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Category: Child abuse

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Autobiography Child abuse Exterminationism Hojas Susurrantes (book)

Nobody wanted to listen, 2

‘Normal people’

Not all my close friends are as primitive as a pastry chef who, like a balm, tries to spread whipped cream to his existential pain. In my adolescence there was a time when Hector Covarrubias and my father commented on the wonders of 2001: A Space Odyssey at the house in Palenque. As I said in the narrative section, the film culminates with the return to Earth of a man turned into an overman to eradicate Neanderthalism. Arthur Clarke himself suggests this at the end of the novel, which Hector had read. Of my relatives, Hector was considered the most intelligent in the family and as a teenager I visited him, being impressed by his clear and transparent rationalism. The lectures on physics he gave me individually in 1977 had moments as lucid as I would later hear on Carl Sagan’s shows. But Hector was blinded about the conflict with my parents. He didn’t see the dysfunction in our family even when, because of the seventh circle of hell at home, he saw me completely broken. His house was an Enlightenment room as long as we touched on the topics of science, rationalism, and the criticism of magical thinking. The problems of the soul were forbidden. Instead of seeing my family problem, he repressed the whole thing and looked me down. He disowned the nephew who most admired him…

Hector was already a married man with daughters when I stopped visiting him in the early 1980s. But I have also been offended by relatives younger than myself. When my first cousin Octavio read my Epistle to the mother in 1990 he commented to me: ‘My view of your parents is changing!’ I remember those words very well while, sitting and reading it absorbed, he had the manuscript on the desk. However, some months later he spread the gossip with my father that I could publish it. Octavio had been the closest of my intelligent cousins, but like years later with Pablo, I felt very hurt by his behaviour and I distanced myself permanently from him. Something not so grotesque happened with my cousin Carmina when I visited her at her house, next to Hector, our uncle. When I made a sheepishly critical comment on parental abuse, my cousin jumped, ‘You think your parents are demons’. I don’t know why she reacted like this. I suppose that from other relatives she was familiar with my ideas. It was the last time I visited her. Hector, Octavio and Carmina are sophisticated people. But their reactions were typical cases of extreme dissociation before the most elemental psychological reality.

Gerardo Tort filmed De la Calle, a film about homeless children in Mexico City. He is one of the two cousins Korina referred to in her letter of advice and scolding. Surely my cousin Gerardo could hear me, I thought. I had read an approximation of the script for his film before the script reached its final elaboration, and I gave him my opinion. What would be my surprise when Gerardo didn’t comment on a draft of my first two books, nor would he do so in subsequent years. And he didn’t tell me anything even though, on one occasion when I ran into him on the street, I brought up the subject of the manuscript I had given him. Not even a filmmaker my age, with whom I had talked about so many things against the established order in the past, could hear my story. Gerardo can bring his guts to the camera into the sewers where street children live. But he doesn’t have them to listen to his cousin about what happened in one of the Tort families. My sister would say that those who act like this ‘are normal people who run away from problems; they are not interested and cannot do anything about it’. I’d say they are Neanderthals—exterminable Neanderthals indeed, as I will argue elsewhere.

Categories
Autobiography Child abuse Hojas Susurrantes (book)

Nobody wanted to listen, 1

One of the problems with translating fragments of a book is that you lose context. Strictly speaking, the ten chapters that I will translate from Hojas Susurrantes (Whispering Leaves), pages 378-430 and 443-444, can only be well understood after having read the previous three hundred and seventy-seven pages.

However, when I recently reviewed the syntax and edited that text, which I had not reread for several years, I realised that those pages were understandable if I translated them. Similarly, Day of Wrath (see the sidebar) contains translated pages 472-634 of my Hojas that, even in isolation from the rest of the book, make perfect sense.

So here is the first of ten instalments of pages 378-430 that I’ll be translating this month. It begins with some anecdotes that happened in 1976…

 

______ 卐 ______

 

NOBODY WANTED TO LISTEN

Hurt by my loved ones

In the most difficult moment of my life, my seventeen years, I fled to the house of San Lorenzo with my grandmother. A few days later there was a meeting at her home. Besides grandma Mecho there was also my grandma Yoya; I remember Aunt Esperanza and also Aunt Elsa: my father’s sisters-in-law, and I think my Aunt Mercedes was also there. As I tell in Letter to mom Medusa, at that time my character was extremely self-conscious because of what my parents had done to me. But despite my inhibition, I plucked up my courage and threw a comment on the table that was intended to reveal the tragedy at home. At that time they had just released One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest and I projected myself into the stuttering lad who commits suicide at the end. My mother, still at a distance, continued to harass me: now through the infamous Dr. Amara. In the film it is mentioned that the lad had a possessive mother. I projected myself because, just as in the movie the villainous nurse was an ally of his mother, that doctor was an ally of my mom. Thus, at dinner with my aunts discussing the film, in a moment of unusual courage I said to my grandma Yoya:

‘There are mothers like that with their children!’

