunished”. (Chapter 8, “The Monstrous Consequences of Denial”, page 87)
“The majority of therapists fear this truth. They work under the influence of destructive interpretations culled from both Western and Oriental religions, which preach forgiveness… they offer traditional morality… Forgiveness does not resolve latent hatred and self-hatred but rather covers them up in a very dangerous way”. (Chapter 9, “The Liberating Experience of Painful Truth”, page 131)
“By refusing to forgive, I give up my illusions. A mistreated child, of course, cannot live without them. But a grown-up therapist must be able to manage it. His or her patients should be able to ask: ‘Why should I forgive, when no one is asking me to? I mean, my parents refuse to understand and to know what they did to me. So why should I go on trying to understand and forgive my parents and whatever happened in their childhood, with things like psychoanalysis and transactional analysis? What’s the use? Whom does it help? It doesn’t help my parents to see the truth. But it does prevent me from experiencing my feelings, the feelings that would give me access to the truth. But under the bell-jar of forgiveness, feelings cannot and may not blossom freely’. Such reflections are, unfortunately, not common in therapeutic circles, in which forgiveness is the ultimate law”. (Ibid., page 135)
“This ideology is indivisible with the command ‘Thou shalt not be aware’ [of the cruelty your parents inflicted to you] and with the repetition of that cruelty on the next generation.
”But the demand for forgiveness that I often encounter can pose a danger for therapy, even though it is an expression of our culture. Mistreatment of children is the order of the day, and those errors are therefore trivialized by the majority of adults. Forgiving can have negative consequences, not only for the individual, but for society at large, because it can mean disguising erroneous opinions and attitudes, and involves drawing a curtain across reality so that we cannot see what is taking place behind it.
”The possibility of change depends on whether there is a sufficient number of enlightened witnesses to create a safety net for the growing consciousness of those who have been mistreated as children, so that they do not fall into the darkness of forgetfulness, from which they will later emerge as criminals or the mentally ill”. (Ibid., pages 135-136)
“How much unnecessary suffering [emphasis by Ed.] would I, my children and their future children, have been spared if I had been able to read this book when I was young…” (Ibid., letter to Miller, page 157)
“If one day the secret of childhood were to become no longer a secret, the state would be able to save immense sums that it spends on hospitals, psychiatric clinics, and prisons maintaining our blindness. That this might deliberately happen is almost too incredible a thought”. (Ibid., page 143)
I finally have internet service after a few days without it due to moving from Yautepec, in the state of Morelos, to Mexico City.
After living alone in the house in Tlalpan my parents left behind, so large it had three pianos in various locations, my siblings decided to sell it. Since the money from the sale was divided among six heirs, the modest sum I received was only enough to rent a tiny place in the neighbourhood of Mexico City where I lived as a child and teenager.
Before my move from Yautepec, a town where the only white person was my dentist, where I had gone after the selling of my parents’ house in search of cheap rent, I had been talking on this site with Benjamin. We both have in common not just the fourteen words, but the four words (never, ever torment animals or children, which I summarise under the motto “Eliminate all unnecessary suffering”).
It’s curious how those who—unlike the distorted image Hollywood deceives us with—have been tormented by their parents to the point of psychic breakdown can, in their lucid states, see things that normies are incapable of seeing.
For example, when looking for an apartment in the capital, I had to pay for hotels because my brother, who inherited the family business, only let me stay in his apartment for one day, even though there was one room empty since his only son moved out. On the other hand, my old friend Marco, whom I’ve talked about on this site in several posts to illustrate what many YouTubers call “narcissism”, a condition that sometimes borders on psychosis, allowed my beloved family furniture into his home until his death. If it weren’t for Marco, I would have been dealt a terrible blow: the furniture that reminds me of the time when my parents hadn’t yet abused me would have been lost (Marco also offered me a room in his house to live in for a few days while I sorted out my affairs, although I declined his generous offer).
That’s the world! No one among the heirs of the Tort family after my parents passed is aware of what happened (my sister Corina died suddenly in 2016, and by law, her share of the inheritance went to her son, who now lives in Barcelona). Due to the torment my parents inflicted on me I was left unable to pursue a career, and wages in Mexico are so low that I couldn’t work either. If my siblings had been aware of what had happened, they would have left me the house so that I, who turns 67 next month, could live there for the rest of my days.
