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Category: Psychiatry

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Benjamin (commenter) Child abuse Psychiatry

Consumption, 8

The volume I have of Consumption comprises two books. Today, I read from chapter 19 to the end of the first book: the narrative of what happened to Benjamin at the age of seventeen, when, alarmed by what I quoted in the previous instalment of this series, he was admitted to Brookside, a psychiatric unit for adolescents.

It is vital to understand the real cause of the psychosis, as it is very rare to find someone who knows that psychiatry is as pseudoscientific as, say, parapsychology or ufology. For example, it is curious that Ben’s father, the person most responsible for his son’s mental catastrophe, was as clueless about his role as my mother was when she destroyed my life, also at the age of seventeen. Ben’s father even gave his son a book to read during the year he was hospitalised in the Brookside clinic, The Noonday Demon: a book that promotes the accepted pseudoscience (and about which I wrote a review that can serve as an introduction to debunking the medical model in favour of the trauma model).

But back to the final chapters of the first book of Consumption. It is very impressive to read, in Benjamin’s prose, that some of the other teenagers who were admitted to Brookside also told terrible stories about their pasts that would easily validate the trauma model for anyone with a minimum degree of empathy. But that’s not what the orthodox psychiatrist sells us to understand these young self-harmers committed in Brookside, some even in their early or middle teens. In the words of Ben’s father:

“See, you might think that,” my Dad said, “but no, the science is clear. You see, there are such things in the brain as monoamine neurotransmitters. Little grouped rings of amino acids which control the regulation of emotions, for example, dopamine and serotonin. In your case, you were born with the genes that put you at risk of producing too little serotonin, which in turn leads to your adolescent Depression, which is where your tablets come in. You take daily SSRIs, which stands for Selective Serotonin Reuptake Inhibitors. The medications in the tablets increase the amount of serotonin in your brain by limiting its reabsorption, thus keeping your mood stable. It’s important that you keep taking them, as the doctor says. They’ve studied this area and are professionals, and they know what’s best for you.”

One of the things Benjamin recounts in these chapters is that, after he left Brookside at the age of eighteen, he kept in touch with the teenage friends he made there and, to his dismay, even though they used to take their psychiatric meds several of them committed suicide, one as late as 2005.

As had happened to me on the other side of the Atlantic, no one had wanted to listen to them: something that results in a devastating panic of the inner self that sometimes leads to dire consequences. I have said it before and it is worth repeating ad infinitum and ad nauseam: the psychological havoc that abusive parents cause to their offspring is the greatest taboo of the human species. We can already imagine why a profession that shares this universal taboo can only be iatrogenic, in that its “treatments”—drugs, electroshock or even lobotomy—only victimise the victim again. This absolute lack of empathy, even to listen, prompted Benjamin to write retrospectively about his seventeen years: “…the new world I was gradually being exposed to proving far darker and more horrific than I had ever realised, far from the idyllic countryside of my early years”.

Making friends at Brookside and, in a way, recognising himself in them began to serve Ben as a form of therapy, although not in the sense that the professionals expected (the doctors made him take antidepressants) but because of the similarities with these teenagers’ family tragedies. Alas, this healthy coexistence with other teens was brutally interrupted when his parents visited him at Brookside bringing with them… the Pakistani lad who had molested Ben! Although his parents’ intentions in bringing Tariq weren’t malicious, their lack of empathy reminded me of an anecdote related to a school where I was tormented. Although it was not sexual abuse in my case, what is striking is the absolute disconnect between both families in terms of the most basic communication with the affected person.

The visit proved fateful. Not long after, in a psychotic episode triggered by Benjamin feeling betrayed for having brought Tariq along, instead of hating the perpetrators, in Brookside he re-directed the rage towards himself inflicting terrible self-harm. The ultimate cause of such pathological transference is that society doesn’t allow the victim to speak out his or her emotions (i.e., blame the guilty parties) and the rage is redirected.

In front of his father during one of his visits, Benjamin collapsed because of the horrific things he had done to his body. I will refrain from detailing them, but it was something like a pressure cooker that society, with its Fourth Commandment to honour one’s father, puts a lid on. If that pressure cooker had an escape valve instead of the horrendous repression that caused the psychoses of the Brookside teenagers, we would have common neuroses. But since it is the most potent taboo of the human mind, society insists on its lid until the pressure cooker explodes, dirtying the entire kitchen and even leaving a hole in the ceiling due to the tremendous force with which the metal lid was thrown.