I meant that there are mothers who destroy their children as in the film. Although I don’t remember my exact words, I said it not only with great emotion, but with immense anguish. When I write these paragraphs I have to get up from my desk to walk around in the modest study in which I live. The memory touches me so painful fibres that penetrate so deep in my being, that I need a little peripatetic comfort before I sit down again to write. Yoya perfectly got what I wanted to say, and what I am about to tell is what hurts me.

Here is a minor who, for mysterious reasons for her aunts and grandmothers, runs away from home to take refuge with his grandma. This boy is patently distressed, self-conscious, and in great stress when speaking. He makes a herculean effort and, using a movie, tries to talk about his own drama. Instead of his anguished comment marking the beginning of some serious communication with the family, Yoya, who has said that I was her favourite grandson, immediately turns to Aunt Esperanza with the words:

‘But Blanquita and other mothers aren’t like that, right?’

Yoya repeated the question (‘Oh no, of course!’ Esperanza answered) and mentioned my mother’s name in the second or third repetition. My grandma originally used my absent Aunt Blanquita to avoid mentioning my mother directly; and she meant that if these things happen in other families, never in ours.

The pain of which I speak has to do with the fact that it is this sort of axiomatic deafness, this root disbelief, this anti-empathy towards an extremely anguished boy who desperately needs a friendly ear, that destroys a life.

Anyone who has been the victim of their parents to the level that I was, suffers a panic that undermines his mind when, to boot, no one shows the least compassion; that is, when the kid lacks what Alice Miller calls ‘a helping witness’. I didn’t have a single person to comfort me when I was being attacked by my parents. On the contrary, the family and my friends put up incredible resistance (and let’s not talk about the analyst). As Jeffrey Masson wrote on page 17 of his anti-therapy pamphlet, ‘Whenever our own truth is denied, ignored or invalidated we experience the greatest fear we can ever know: the threat of the annihilation of our self’. For those who haven’t been victims of parental beating, it is impossible to imagine how the universe falls; how the sky breaks and the stars collapse when the child has absolutely no one who wants to hear his story.
 

After the turbulent years

If as a teenager it was a miracle that I made up my mind to denounce my parents, in my twenties I managed to do it more frequently. In the 1980s my adolescent agonies were distant. Years had passed and I was much more emotionally robust. So I criticised my mother in various conversations.

Hearing my criticisms in a conversation alone with Godmother at her cozy flat, whom I had dreamed of when I was very little in that beautiful dream in which she approached me happily dancing [a dream recounted in the previous section], she raised the palm of her hand as a sign of please stop my dear! In my late twenties her lack of empathy didn’t cause me the terrible panic I had suffered as a boy with the psychoanalyst. But it hurt me in such a way that I stopped talking to her for a long time: something that no relative had dared to do. Godmother, the sister closest to my grandma Yoya, was a respected figure in the family because as she stayed single she acted as a counsellor to the relatives. But like the deaf analyst, the family counsellor was unable to listen to any accusations about the parents, despite the fact that on one occasion she commented to me ‘If you could see what they come to tell me here!’

On another occasion, and also in the 1980s, my uncle Beto did something similar. He was the one who had rented us the house in Ermita, the place of my first memories, and with whom Elvira herself had worked after her stay in Palenque [recounted in the previous section]. When Uncle Beto heard my criticism of my mother, he raised his eyes to the ceiling as a sign that I had crossed the line into forbidden territory. Although Uncle Beto, Godmother and Yoya’s younger brother, didn’t enter into an argument about something so important to me, I didn’t get angry or stop talking to him. Not long after he would die. But the unspoken message from my great-uncles, grandmother, and analyst was the same: they weren’t willing to listen to something that touched parents.

It could be thought that only that generation of people wasn’t prepared for this type of revelations. Neither is mine. Not even my younger brother allowed me to communicate my views to him.

In 1998, without any inhibition and with a fully developed intellectual capacity, in a restaurant I quoted to Pablo some passages from a treatise by Silvano Arieti. The tract showed how paranoia was due to the stalking mother of his young female clients, and these passages surprisingly portrayed the delusions of one of our sisters. In a gesture that I felt rude, my brother closed the Arieti book that I had on the table between us. That aborted discussion marked the beginning of a total and absolute estrangement with my brother.