But they wanted money and now my future has become precarious…
My late sister Corina was fully aware that our parents murdered our souls, but no one who inherited the house has any conscience, and the same could be said of the family’s relatives and acquaintances. I am writing this entry because I owe the moral support, or the storage of my furniture, to people who have suffered psychotic breakdowns. Those I know who haven’t had these breakdowns don’t sympathise with me, nor with the new generations of children whose souls are being murdered at home; or with the animals being tortured in slaughterhouses and other sinister places.
I will use the little money I had left from the inheritance to translate into English my books where I narrate the tragedy that befell my family: a tragedy that not only destroyed the lives of Corina and me, but is repeated by millions of other abusive parents, with the difference that unlike me the victims do not write their autobiographies.
The topic is relevant even for racialists. A few years ago, one of them contacted me because he had serious mental health issues, and in my anti-psychiatric writings he found an oasis in a desert of incomprehension. And there’s a well-known racialist who has a website that he started even before The West’s Darkest Hour appeared. Many years ago he had such severe mental health issues that he was once labelled schizophrenic, if I remember his testimony correctly.
The topic of how abusive parents murder the souls of their children is fundamental, although it remains taboo in our societies. If Alice Miller weren’t anti-Nazi I would recommend her book, Breaking Down the Wall of Silence.
I want to expand on what I discussed yesterday with Benjamin about the trauma model of mental disorders because the topic is a universal taboo, including in the racialist community, to the point that catastrophes like those of William Pierce and Don Black’s children are incomprehensible. (My working hypothesis is that, had they been treated well as children, they would have followed in their parents’ footsteps instead of betraying their ideals.)
It all has to do with the omnipresent taboo, and I’d like to illustrate it with the first reading I ever did of a mental health professional who, unlike bio-reductionist psychiatry, which is pseudoscientific, was one of the pioneers in talking about parents who schizophrenized their children.
Theodore Lidz
It was 1983 when I was broke precisely because of the abuse I had suffered at home the previous decade. At the famous Gandhi Bookstore in Mexico City, I read the interview with Dr Theodore Lidz in the book Laing and Anti-Psychiatry, edited by Robert Boyers and Robert Orrill. Back then, there were no comfortable armchairs like those found in Barnes & Noble bookstores, and I had to read that long interview standing up because the subject fascinated me. It was the first time in my life I had read someone who came close to what I believed had happened in my family.
Seven years later, I managed to buy a copy of Boyers and Orrill’s book, translated into Spanish by Alianza Editorial of Madrid, which was the same edition I had read at the Gandhi Bookstore. Since I don’t have the original English version, I can’t quote a passage from the interview with Lidz verbatim, but I can restate its content.
When the interviewer asked if Lidz was surprised that books on schizophrenia, like those by Ronald Laing, had become popular among young people (this is a 1971 book and reflected the mood of the 1960s), Lidz replied that he was surprised that Laing wrote for the general public and not for a professional audience. What struck me as I reread that interview yesterday was that Lidz added that it wasn’t the public’s business to know what happens in these families, even though Laing might have altered the details to make his cases anonymous. Lidz added that, in his work on cases of schizogenic parents—that is, those who drive their children mad—he wasn’t able to publish the reports of most of the families because some of the parents were quite well-known, and even with pseudonyms, they could have been recognised. He added that some of the cases ran to 50 to 80 typewritten pages, ‘truly precious documents’, but that they couldn’t be published.
This struck me greatly because in my Letter to Mom Medusa, I cite a case in which Lidz violated what he said above: the case of Mrs Newcomb (a pseudonym) and her extremely passive husband, who helped me so much in understanding my parents.
On the next page I reread yesterday, Lidz, with whom I spoke on the phone in the 1990s when he was already quite old, surprised me again because he wrote that he didn’t believe the schizogenic parents had done anything wrong; that they hadn’t meant to harm the child, and that this contrasted with what Laing wrote, for whom the parents’ intentions were often malicious. Lidz added, and here I retranslate it again from my Spanish copy into English, that ‘parents do the best they can—they can’t be different from what they are’.