Ben’s self-harm was this time so severe that he had to be taken from Brookside to an emergency hospital, where, in the operating theatre and under general anaesthesia, the surgeons had to remove flesh from one of his legs in a desperate attempt to avoid amputating an arm that had become gangrenous due to his self-harm. The curious thing is that right before the operation, when the doctors told him he could lose his arm, Benjamin didn’t care at all about it: he only cared about the (paranoid) guilt that his family and the System had instilled in his mind (cf. the final words on page 136 of the March 2025 edition). That sense of abysmal guilt is why he had self-harmed.

By then, Benjamin was allowed by the Brookside staff to visit his parents on weekends. If mental health professionals were run by proponents of the trauma model that would never, ever be allowed because his parents would go back to their old ways and that would ensure a relapse (think of something similar to taking Tariq to Brookside but every weekend)! And although I won’t recount the anecdote that was exactly what happened. To boot, after his father abused his son again the iatrogenic profession re-victimised him in the most humiliating and hurtful way:

“Thank you for arranging this [meeting]. Well, it’s my Dad; he’s been making my life really difficult at home. He keeps patronising me and getting at me like he doesn’t like me very much, and my Mum’s not stopping him…”

“Stop right there”, the doctor said with an incredulous expression, interrupting me, “So are you saying to me that you think your father is responsible for your selfinjuring behaviour recently?” to which I replied, “Um, yes, to a degree, I mean, it’s other stuff I’m sad about, but he’s not helping, and he keeps shouting at me and bossing me about, and he bins my stuff” […].

“You see, Benjamin. Listen to your father and mother. They know what’s best for you, and try not to be difficult at home, ok? Sometimes, when we get ill, we can think people are persecuting us, when they really aren’t, and it can feel very real at times.”

Remember what I said not long ago, that according to Tom Szasz psychiatry is a kind of pediatrics because it treats adults as if they were children? What the doctor did is precisely what Alice Miller called “poisonous pedagogy”.

To which, horrified, I responded with “but… but… I’m not lying to you, doctor. It’s true; he does bully me in the house. Please, Mum, Mum, say something!” The doctor appeared put out at this point and a little flustered. Evidently, he had not been expecting my interruption. “Benjamin, keep your voice down, please. Don’t get excited!”

My mother spoke up at this point, in surprising solidarity, “Well, sometimes, you know what it’s like with two men in the house; they come to loggerheads with each other, and Benjamin’s Dad isn’t always the most patient with him…” to which my father gave the sharp retort, “Mary!” and the doctor himself, keen to get on with the meeting, brushed this new response aside, as if he hadn’t heard, and did not pause to write it down as he had done with my own responses.

He went on, “Ok, let’s keep on the point now, as it’s easy to drift off topic. I think what we’re going to do is re-evaluate Benjamin’s diagnosis from now on. It seems Borderline Personality Disorder may not be the whole picture. Just as a preliminary hypothesis, I suggest a co-morbidity of Paranoid Personality Disorder. It’s clear from what Benjamin’s saying about his father that he’s suffering from at least some paranoid symptoms.”

Note that the shrink doctor never witnessed what was happening at home. Only by living with them would he have seen the family dynamics! He’s diagnosing paranoia simply because he sides with the father, like a lawyer with his corrupt client. This is what happened to me at seventeen on the other side of the Atlantic.

He turned to specifically address me. “What we’re going to do now is keep you on your 60mg of Citalopram daily, but in addition to that we’re starting you on a course of Olanzapine, it’s one of the newer atypical antipsychotic mood stabilisers. We’ve had very good results from the clinical trials, and we think it’ll help sort out your paranoid delusions. You take one tablet a day, at 10mg, just as a starting dose, and we’ll see if we should increase it from there.”

“But why are you doing this?!” I called to the psychiatrist, “I’m telling you the truth!” Momentarily, he paused again, taken aback, then turned, as if personally insulted, and motioned to the nurse next to him, saying, “Nurse, it seems Benjamin is becoming agitated; please could you ask him to leave the meeting room” and, before I could say anything else to defend myself, or to contest the decision, and in front of both my parents, I was motioned again to my feet, and boldly escorted out of the room, back to my bedroom to “calm down”.