Pablo, the fifth of my siblings, at thirty years old didn’t want to know anything about the dark side of our parents because he wasn’t abused as a child. But the incredible thing is that I’ve also been hurt by my battered sisters when I wanted to communicate my findings. Since Genevieve follows me in age—the photograph in which she and I embrace as children is a treasure in my heart [photo that appears in the previous section]—she is the one I feel closest to. But by introjecting our mother’s paranoid vision of me since her teens, a phenomenon that Theodore Lidz once called folie en famille, Genevieve distanced herself from her older brother: something that has hurt me deeply. The only time in my life I asked to speak to her about the family, she refused. And when I put the manuscript of my Letter to mom Medusa on her bed a few days later, she returned it to me without having read it: a gesture that, like Pablo’s, naturally offended me.

From my family Genevieve has been the only one who has distanced from me of her own free will due to the discord that our mother sowed (‘… she took you out of the family and turned the whole world against you with pure lies’, my sister Korina wrote me in her own handwriting about our mother when I had gone abroad [an already quoted sentence in Letter to mom Medusa]). I would distance myself from others because of their lack of compassion, or in the case of Korina herself, because of her lack of empathy. As seen from the quote in this paragraph, Korina was the only one who made deep emotional contact with my adolescent tragedy. However, my sister believes that the family tragedy shouldn’t be made public, and has vehemently maintained the social convention that it is wrong to bring up the subject with others.

Humanity ignores that communicating one’s own tragedy to someone is essential to settle accounts with our past. Humans, in general, see reality backwards. For example, instead of trying to understand my autobiographical mission, throughout my adult life Korina has treated me with sobering attitudes. This is very ironic because in my family only she developed great compassion for me (which is why I had thought to dedicate my first book to her) and also because our mother martyred her. But Korina refused to read the manuscript of the Letter that I planned to dedicate to her when I lived with her and her little son. Even after I left her home, and despite my pleas for her to stop meddling in my confessional passion, she continued to bother me. Like the rest of humanity, Korina has a fear of radical soul surgery. For her, my initiative to speak out about my findings in family psychology isn’t intelligent behaviour: it is foolish behaviour before which the sister, assuming the role of a new mother, reprimands the memorialist. I quote the crucial passages from the last of her epistolary scolds without adding ellipsis between unquoted passages:

Caesar:

The other time I spoke with one of the Tort cousins and he told me that you had sent him part of your book and that it’s not the first time you do this. I know you want the whole world to read it or something like that since you worked so hard on it and it’s your life and what my parents did to you and all that, and believe me I understand you. But what you don’t understand, Caesar, is that people don’t like problems, let alone problems as big as yours, and even less if they are about the family. Also, think that even if people read it, that’s not how the world is going to be fixed, Caesar, that’s not how the Revolution is going to do you justice. The damage is done and only you can fix it.

And just think about this, I say in good faith Caesar, once more. People don’t like problems. If I weren’t your sister and I knew you, the third day you arrived and told me this, Caesar, I would dump you because what you don’t understand is that not all people in the world are therapists or psychiatrists or psychoanalysts and we don’t want to hear about problems, let alone such serious ones. We are normal people who run away from problems. We are not interested and cannot do anything about it.

If you need to get it out of your head, go with someone to tell them as many times as you need, and I’m not talking about a therapist, maybe a friend or someone who wants to hear from you. Remember when you told me that a married couple who had lived in a concentration camp [a fictional film: Left Luggage], that the lady no longer wanted to hear any of that afterwards because it hurt her a lot, but that it was good for the husband to talk about it because he took it out, it was like his therapy.

Well, if you understood that, I don’t know why you don’t understand that reading your book hurts me and a lot of people in the family.

Korina

My sister thinks that reading the book I was going to dedicate to her would hurt her. The truth is that my work would shine a light in her dark mind by understanding what happened in our family. Dark, I say, because she was the one I was talking about with my younger brother about her paranoid delusions: obvious delusions for all her distant friends and close friends. (To give just one example: once Korina told me, crying with extreme anguish and expelling me from her house, that I was part of a plot led by our mother to put poisons in her food.) Furthermore, Korina is wrong in believing that ‘the world won’t be fixed’ if others read my tragedy—or hers—and she also errs that ‘only one can fix’ the damage caused by parents. Like the rest of humanity, my sister is seeing things backwards, in a photographic negative. I don’t want to get my past out of my head. I want to get it into others with my writing. Taking it off leads to psychoses, like hers. Instead, making people aware of the hell caused by parents like ours prevents them.