This goes against the thesis of my autobiographical books, where I say that my father could have chosen the good: not to be influenced by the lies his wife told about me, but rather should have communicated with me in my adolescence (cf. both the final pages of Hojas Susurrantes and the first chapter of ¿Me Ayudarás?).
It’s been forty-two years since I first read the very lucid interview with Lidz standing in the Gandhi Bookstore, an interview that was a turning point in the research I did on my parents. It’s only natural that after so many years, my thinking has matured, largely due to the work of Alice Miller: the first psychologist in history who, unlike her predecessors (like Lidz), unequivocally took the side of the victimized child. (Despite what Lidz said, Laing didn’t completely side with the victim either, as we see in the middle chapter of my Hojas Susurrantes.)
In the previous thread, Benjamin complained that the racial right couldn’t care less about the issue, to which I responded that the German woman who received the mantle after Alice Miller died said that blaming parents is the most potent taboo in the human psyche. I’m posting this entry because, I see now, the taboo was present even in the works of my admired mentors, whom I read decades ago. The abysmal difference between them and us is that, in siding with the victim, we don’t care about what Lidz and company feared: that the public would realise which families the clinical material refers to, those ‘truly precious documents’ he didn’t dare publish (and which would have done enormous good for our cause had they been published!).
Do you now understand the new literary genre that people like John Modrow, Benjamin and I want to inaugurate? By siding a hundred per cent with the victim, not only do we not care about people recognising the abusive families, but we write using their real names!
Only revenge heals the wounded soul, even though we’re talking about literary revenge.
Augustine and his mother Monica (1846) by Ary Scheffer.
BOOK II: Spends a year at home before going to Carthage
I want to remember now my past uglinesses and the carnal dullness of my soul… In my adolescence I burned with desire to be filled with the baser things… Your anger against me was increasing… burning in the flames of my concupiscence… At least, I should have paid more attention to the voice of your clouds warning those who marry that you will suffer the tribulations of the flesh, but I forgive you [1 Cor 7:28].
This poor devil, elevated to the greatest Father of the Church for all Christendom (Catholic, Orthodox and Protestant), already believed that sex was sinful even within marriage! On the next page Augustine continues:
Made a eunuch for the kingdom of heaven, I would have sighed happily for your embraces [Mt 19:12]… I was lost at sixteen.
And here it is clear what it means to be a slave to the parental introject (in his case, a mental slave to his mother’s engulfing mind), and why I say that the idea of the deity is but a sublimation of the maternal (or paternal) image:
She wanted me—and I remember how insistently she asked me in secret—not to fornicate… The words, however, were yours, though I didn’t know it. I thought you were silent and that it was she who spoke. Therefore, I despised you, her son, the son of your servant [his mother] and your servant [Augustine], who didn’t cease to talk to me through her.
With such an ogre of a super-ego it is no wonder that further down on the same page he added about his nascent libidinous impulse:
I wallowed in my slime as if it were balm and precious ointment, and to mire me…
BOOK III: Going to Carthage
To love and be loved was the sweetest thing for me, especially if I got to enjoy the beloved’s body…
He was already nineteen years old and his pagan father, the only one who could have saved him from his wife’s abrasive behaviour, had died.
But you know very well, O light of my heart, that I had no knowledge of the counsel of your Apostle at that time.
In a sense he did, as we saw in the previous section. Augustine was unaware that the self is a structure, and that it can be programmed at the whim of one’s parents, either for good or for evil.
What only delighted, excited and kindled me was to love, seek and embrace strongly not this or that sect, but wisdom itself, whatever it might be. These were the words that excited and burned me, and the only thing that dampened my ardour was not to find the name of Christ there. For this name, Lord, the name of my Saviour and your Son, I drank it piously with my mother’s milk, and by your mercy I kept it engraved in the depths of my heart.
By the way, I will never forget my father’s words: ‘Faith is suckled!’ in a tone of assertive gravity. And here is how the unconscious of Augustine’s mother had already perceived that her son, although he would flirt for a short time with Manichaeism and other pagan sects, was at heart a good Christian:
My mother, your faithful servant, wept for me, shedding tears… She dreamt, in fact, that she was standing on a wooden ruler all sad and afflicted and that there was coming towards her a young man with a bright, cheerful and smiling face. He asked her the reason for her sadness and her daily tears, not because he didn’t know it, but because he had something to tell her, as in such visions. When she had answered that her tears were for the loss of my soul, he told her to take courage and to look carefully and be attentive, for where she was, there I was also [my emphasis]. She looked and saw me standing beside her on the same ruler.