It was as if a rug had been pulled out from under me. How could my Dad lie like that, right in front of my face? Why couldn’t he just acknowledge it and be more patient around me? After all, my room was hardly untidy [his father’s claim to constantly intrude in his room—Ed.], and, if anything, he was just finding something to do since retiring, himself the obsessive one. And why did the doctor side with him when I told him Dad had been hurting my feelings and side with him from the get-go, really? Why wasn’t I allowed to say my piece? Why was it his word over mine, automatically?! And was I really paranoid?

I didn’t think so, pleased a little that at least my Mum had come to a partial defence of me, impotent though it was. And curse that doctor for not listening to me, the arrogant swine! I hated him. I hated all of the staff. And, more than anything, a deep humiliation settled over me, peaked and incensed, insulted to my core…

Benjamin’s reaction was brutal. Not long after, he began biting his arm like a rabid dog, tearing off pieces of living tissue that had not yet healed from the operation, in such a horrible way that “an experienced surgeon… vomited on the floor, excusing himself from the scene in panic”.

“My forearm wound twenty years later, November 2024” [page 151 of his book. Consumption, by the way, has been dedicated to… yours truly!].

One might think that after such volcanic outbursts of psychosis, a sane father might begin to become a little more humble and listen to his son for the first time in his life.

But that doesn’t happen with narcissistic parents: a form of self-righteousness to the nth degree (the unforgivable sin of pride in Christian terms)! That’s why these parents are so destructive. In fact, if my trilogy were ever to be published under a single cover, I would love for the publisher to use the title of the first volume, Hojas Susurrantes, as I explain there that the title refers to a dream I had in which, at last, the adolescent I once was was able to communicate with his dearest dad…

Categories
Benjamin (commenter) Psychiatry Psychohistory

Consumption, 7

Editor’s note:

I have said that understanding individual psychoses might provide the key to understanding the folie en masse, also called “mass formation”, which currently affects virtually all Westerners. In short, if a child named Ben is treated like shit by his parents, schoolmates and even mental health professionals throughout his formative years when his brain is still malleable, his inner self will internalise it (“I am Evil”) and, out of self-hatred, he will self-harm. I am oversimplifying an extremely complex process of erosion of the inner self that takes years, but that’s basically what it is.

The point I am trying to make is that this can also be done to an entire society. If, since 1945, virtually every Westerner has been brainwashed with propaganda that paints the Nazis in the blackest possible light, over time millions of Aryans will internalise the propaganda with such violence (“we whites are Evil”) that their ethnosuicide will become as natural as self-harming. That is why to save the West it is so crucial to un-demonise Hitler: the goal of this website.

Today, as I was resuming the reading of Benjamin’s book, I had to pause because of a serious episode of self-harm when he used to go to school, so much so that his parents had to take him to the hospital in an emergency. I tend to faint at graphic descriptions of blood, to the extent that I cannot watch images of surgeries in operating theatres. So I felt dizzy while reading chapter 18 of Consumption and I had to stop immediately to tidy my room (I am using a new wardrobe that the carpenter built for me yesterday and today) before continuing with my reading.

Remember that I was born in a place where half a millennium ago millions of Indians still practised ritual self-harm. If studying the Mesoamerican world is shocking, even more shocking is the absolute stubbornness of family members, friends, loved ones, and even mental health professionals in grasping the most basic fact: the problem of millions of children like Ben has been purely existential, not biomedical.

Priests performing a ritual of self-harming with bone awls (Codex Tudela, drawing by Fernando Carrizosa).

The Mesoamerican Indians belonged to a lower psychoclass than the Iberian conquerors. But that doesn’t mean that these conquerors were already the overmen Hitler dreamed of. Compared to him, the 16th-century Spanish and Portuguese belonged to a lower psychoclass. So the criticism that a conquistador might make of the psychologically dissociated indigenous people can also be made by me of the contemporary Westerner, insofar as I have developed more empathy than most of them. Otherwise the average Westerner would understand boys like Ben (see my Day of Wrath to better understand the concept of psychoclasses: it has to do with the historical development of empathy in a process that Lloyd deMause calls psychogenesis).