‘We are normal people who run away from problems; we are not interested and cannot do anything about it’. What Korina and humanity see as normal, in my eyes is the behaviour of a very primitive dude, a Neanderthal. If my sister were correct that it’s healthy not to talk more about the problem, as she advises me in a paragraph that I omitted from her letter, she herself wouldn’t suffer from delusional ideas. On the other hand, I don’t suffer from the slightest mental disorder, not even addictions; but the aforementioned cousin that Korina mentions in her letter did (he once confessed to me and my brother that he was addicted to cocaine). The accepted wisdom in our society is what Korina believes: that burying a tragedy is the correct mental practice. I never tire of repeating it: repression and denial are the royal road for crime and mental disorders.

Korina, who watches soap operas and doesn’t like reading, reproaches me in her letter that ‘I want everyone to read me’. She ignores that we have an obligation to listen to the tragedy of the brother because only that can heal his soul. But at seventeen I didn’t need everyone, just one person. To take the most dramatic example that comes to mind: If, dismayed by my attempt at communication, Yoya would have called me to speak privately during that 1976 family dinner, she could have saved me. A single friendly ear would’ve led me on the right path in life. I wouldn’t have sought my salvation for so many years in stupid cults that alienated me and prevented me from pursuing a career. Although I didn’t respond to my sister’s letter, I can do so in an open letter: What hurts, Korina, isn’t digging up the past, but hiding it under a mountain of cakes. It seems to me that in Left Luggage the adult was the man, and the mental infant, his wife; and it is the man who scolds her for her childish defence mechanism, the pastry. But you, who try to avoid the mourning over our parents in inane distractions, are the one who thinks you are the adult. How daring of you to scold the digger as if he, not the pastry chef, were the child.

In other words, I’m not the one who should change. My family and relatives, Korina and company, are the ones who have the obligation to emerge psychically. Jung saw it clearly: enlightenment isn’t achieved by imagining figures of light (which Korina has tried for decades). It is achieved by analysing our darkness, our own shadow.

Categories
Alice Miller Child abuse Hojas Susurrantes (book)

Nobody wanted to listen

Six months ago a woman told me in the comments section of this site (one of the essays I included in Daybreak):

I read [Alice] Miller 30 years ago in an attempt to understand and resolve a history of abuse and tyrannical Christian teaching. I gave up because confronting my own past would have meant destruction of much on which my life has been built.

I am still unwell, but in advanced age am finally confronting the catastrophic link between the tortured son on the cross as a model for forgiveness and the cruel parent who demands forgiveness, who links pain and love.

Cesar you are a lone voice in a noisy world, but some of us are listening.

Soon I will begin to translate some chapters of the section ‘Nobody Wanted to Listen’, the second part of My Childhood, the third of my eleven books.

In order not to leave the reader in the dark, I would like to remind him or her that only the first of my eleven books has been fully translated into English. Day of Wrath only translates most of the fourth book, and in Daybreak you can read a couple of articles, ‘On Depression’ and ‘From the Great Confinement to Chemical Gulag’ that give an idea of what I say in my second book.

As Elenka told me half a year ago, this is a topic we all shy away from. It confronts us with the core of our pain. But feeling that pain again is the royal road to the healing of those of us who have been harmed by our families.

Categories
Child abuse Film Psychohistory

One more movie

Regarding what I said in my previous posts, that the treatment of children was so atrocious in the past that it caused psychosis in ancient societies, perhaps some visitors have already read a quote in one of the chapters of Day of Wrath:

In my view, the psychohistory of Lloyd deMause is indeed a notable approach to history, in the sense in which Wikipedia uses the term “notability.” I am not personally involved in psychohistory—I am a mathematical sociologist—but here are some thoughts for your consideration.

Psychohistory as put forth by deMause and his many followers attempts to explain the pattern of changes in the incidence of child abuse in history. This is a perfectly respectable and non-fringe domain of scientific research. They argue that the incidence was much higher in the past, and that there has been an irregular history of improvement. This is a hypothesis that could just as easily have been framed by an epidemiologist as a psychologist. DeMause proposes a theory that society has gone through a series of stages in its treatment and discipline of children.

Again, this is well within the bounds of social science. None of these questions are pseudoscientific. Even the Centers for Disease Control in Atlanta, a bastion of scientific epidemiology, is interested in these kinds of hypotheses.

Except for some Amazonian tribes, in our time parents are no longer allowed to bury their kids alive. Ours is an infinitely more advanced psychoclass compared to the prehistoric psychoclass and even of many historical societies (think for example of what I said yesterday about the Aztecs).