Monica’s unconscious captured her son perfectly, as he was: a good Christian.
When she told me the dream and I tried to interpret it as a message that she shouldn’t despair of one day being as I was at present, she promptly and without hesitation replied: ‘No, he didn’t say “where he is, there you are”, but “where you are, there he is”.
This sharp reply of my mother’s impressed me very much… I was more impressed by this reply than by the dream itself.
But as Augustine had not yet devoted himself body and soul to being a champion of Constantine’s still young faith, his mother ‘returned to the charge with greater entreaties and more abundant tears’ as he confesses in his Confessions.
Monica was a clinical case of what some YouTubers call a narcissistic mother: a phallic, possessive mother without ego boundaries between her and her son, whom she treats as a mere egoic object (cf. my Letter to mom Medusa).
‘But we never get back our youth. The pulse of joy that beats in us at twenty becomes sluggish. Our limbs fail, our senses rot. We degenerate into hideous puppets, haunted by the memory of the passions of which we were too much afraid, and the exquisite temptations that we had not the courage to yield to. Youth! Youth! There is absolutely nothing in the world but youth!’ —The Picture of Dorian Gray
Those who think like that are immature men. Yesterday I had to delete some passages from the third book of my trilogy where I confessed things that I now rephrase and translate into English.
In those deleted pages I confessed that I had had a recurring fantasy at my very mature age: that if it were possible to travel back in time I would be infinitely happy visiting my grandmothers’ homes. ‘What would I give…!’ — I have told myself countless times now that I can no longer see them — ‘to be able to go and visit them as I did as a child and pubescent!’
Their homes were far from the disturbances of my parents’ house, where I lived. Only beautiful and wholesome memories come from those places where many of our grandmothers lived. It is easier for parents to project their psychoses onto their offspring than for mature grandmothers to do so, even if they failed to understand our future parents or treat them well when they were young. With age, the unhealthy projections evaporate.
‘That fantasy I can even have right now, to the extent of perceiving that with their deaths parts of my being have been mutilated’, I said in my diary, where I added that ‘any satisfaction I might have in the present is a pale substitute for the times when I could go to see them when my “I” was whole’. I wrote in red ink that there would have been no folie en famille at home if any of them had seen our family dynamics. This is even more elementary than the Hitler Youth because some unsupervised parents (i.e., without grandmothers or godmothers) can drive a child mad and destroy him before the pubescent child can be recruited into the Hitler Youth.
Today’s Gray cult of individualism and eternal youth is folly in an age that doesn’t understand that senescence is a fundamental part of an extended family (in contrast to the nuclear family). The youth we are to pursue is not the youth of this modern world so blinded by its individualistic obsessions of a healthy body. ‘Man is mortal by his fears, and immortal by his desires’, said Pythagoras. And if we only grow old when we abandon our ideals, it means I’ll never grow old (though I will probably die of old age).
Of course: these thoughts are decontextualised in a mere blog post rather than in an intelligible autobiography. Except for Benjamin, I know that not many are interested in my work on the psychological trauma caused by parental betrayal. But if anyone has questions, although I don’t have the space I have in a trilogy of more than 1,800 pages, I will try to answer them.
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Update of 10:30 a.m.
Since I wrote the above post yesterday almost at midnight, I forgot to say the essential.
The fact is that the aberrant custom of the modern world of sending our grandmas to the nursing home results in their grandchildren not having what Alice Miller called ‘helping witnesses’, that is, a friendly ear for the child in families where the parents begin to assault one of them.
The balance that a granny represents in an extended family is fundamental for the mental health of the offspring, and that is cancelled out in the nuclear family that believes in nursing homes.
It is only just becoming fashionable to talk about Family Systems, but it seems clear to me that we should also study the so-called Blue Zones. (People in Blue Zones areas have a diet that is 95% plant-based. Fruits, vegetables, beans, tofu, lentils, nuts, and seeds are rich with disease-fighting nutrients and are the cornerstone of their diets.)