The boy Ben, for example, should have been helped with the most basic empathy, but that could only have been done by a “helping witness” (I explained that concept by Alice Miller a few posts ago). In a case like Benjamin’s, it was as surrealistically idiotic to treat his body with antidepressants as, say, prescribing Prozac to you if your child has been kidnapped and no one wants to help you rescue her!

It seems unbelievable but in this crazy world that is basically how psychiatry works!, although there are notable psychiatrists who have detected the madness of their profession and have dedicated their lives to debunking it. Although I am not one of them, I contributed to this debunking with my original article on the “irrefutable hypothesis” in biological psychiatry: a violation of the principle of falsifiability devised by Karl Popper to distinguish between science and pseudoscience.

Benjamin wrote:

 

______ 卐 ______

 

Chapter Eighteen

By the summer of 2001, my overt depression had not lifted. In the house, Dad was increasingly bad-tempered. As with Gerald, he could not understand why I would not pull together, seeing as I had been awarded my tablets by the psychiatrist, which I would still take daily. More and more, I would be tearful and morose, and more and more, he would become snappy with me or overbearing, criticising my choice of fashion or that I had not changed my clothes often enough and excessively reminding me to do my homework, even as I struggled to get homework finished in good time, and frequently left it until the last moment (though in English and Philosophy, I was still top of the class and received steady A-grade marks).

In Philosophy I would learn about Socrates’ moral and ethical dialogues and the theory of virtue and knowledge in the pursuit of eudaimonia (happiness), the epistemology of Plato and his theory of Forms, and Aristotle’s teleological causes and his works on the soul, followed by the writings of Thomas Aquinas and his arguments for the existence of God, moving on into John Locke’s evaluation of the self, David Hume’s empiricism and the theory of compatibilism the takes causal determinism as fully compatible with human free will, the metaphysical idealism of Bishop Berkeley and the mind-body dualism of René Descartes, the utilitarianism of Jeremy Bentham and John Stuart Mill, and then Immanuel Kant’s categorical imperative and his distinguishing between phenomena and noumena, and Arthur Schopenhauer’s transcendental idealism and the arguments on morality, finishing with Richard Swinburne’s substance dualism and Christian apologetics, and Gottfried Wilhelm Leibnitz’ theory of the best of all possible worlds, addressing theodicy, the problem of the existence of evil.

My mind was filled with complicated philosophical ideas, dwelling on ethics, good and evil, and ways to define and delineate the world around me, and indeed myself. My study of English literature complemented this intensity with an evaluation of the Romantic poets Coleridge, Shelley, Byron, Blake and Keats, with an emphasis on contemplations of nature, imagination, and the sublime, and an often-melancholic display of open emotion weaved through beautiful natural world similes and metaphors for the changing seasons and life and death. Later, I would study the poetry of Thomas Hardy and other poets writing on the First World War, the mystical symbolism of William Butler Yeats’ later work and the modernist desolation and despair of T.S. Eliot in The Waste Land and The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock, and, particularly, Philip Larkin, in detail, dwelling on his often-ironic depictions of everyday life, a sad fatalism at a changing world now unfamiliar to him, his colloquial lyricism displaying a great, mournful discontent at the loss of an England he once knew.

As the school year ended, I returned to my house and bedroom. I now moved downstairs into the craft room full-time. I would barely leave my room, sat sadly in the corner, trying to read, or write a poem inspired by the Romantic poets I had read at school, lonely and without company. Often, I would self-harm, making less effort than I once did to shield myself from discovery, increasingly morose and fatalistic, having given up on trying to hide how I felt and forgoing the efforts I once made to bandage myself, then only to ward off the attention of others, now simply letting the blood soak into my clothes, or wiping it onto my bathroom towel.