But even in our western society it is taboo to talk about the abuse that some of our parents inflicted upon us as children. Except for what Stefan Molyneux said about his abusive Jewish mother, who among the racialists has raised the issue?

Not long ago I published a list of a hundred movies that could be seen in these times of pandemic. I forgot to mention Stand by Me, which contains a scene worth remembering (linked by the end of this post).

Interestingly, yesterday when I watched a DVD about LOTR’s The Two Towers I later learned that, in the extended edition of one of the films, a scene appears in which Faramir goes through a flashback which shows Boromir and his father Denethor, Steward of Gondor: who doesn’t love his youngest son.

The funny thing is that even in the non-extended version that we all saw on the big screen Gandalf tells Faramir the lie ‘Your father loves you’. Similarly, in Stand by Me Chris told Gordie a well-intentioned lie: that it was false that his father hated him.

While there is a chasm between the sacrificial practices of ancient times with the way some parents treat their children today, it is very rare to hear someone confess his pain as directly and emotionally as the boy Gordie did in the movie.

I try to break the taboo in my autobiographical books.

Categories
Child abuse Pre-Columbian America Psychohistory

A response to Rollory

This entry is a response to this comment. Bernardino de Sahagún, a scholar who wrote about the ancient Amerindian practices of the 16th century, wrote:

I do not believe that there is a heart so hard that when listening to such inhuman cruelty, and more than bestial and devilish such as the one described above, does not get touched and moved by the tears and horror and is appalled; and certainly it is lamentable and horrible to see that our human nature has come to such baseness and opprobrium that parents kill and eat their children, without thinking they were doing anything wrong.

Like Frazer, Sahagún organised his treatise in twelve books. I have two editions of it in my bookshelf. And also like Frazer, Sahagún recorded the Aztec practices but didn’t explain them. For me, a satisfactory explanation of killing and eating your own child requires a model of depth psychology that is unavailable to academic anthropologists, who resort to glib explanations.

What is a satisfactory explanation? In short, the one that generates a certain empathy for the victim and the victimizer. Sahagún, a European considered the first ethnologist in Mexico, had empathy with the victim but was clueless about the victimiser’s motives or drives.

Remember that it was a common practice in ancient Mexico to kill and eat your child. Anthropologists today are even worse than Sahagún: they don’t even condemn the Amerindian perpetrator because the coloured are sacred. They even call it ‘noble savage’.

Unlike anthropology, psychohistory sees the atrocious childrearing ways that the perp had suffered. The answer begins to be glimpsed, as what the Amerinds suffered yesterday is identical to what the serial killers of today suffered as children with their parents.

In other words, common childrearing practices in the past were as atrocious as childrearing practices of schizogenic parents today.

If empathy is not generated even with the perp to the extent of understanding his actions (‘put yourself in his shoes’, sandals or even bare feet in this case), the explanations are glib. This is true even when we rightly condemn the serial killer to the electric chair in the justice system.

All current anthropology, without exception, provides glib explanations when we ask ourselves ultimate questions. The toll of severe child abuse is verboten not only in academia, including psychiatry, but among commoners as well. Among racialists, only Stephan Molyneux spoke about it. If he already did a backup of all of his videos in Bitchute, see e.g. his video on Charles Manson’s childhood.

Categories
Child abuse Kali Yuga St Francis

The aetiology of psychosis

The state of collapse of the most elemental manhood among whites is evident even in the forums of white nationalism. In these times when anti-white psychosis is accelerating, who among the admins of the main forums has begun to speak of a revolution like the one Pierce imagined in The Turner Diaries?

What we have is the diametrically opposite to the Diaries: a negrolatric revolution that surprised everyone less those who see recent history as the explosion of the Christian sun in its secular, incendiary form: a red giant that I have called neochristianity, although it is more precise to see it as neofranciscanism.

Today, whites are literally in a state of mind that psychiatrists call flowery psychosis: a red giant that burns their entire culture and even their genes. Since my family’s psychosis started when I was about fifteen or sixteen years old and I have studied that family tragedy, I’d like to be translated already (only most of my fourth book and a censored version of the second I have published here).

The objective would be to show how a normal family can go crazy after one of the parents (in my case, my mother) began to infect other members of the family with her mental viruses. The first to become infected was my father, then some of my siblings (folie en famille) and even so-called mental health professionals subscribed to that destructive psychosis that had originally arisen from my mother’s mind.