These people live longer, and some even reach centenarians, because they live as extended families where, feeling important, grandmas don’t become as senile as in the West, as they help raise the new generations.
Everything is interrelated: healthy diet and healthy—rural—lifestyles, plus a healthy extended family of the same ethnic group: the exact opposite of Dorian Gray’s lifestyle (I read Oscar Wilde’s novel in 1995, when I was much younger).
None of this, which is vital, I said yesterday because I repeat I wrote it tired at midnight.
I haven’t finished what I said yesterday in ‘Emergency’: a word I put in inverted commas because what I mean is an emergent condition of the human soul, in the sense of developing great compassion for animals tormented by those I call Neanderthals, as well as a religious attraction to great art (virtues Adolf Hitler had).
These days I have reached my financial nadir. I have never been in such need of funds as I am now. And of course: it’s all related to my radical worldview.
Since Lulu Press de-platformed my account of our books in English, a very important source of income for me collapsed almost to zero insofar as almost nobody buys my books in Spanish.
True, two generous sponsors give me a fixed monthly amount and have done so regularly for some time now. If I had more sponsors I could cover my expenses.
In the last few days I’ve basically been interacting only with Benjamin. Why?
He has confessed in several threads of this site to the abuse he suffered at home as a child and the psychological havoc that abuse wreaked as a teenager. This is similar to what another commenter has confessed, Joseph Walsh, who is now serving a seven-year sentence in the UK for thoughtcrime. The difference between these two Englishmen, Joseph and Benjamin, is that the former was seduced by the dark side by admiring Charles Manson, while the latter tries to cure himself by staying on the light side, as he has also confessed on this site by reading the authors of the trauma model of mental disorders and also those who refute the pseudo-scientific medical model of those disorders.
In previous years there have been other smart commenters who sometimes hinted that they too had been abused. But their testimonies were only a glimpse of what could have happened: they didn’t speak out. I am convinced that chronic neuroses and even psychoses are directly proportional to burying the traumatic past without having processed it properly. It is precisely because of this universal tendency to repress that past that some fall to the dark side. If those who were tormented as children or adolescents were able to say it all, in an orderly way in lyrically polished texts, they wouldn’t have psychiatric symptoms nor would they be in jail. But that is the work of the gods because if there is one thing that hurts horrendously, it is precisely remembering the psychic tortures to which our crazed parents, and their sold-out psychiatrists, subjected us when our tender age prevented us from fleeing such hellish homes.
Lágrimas (Tears, the last book of my trilogy).
What is all this about what I was saying yesterday, the discrepancy between National Socialism and white nationalism? I have noticed that only those of us who have been so horribly beaten by life that we couldn’t lead normal lives have been able to embrace the National Socialist cause to the extent of rebelling against Christian ethics and atheistic hyper-Christianity. I think that’s why I don’t get the donations that white nationalist sites get. If adolescent suffering didn’t reach the levels it did in the lives of Joseph, Benjamin and myself, why pick a fight with society to the extent of transvaluing all its values?
Virtually all whites suffer from a universal trance: the trance of believing that Hitler was the bad guy of the 20th century (in reality, he was the noblest politician in all of Western history). Those of us who observe the herd mentality, that collective hypnosis that is now being called ‘mass formation’, know that it can only be broken if the System crucified you (as it crucified Joseph, Benjamin and myself). Otherwise one simply falls into the trance of the herd. In other words, of the commenters who have commented here, I know of no one who has been treated fairly by family and society and rebelled against the demonisation of National Socialism. Even Tom Goodrich, the author of Hellstorm, has confessed publicly that he was abused as a child (in his case, sexually abused).
My existential problem is that once I can see that many families murder the souls of their children with the help of so-called mental health professionals (as Jeffrey Masson rightly saw, any therapeutic intervention paid for by the abusive parents themselves is iatrogenic), I am also able to see other social lies. But the vast majority of racialists have not suffered hell caused by their parents and the psychiatrists hired by them (‘licensed slanderers’ the late Thomas Szasz used to call these child psychiatrists). If my observation is correct, that only the crucified ones can be ideologically resurrected, I will be condemned to monologue on this blog until the convergence of catastrophes that will unfold in this century starts to awaken some Aryans—if they awaken!