It was a cold, wet summer for that time of year, and I had no cause to be outside, barely communicating, bar once in a brief phone call from Ali to the blocky blue mobile phone I now carried, sitting in silence most days on my painting desk. My father had become bossy with me, impatient, frustrated by tears, and somehow embarrassed by me and my lack of enthusiasm, and, as my mother said to me later, “he doesn’t understand illness.” As for the nature of my self-harming itself, I took less caution now and would press deeper with my craft scalpel, running furrows into myself where once there had been scratches, re-opening sealing wounds, and often approaching the same spot again and again until the skin was split wide, in agony, damaged beyond all repair. As an adult now, my body is wrecked, almost all of my body at one time or other attacked by me, crisscrossed with multiple pink and white lines of rubbery scar tissue from some appalling wounds and insensate, courtesy of the depth and regularity of my injuries, and the protracted loss of nerves, some taking many years to grow back partially. These days, feeling obliged for other’s sake as much as to ward off inconvenient questions, knowing the gist of them far in advance, I wear long-sleeved shirts exclusively and often have recourse to pull my sleeves right down to further mask the many black ink tattoos I added in foolishness as an adult to try and hide the extent of the injured skin (tattoos do not settle well on scar tissue) themselves garish mutilation, fading into a maze of jaded lines and mounds and other patches of traumatised tissue. I will never look the same again.

And so it was, finally, in terrible sadness (‘Depression’ is an ugly, barren word) that, feeling the pain of loneliness had reached its nadir, and seeing no future for myself, despite my first-year grades, and holding no past life of any quality or wholesomeness, that I took the pair of taxidermied Tiger Shark jaws that I had bought as a souvenir on my last diving trip, and, snapping the crescent-shaped maxilla in half with a pair of hobby pliers, took the piece of cartilage, filled with rows of razor-sharp serrated teeth, curved into squat ‘s’ shapes, and pressed them to my throat, on the inner right-hand side of my neck above the jugular vein and carotid artery, and began to saw, slicing into my sensitive tissue until the blood trickled in gleaming rows down my shoulder and onto my chest, in swift, precise repetitions, not to wound myself away this time, but quick and resolute in my desire for oblivion. My parents were in the house, but I could not care, and I knew I could act swiftly if I wanted to (or so I thought). But, as the wounds began to open, and sting, and as more blood emerged, I began to panic, the biological tool slicked in my hand, and hard to manoeuvre, and the wound grisly, little thick pieces of skin coated in my neck hair clogging against the teeth of the instrument, some snapping off at the tips from my angle of attack, and falling to be lost on the floor. I called out, in a loud moan of pain, and collapsed into my chair, nauseous and dim in my head, and my mother, hearing suddenly a great noise from next door, rushed into the room and gasped in abject horror.

“Benjamin!!! Oh God, Oh God, what have you done?!” and then to my father, “Billy! Quick! He’s cut his neck, and he’s bleeding badly! Get him in the car, quickly! We need to take him to the surgery!” and my father, impatient as always, but genuinely shocked too, moved into the room, and announced sharply, “sh*t! f**king hell!” (I had never heard him swear before), seeming very angry, but also concerned, as he picked me up, my mother rushing to apply gauze from her medicine cabinet to my neck and to stop the bleeding, as my head lolled limp to the side, my mouth dribbling slightly and my tongue poking out, and eyes closed, in despair at the world as much as in fading consciousness, the tool dropped from my hand now, and sitting on the floor red and gleaming, in a pile of bloody droplets.

I was sped down to the surgery in my father’s Favorit, and I do not remember the journey nor being there, but when next I felt clear again, I was at home, the same evening, and my neck was bandaged, the blood scrubbed from what was now in these years a laminate wood-look floor. All I felt was stiffness from bruising and a sharp, stinging scratch every time I moved my head from the thick bandages coating the surgical sutures and steri-strips all across my inner neck. I cannot remember what my parents said or what I replied with. Still, my mother sat with me that evening in my room, and, later, before bed, a priest was called to visit me, Father Brian O’Shea, who sat and chatted with me a while, asking what was on my mind (to which I could not reply) and saying prayers together, giving me a blessing before leaving, his face and manner kind but concerned.

It was not long before my psychiatrist was made aware, and I was soon called to a meeting with him with my mother by my side. “It’s a shame, but it’s clear what we’re doing isn’t quite enough so far,” he said, his tone distant and clinical and not particularly sympathetic, as if dealing with the return of a defective piece of machinery and not an innocent teenager in some emotional distress, “Benjamin will need a more intensive service. Now, I’ve contacted The Linden Centre, but currently, they don’t take on adolescents. I recommend Brookside Child and Adolescent Inpatient Unit to you. It’s a residential unit based in Goodmayes, in East London. I don’t know it personally, but the recommendations say their care is very effective. I’ve made some phone calls with the staff there, and you should drop Benjamin down this weekend, if possible. He may have to be there for over a month.”