Talking about this topic is taboo in every part of the world. Of the alluded admins, he who perhaps could do it would is Brad Griffin (Hunter Wallace), who apparently had a past similar to the one I describe above, but due to the taboo he won’t write on the subject. I can say the same of a pessimistic commenter that I’m not going to name. If he wrote his heart-breaking autobiography in several volumes, as I did, he would know that what happens to the white man and the tragedy of his teenage life are two sides of the same coin.

A tremendous mistake some fans of this site make is to see what I write here as the main thing, and to ignore my work in my mother tongue. The reality is the opposite: precisely because of having analysed the family tragedy I was able to see the western tragedy from my privileged perspective of a three-eyed crow: a fictional entity who has spent his life looking at the past to understand it.

But unlike television movies this crow does not have a single pupil. And how can I have it if only my first book and part of the fourth have been translated into English (the second, as I said, were only censored excerpts)?

Since From Jesus to Hitler is my magnum opus, today I will begin a new reading of the fifth to the eleventh books, as some passages still contain errors of syntax and harmonization with respect to the other books. Let’s not forget that I started writing them at the beginning of 1988 and that I barely finished this year. Harmonizing them so that they may eventually appear under a single cover is a laborious and time-consuming undertaking.

If there is anything in which From Jesus to Hitler can serve the white cause it is my overriding conclusion of such a spiritual odyssey: There is such a thing as voluntary surrender to evil and the current version of human beings, especially suicidal whites, are basically evil (hence my exterminationist recipe for creating a new mankind). In my life, my late father exemplified such evil by believing the slander my mother uttered against the teenager I was. But today all whites who believe Jesus’ slanders, be it in its religious or secular version—christian, neochristian or negrolatric neofranciscan—exemplify evil.

If one is unable to understand one’s family, one will be unable to understand why his race commits suicide. To speak bluntly, I don’t think that anyone throughout the movement called white nationalism understands his family. Otherwise a few of them would have already written tragic autobiographies like mine. Or if they have had kinder lives, they would have at least read a tragic autobiography like John Modrow’s in order to understand the aetiology of psychoses and eventually the folie en mass that the West suffers from.

Categories
Alice Miller Child abuse Racial right

Very important subject

I am perfectly aware that virtually all people of white nationalism, or even the alt-lite, are unaware of the psychic havoc caused by abusive parents. The exception, as I have said more than once, is Stefan Molyneux as we saw not long ago in his review of Joker.

What bothers me is that Molyneux’s mother is Jewish, and one would expect a non-Jew of the alt-lite or white nationalism to venture into a subject that I consider fundamental: the actual aetiology of mental illness (as opposed to the psychiatric lies that we hear in the universities).

If the Aryan world shakes off all Jewish influence, beginning of course with a rejection of Christianity and its secular offshoots, over time it will ‘translate’, into Aryan language, the most relevant findings of Jews on the trauma model of mental disorders. In the introduction to my work for a racialist audience I recently wrote for this site:

For now, suffice it to say that Alice Miller continued to mention Hitler under the influence of the official narrative in almost all of her texts, so I currently do not recommend any of her books. It is not that I have repudiated Miller’s findings: a Jewess who, although she suffered as a child in the Warsaw Ghetto, after changing her Jewish surname she never wanted to return to the shelter of her mother’s religion. But I must say that Miller’s psycho-biographical analysis of Hitler is based on the great lie of our times. The Swiss psychologist never considered such elemental issues as the fact that the Holocaust of millions of Ukrainians, largely perpetrated by Bolshevik Jews, caused the legitimate fear, and eventual reaction, of the German state.

But that is a separate matter. The issue that concerns us in Whispering Leaves is very different: the Dantesque hell that some parents put their children in: something that Miller got right.

The issue of abusive parents is not only taboo in all societies, as almost no one connects the dots between mental disorders and poor childrearing. Like the racial issue or the WWII theme, as to mental health the values have been completely reversed.

For example, two years ago, in March 2018, a commenter told me: ‘I have since forgiven my father and every other person of note in my life needing forgiveness’. But forgiveness is a Christian doctrine, although many secular psychotherapists also subscribe such unhealthy way of treating their patients. I answered: ‘I cannot speak for you because I ignore the full story. Generally, for an adult child to forgive a parent who never recognised his fault is psychological suicide. Alice Miller said that a child can excuse his parents, if they in their turn are prepared to recognise and admit to their failures. But the demand for forgiveness that we often encounter can pose a danger for healing. These are some quotable quotes from her’:

• It is the resentment of the past, we are told, that is making us ill. In those by now familiar groups in which addicts and their relations go into therapy together, the following belief is invariably expressed. Only when you have forgiven your parents for everything they did to you can you get well. Even if both your parents were alcoholic, even if they mistreated, confused, exploited, beat, and totally overloaded you, you must forgive.