It’s a terrible situation, but I don’t think it admits another interpretation. The alternative interpretation would be that I am completely deluded and that the Christian question is in no way more serious than the Jewish question. But as I have already said in another article this month, if that is true white nationalists have been unwilling to argue this point on solid grounds. They simply ignore us.
Given that what I get in donations cannot pay all my bills, the easiest thing to do would be to give up The West’s Darkest Hour. But I won’t. I am like the proverbial Roman soldier who didn’t abandon his post even when the war was already lost.
In the comments section, the day before yesterday I complained that visitors don’t understand the value of studying the issue of child abuse and psychohistory, which studies its psychological consequences. I want to clarify the point.
Twenty years ago, in the Spanish newspaper El País, Alice Miller wrote something that made my mind fly to my mother’s behaviour (my translation): ‘Where does this repressed rage come from, this need to torment, humiliate, mock and mistreat defenceless human beings (prisoners and children alike)?’ Then Miller answers her question, it comes from poisonous pedagogy: ‘Children and adolescents can be beaten, humiliated and sometimes subjected to the clearest sadism without any legal consequences. Such treatment is tantamount to real torture. But it is not called that’.
Now grown up, this once-beaten girl, who buried her rage for years, begins to take it out on her children, repeating the cycle.
The confessions of Tyrone Patten-Walsh (Joseph Walsh was the name he used on this site), now serving a seven-year sentence for thoughtcrime in the UK, are paradigmatic in showing why we should know Miller’s work as well as psychohistory.
In a comment on The Unz Review that Walsh later deleted, because he posted it before his sentencing earlier this year and was still hoping to be declared non-guilty, he confessed:
I’ve already suffered immensely since I was 17 when I was incarcerated in a mental institute for ‘mental illness’. I’m used to suffering and I don’t expect mercy from life. Life shows little to no mercy to certain people. Consequently I have become merciless. In fact I’ve come to love the suffering and evil of this planet. As long as humans are suffering, justice is being done, that’s what I say. From my teenage years I’ve been obsessed with Satan, Hitler, Charles Manson, Evil, crime, serial killers, etc.
Walsh’s guilt-by-association looks more like a Hollywood Hitler than the historical Hitler! Remember that in my critical article ‘On commenters of The West’s Darkest Hour’ another Englishman was also a fan of Charles Manson. German National Socialists of the previous century wouldn’t even understand how some Anglo-Saxon racialists could be fans of Masson, Satanism or, openly, Evil as Walsh confesses. He adds:
If I go to prison I imagine I should feel right at home. It’s part of being a revolutionary, an outlaw. When I was younger the British state termed my thoughts and words ‘insane’, now my words and thoughts are ‘illegal’ haha. I’ve been termed bipolar, schizoaffective, autistic, Asperger, a terrorist, far right etc. by the usual psychological ‘experts’. I’m sure you can imagine my life’s story Dr Morgan. It’s the same story lived by thousands of other ‘dangerous males’ all across the West.
Yes: Walsh was a martyred teenager by the System. But he didn’t know how to process his abysmal pain. Although when I met him in London he said things that I thought were the most lucid I have ever heard about Aryan ethnosuicide, he followed a very different path from mine (I too had been martyred by my parents). Walsh’s comment to his pal Robert Morgan ends with these words:
I’ll finish with an amusing anecdote. Ten years ago Carolyn Yeager interviewed Tom Metzger and Metzger was talking about the Jews’ collective will to power. Carolyn asked Metzger “Where’s our will to power?” and Metzger paused for a split second then said “They’re all in prison”. Yeager was appalled by Terrible Tommy’s statement and said “Oh, come on”. I wouldn’t have expected her to understand but Metzger certainly did, lol. Thanks for your words of support anyway.
I would put it differently.
When Hitler was triumphing in Europe Carl Jung said that there were two collective unconsciouses: the Jewish collective unconscious and the Aryan collective unconscious. Unfortunately, the Aryan is prey to the former.