My mother, not knowing any different and perhaps keen to have me out of the house for a little while (a tacit suspicion on my part), agreed, thanking the doctor and busying us out of the room, and for my part I remained silent, unsure now of what to say, finding the doctor useless and unempathetic to talk to (it took me over twenty years of interactions to fully understand that psychiatrists are not therapeutic listeners [emphasis by Ed.], and one should not expect from them what one would hope to receive from a compassionate psychologist), and fearful now, knowing I was to be taken somewhere completely new, where I would be away from my parents and my schooling, terrified that I would be in trouble for missing my lessons, having never skipped even a whole day before in my life, sad that I would not get to complete what I was studying, and prepare appropriately for my A2 exams, and that my hopes of university would be jeopardised on account of it. When I got home, I cried even more, in abject misery and worry, but I had no choice. The doctor had decided for me, and my mother (and later father) agreed. “It’ll be ok”, they said to me, “It’ll only be for a couple of weeks, and then, before you know it, you’ll be all better, just like the doctor says.”

Categories
Benjamin (commenter) Psychiatry

Consumption, 5

Chapter Seventeen

My mind finally gave way a little way through the school year 2001. I had lasted as long as I could. My entire life was not one of much pleasure; it was just brief bursts of love in an otherwise barren tableau of shaming and shame. My pride in myself had never been able to develop, my confidence never given a chance to bloom, held back by cruel hands and eyes, sharp mouths, and the dispassion and dismissal of arrogant, narcissistic parents. But I did not think like that. All I could see, all of a sudden, and obsessively so, was my own fault and my own failings. My fundamental inadequacy was clear to me, and the only conscience that recognised an ‘I’ at all anymore exacerbated to a punishing inquisitor, sceptical of my abilities, suspicious of my every action, and with no pity for mistakes or petty misdemeanours.

So it was that, quietly, unannounced, and – perhaps unexpectedly and unbelievably – with no external prompting or copycat inspiration, purely of my own isolated volition, that I took the thin, technical craft knife, sharp as a scalpel, from my Games Workshop hobby kits, and began to scrape at myself, in the evenings late on after school, always careful to layer my toilet tissues first and to clean myself thoroughly so no one would know, a long superficial slit at a time, across my inner thighs, or my chest, or down to my private area, and my feet, and then back onto my right arm above the cuff of my school shirt, padding the tissues until the blood had ceased to trickle, tears in distant eyes, open and unblinking, and the softest mists inside. Gone. I wasn’t playing sports that year and was not required to undress for any school gym or athletics field, so I could always pass unseen. Plasters were a luxury, and I preferred the process to hurt. All because I was nothing, a bad nothing. In the head, the me that was Benjamin became an “it”, sensing myself in the third person, dehumanising myself, and no longer in recognition of the need to protect my body, wishing more than anything to whittle it away, this stuff, a piecemeal unravelling into oblivion, knife cut by knife cut, expressing how little and worthless I was in a more suitable presentation, red and inconsequential, and so what for the sensation? I was just meat. For all the terrible things I was and had done (which I liked to search for at length, with some imagination, writing down in my textbooks to assist, in case I ‘got off the hook’ and forgot). It was not that I was compelled nor impulsive. Still, slowly, methodically, and regularly, I knew what had to be done, as if a dark duty, the best I could do by moral choice to make up to the world, taking all this stupid, idiotic flesh and damaging it beyond repair. If I did not keep to this, I assured myself it would be worse for me later. A frigid discipline, I was a sadist to my trembling form. No one else was involved in this disgraceful, unrepented error, so no one else needed to know.

Still, it was impossible after a while to hide. A boy at school in my senior dorm, I forget which one (perhaps Josh, my roommate) spotted that my shirt was sticking to me one day and that I seemed stiff and laboured in breath, as if disguising discomfort, and uncovered the fact that I had been, as the popular idiom goes ‘cutting myself’. The clear fluids leaking from the infected wounds on my arm worried him terribly, and he encouraged me in horror and distaste to tell one of my parents, or he would have to tell someone.