• The majority of therapists work under the influence of destructive interpretations culled from both Western and Oriental religions, which preach forgiveness to the once-mistreated child. Thereby, they create a new vicious circle for people who, from their earliest years, have been caught in the vicious circle of pedagogy. For forgiveness does not resolve latent hatred and self-hatred but rather covers them up in a very dangerous way.

• In my own therapy it was my experience that it was precisely the opposite of forgiveness —namely, rebellion against mistreatment suffered, the recognition and condemnation of my parents’ destructive opinions and actions, and the articulation of my own needs— that ultimately freed me from the past.

• By refusing to forgive, I give up all illusions. 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.

• I cannot conceive of a society in which children are not mistreated, but respected and lovingly cared for, that would develop an ideology of forgiveness for incomprehensible cruelties. 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.

I’ve added italics in the above quotations.

Again, I am not asking my audience to read Miller. But my writings translate, and expand considerably, her findings for an Aryan audience. It is a very important subject for the simple reason that mental health matters, and racialists who have had mental issues are generally clueless about what caused them.

Categories
Child abuse Exterminationism Pandemics Third Reich Welfare of animals

My rider friends

‘Either Aryans will overcome their prejudice against genocide or self-exterminate’. —Tito Perdue

Today I woke up with a dream in which I mentioned to Jared Taylor and Greg Johnson my idea of dispatching the vast majority of mankind for ethical and aesthetic purposes. We were walking on a street in another country and in the end I got to fly, but when I was awake I realised that I didn’t see either of them in the dream: I was talking to them but they were not actually physically there.

Several times I have been told in this blog that I am not talking to myself. But obviously I am, as no one feels the four words as vehemently as I do.

‘Eliminate all unnecessary suffering’ is a call for exterminationism, as the misnamed Homo sapiens is causing hell in many species not only of animals but among themselves, even from parents to children (the subject of my eleven books).

The vast majority of my visitors have not been through hell. And those who have crossed there dissociate everything and do not write a single post about their experiences (I could mention three of them by real name, but I won’t).

Speaking of the four words this day I leafed through two articles, one from Occidental Dissent and the other from Unz Review, which touch on the subject of unnecessary animal torment. I was disgusted in the latter by some things I read in the comments section, and I can only think of the chasm between these Neanderthals and the Third Reich regarding eliminating unnecessary suffering.

Even if the coronavirus kills the same number of humans of the 1918-1920 influenza, that would only represent a very small fraction of the number that must die this century for survivors to understand the need to implement the four words on earth. Fortunately the four horsemen alluded to in my previous posts will help me in this purpose, even if I also die.

Categories
Autobiography Child abuse Racial right

Christmas alone

I did not share the Christmas table yesterday and today with what is left of my family after a couple of deaths. And how could I do it if they give me what I call ‘air treatment’?

My so-called family has learnt that I’ve been writing for the last few decades. I have let them know that I write about them in the first comprehensive autobiography of a family tragedy that has been written in history. Only my nephew Cristóbal, when he was six years old, was interested in what I was doing. He is now a degenerate teenager, like the rest of my nephews (we live in the most degenerate era of the West). Although as a child he used to ask me how my literary project was going, now, a decade later, he never does it.

Before my biological family I am air, I was air, and I will continue to be treated as air: they transparent me in their minds as if I were not present.

As I have already confessed on this site, most of my life I thought that Jesus of Nazareth had not only existed, but that he was a special being. It was precisely the tragedy in such a Catholic family that killed two people and left me reduced to a kind of three-eyed crow that moved me to question my parents’ religion.

This is something that many white nationalists fail to do for the simple fact that they have not faced tragedies as directly as I have. When I mentioned last year that one of my first cousins strangled his daughter and then hanged himself, even that event seems minor compared to what appears in my first ten books.

I will not explain the details of the family events here. I leave that to my readers once the English translations begin to be available as hard copies. But the point is that, as some may understand, such events force the victim to question everything hold sacred.

Since entangled in a tree I’ve spent my life ‘seeing’ the past to understand the present, I’ve developed the talent of being honest with the bare facts. This is the starting point to understand other issues. If one is honest at the biographical level, one becomes honest at the historical level, as history is simply the sum of the biographies of a conglomerate of people.