For those who are prey to the Judeo-Christian collective unconscious, the interview with Tom Holland that I embedded yesterday is a splendid opportunity to understand what’s going on in our little heads. Such an insight is opposite to Hollywood Nazis admiring Masson, Satan or idealising prison. Today’s prisons are hellish compared to Hitler’s incarceration after the Putsch, as we saw recently in that passage from Brendan Simms’ biography. The Landsberg prison was a five-star hotel compared to the prison Walsh and his friend Chris Gibbons, whom I also met, are now suffering.
Incidentally, recently the Greek man who told me he was going to commit suicide, also mentioned in ‘On commenters of The West’s Darkest Hour’, sent me an email confessing that he hadn’t done it! I suggested that he write his most painful memoirs, as I did in my autobiographical books, in pursuit of the only therapy that saved me. I don’t know if he will follow my advice but another commenter on this site, also committed like Walsh to a mental hospital for a while, has begun to write his memoirs.
More on how the most abusive parents undermine the mental health of the child can be found in my book Day of Wrath, the PDF of which is linked in the featured post.
Known in the US as The Young and the Damned (1950)
This is the only Mexican film on my list of 50. The director wasn’t Mexican but Spanish, Luis Buñuel (1900-1983), whom I met in the living room of Arturo Souto Alabarce’s family a few years before he died. Part of Los Olvidados was filmed very close to where I now live, although the area has changed a lot in the last seventy-three years.
As a young man Buñuel studied in Madrid and emigrated to Paris, where he and Salvador Dalí made two films of the surrealist movement, one of which was banned in Spain. After an unsuccessful stay in the United States, and being unable to return to Franco’s Spain, Buñuel moved to Mexico and became a Mexican citizen. He was even awarded the Palme d’Or at the Cannes Film Festival in 1961 and a Hollywood Oscar for his 1972 film The Discreet Charm of the Bourgeoisie, but he didn’t go to collect it.
If Los Olvidados has any value, it is because, even now, there is not a single degree of how the mistreatment of parents destroys their children’s lives. 1973 and 1980 mark bibliographical milestones with the publication of Lloyd deMause’s History of Childhood and Alice Miller’s Am Anfang war Erziehung. For the first time, the magnitude of the psychological toll of childhood abuse—i.e., mental disorders—was discussed with due solidarity. But their work has become taboo in the so-called mental health professions.
Another facet of the toll of parental abuse is destitution: the number of street children who roam the Third World’s cities. Kids flee the violence at home and society plays dumb. A blocking appears at the beginning of Los Olvidados:
The great modern cities, New York, Paris and London hide behind their magnificent buildings, homes of misery that house abused children, without hygiene, without schooling: breeding grounds for future delinquents. Society is trying to correct this evil, but the success of its efforts is very limited. Only in the near future can the rights of children and adolescents be vindicated so that they can be useful to society. Mexico, the great modern city, is no exception to this universal rule.
Near future, really? In so-called developing countries, never in history have there been so many destitute children as there are today—much more than in the times when Luis Buñuel made his film. And most cases of child destitution are due to physical or emotional violence in the home.
In a personal letter to Buñuel, Benjamin Viel said that he hadn’t seen a clearer indictment of the supposed maternal instinct than in a dialogue of Los Olvidados. In contrast to the stereotype of the good and loving mother, Buñuel showed the detachment of parents from their children: a transgression that caused great fury in Mexico when the film was released in December 1950. Viewers’ discomfort with unmotherly mothers was so evident that even one of the film’s production staff resigned. Not even Gus van Sant’s Elephant, a Cannes award-winning film of the new century about teenagers with family problems, gets to the core of children’s pain as in Los Olvidados:
Pedro: Why do you hit me, because I’m hungry? Mother: And I’m going to kill you, you scoundrel. Pedro: You don’t love me. Mother: Why should I love you?
The plot of the film can be read in the English Wikipedia article, and anyone who wants to watch the movie can do so on YouTube. In a nutshell, Los Olvidados is a fictionalised documentary featuring disparate characters such as El Jaibo and Pedro: a teenager and a smaller kid of different ilk: the former tends to be a troublemaker and the latter to be well-behaved. Both, however, wander hopelessly through the slums of Mexico City. The film ends in tragedy: the body of the boy Pedro, murdered by Jaibo, ends up in a rubbish dump.