History and biography (or autobiography) are interconnected. Once one survives the lies of a family (see the context of this quote [1]: here) it’s easier to see the historical lies. Thus, if I cannot sit at the Christmas table it’s because what is left of my family plays what I call the perverse game of the happy family. (Don’t be surprised that many people get depressed in the Christmas season: playing that perverse game in dysfunctional families causes depression in the most honest or sensitive members.)

I would say the same about many white nationalists. In the Christmas season they play the perverse game of a happy culture, as if the celebration of the Jew Jesus was something good for the 14 words, noble and to be celebrated.

Actually, celebrating the birth of a fictional Jew, or not condemning it openly [2], lays the foundation for Aryan decline. What we should celebrate is the birth of Leonidas, Hermann and Uncle Adolf. The mere fact that millions of whites ignore who Leonidas and Hermann were, or that they have believed the propaganda that demonises the uncle, shows how lost the fair race is.

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(1) ‘This other girl is powerless, helpless, trapped, and overwhelmed. She can’t stop the abuse, she can’t escape it, and she can’t predict it. She is trapped in her family’s societal denial, her age, threats, physical violence, family rules and double binds. How does the little girl cope?’ (a quotation from my only book that has been translated).

(2) See for example the lukewarmness of the articles in this Christmas that appear in Counter-Currents, the ‘secular’ webzine of white nationalism (1, 2, 3, 4 and 5).

Categories
Autobiography Child abuse

Aborted prologue to the English edition *

My books deal with a subject that is the greatest taboo of all. Throughout human history no society has awakened to the fact that, in our species, some parents drive their children mad. Demonstrating this requires not only the creation of a new literary genre, but that dense autobiographies such as this one multiply in posterity.

That said, I must confess that I didn’t fully understand what had happened in my family until, at the end of 2008, I finished Hojas Susurrantes and in my researches I changed the subject radically: from child abuse to mass migration of Muslims into Europe. It was only in the following years when, after discovering racialist intellectuals on the internet, I located the tragedy of my family from a new paradigm. The best way to crack an annoying cipher is to abandon it for a good season and re-approach it from a broader meta-perspective on what is happening in the world.

My fundamental discrepancy with the internet movement known as ‘white nationalism’ is the diagnosis of the darkest hour in the West. White nationalists blame the Jewish quarter of white decline. I blame the Aryans themselves who let Jewry appropriate their media and a good part of the academic and financial sectors of the West, especially in the United States.

The tragedy in my family began when, during my adolescence, my mother went crazy and began to think and say crazy things about me. But that was not what destroyed the teenager I was. What destroyed him was that, over time, my father began to believe those slanders to the point of traumatising me in the most heartbreaking way you can imagine. Over the years, my parents would do the same to my sister, who now rests in peace.

Similarly, white people began to believe the lies of the New Testament two millennia ago, a process that culminated in the destruction of the classical world and, even after the Middle Ages, in an inverse narrative about who were the martyrs and the perpetrators. (See the literature that I mention in the Introduction after this foreword.) What I want to arrive at is a very simple concept. We should not blame St. Paul so much for having burned ‘pagan’ books in Ephesus but the imbecile whites who followed his example to the degree of destroying, from the 4th to the 6th century, the Greco-Roman world. If the traitor is worse than the subversive, in our times the Aryan who subscribes to the axiological system of the Bible—ethnocentrism for me but out-group altruism for thee—is worse than the Jew.

The following is the scheme of how some parents drive their children mad. On the one hand, there is the donor who provides a delusional system (your son is the devil); on the other, the receiver that over time subscribes to such a system. In my family the great crime was committed by my father, for having swallowed a slanderous vision of his eldest son. In this dynamic of folie à deux the role of the receiver is what counts most. Otherwise, the spouse who raves about her child would simply be considered the nutty of the family. Although having such a mother would harm the son’s morale, she wouldn’t destroy it by herself. It is the shared madness between wife and husband that makes the couple soul murderers.

In the same way, Jewry alone would not be able to destroy the West. The Aryans are responsible for believing the lies of the Jews, beginning with the ethics advocated by the New Testament (out-group altruism) and ending in the secular subversion we see in Hollywood and the American media.

Remember that I didn’t fully understand what happened in my family until I abandoned the subject for a few years, to reopen it after I became much more mature. I suggest that the nationalists read my texts to find, in them, a kind of microcosm of what has been happening, on another scale, in the West. Just as I didn’t understand myself until I turned to other interests, the nationalists would understand better if they could take an intellectual vacation. By reading my eleven books, they would learn that what happens in some families is worse than the Holocaust tall stories with which the Jews have demoralised us.

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(*) Today I declined to include, in my translation of the first book of Hojas Susurrantes, this text and preferred to put it here.