So I told them, discussing the matter with my mother in the car one day, as best I could, downplaying the extent of my wounds and how long I had been pursuing this action. I told her I was sad, though, very sad. I didn’t want to show her at all. Still, the expression on her face, a gasp of total horror when she saw my skin underneath, rendered it too late to brush her aside or claim that the situation was not serious, much as I wished I could have kept my act up with more subtlety, and continued to fade unopposed, pulled apart into darkness. I’m not sure what she said to my father. He did not discuss the matter with me in person, his workload heavier in those years, often away for longer at weekends, and distant in the house, drained and tired by a massive joint effort with the European Space Agency to contribute to the NASA Mars probes, a final project with his Nortel workmates before his retirement, and based now in Maidstone, Kent, an even longer drive away, the latter company running into financial difficulties internally, and much stress in the office.

I was informed by my mother the day after that an appointment had been made for me with the local GP to examine my body and have a word with me. I felt dead as I filed into the familiar Writtle surgery. Nothing was clear to me anymore. In my own words, I stated to the doctor, “I’ve been hurting my body. And crying a lot, too.” And then I proceeded again to try and minimise, putting on a false smile and attempting to tell a joke, repeating to him, “It’s not that bad” and “I don’t know why I’m upset, must just be tiredness”, desperate not to have to speak any longer. Doctor Bailey, a long-term friend of the family who had treated me since I was an infant, did not seem so easily pacified, though. That same day, a referral was made to psychiatric practice on Broomfield Road, at the Child and Adolescent Service building (now Community Health Services), just down the road from the King Edward IV Grammar School and not far from the nursery I had briefly attended many years before. I was to meet with the doctor there as soon as possible, so how to best help me could be decided. Politely, I thanked the doctor and his assistant for examining me, for patching up my many wounds, and for providing antibiotics, and then I left again. I was unsure all of a sudden, finding myself in too deep and wishing more than anything that they would forget about me. […]

The meeting with the psychiatrist was brief and uneventful. He sat in a chair opposite mine on the upstairs floor, the room otherwise empty and forgettable, and asked me what had been going on. “I don’t know,” I said, “I’m just very sad, that’s all” He nodded. “And how long have you been doing this for?” […]

“Oh, I haven’t been cutting myself long,” I told him, “just for a while”, leaving my answer vague, unsure as to what he might do and if I would get in trouble for answering him. “OK,” he said, making another note. “The GP told me it’s superficial. It’s a common enough problem these days. Some people just get the urge to draw a bit of attention to themselves. It’s something that can be worked on. Anyway, go on…” […]

I told him, “I don’t like the Winter weather either. It’s so dark and cheerless, and it rains all the time. I wish it were Spring again. I was happier in Spring.” “Is that right?” he said, looking up at me suddenly from his notepad. […]

Presently, the interview ended. “I’ll tell you what’s going to happen”, the doctor said, “I think you need some medication to make you better. It sounds like you’re suffering from what might be Depression with a Seasonally Affective Disorder component. I’m going to write a note to your GP, and he’ll provide you with some tablets which will help you. The medication is called Citalopram. It’s a recent development and is very effective for your symptoms. Take one 10mg tablet daily with a glass of water as soon as you wake up, and we’ll continue to monitor your progress every few months.” He finished speaking and motioned for me to rise.

Not knowing what else to say, I thanked the doctor and headed out the door to my mother’s car outside to pop home quickly and change into my school clothes so as not to miss afternoon lessons. Later that day, my mother went down to the pharmacy on Writtle Green and handed in my prescription, and soon enough, the carton was in my hands. Knowing something had been done, I felt a little happier and shrugged regardless. It was a busy school year, and my AS levels demanded much attention. If the tablets could help me, all for the better. At least, I thought, they can’t do any harm. From then on, dutifully, my father would hand me a small tablet every morning, and I would swallow it straight down with water, this tiny white pill, slightly sweet on my tongue.

 

______ 卐 ______

 

The book of Benjamin can be obtained here!

Categories
Psychiatry Psychology

Membrane

This is a postscript to what I said yesterday.

Mexican intellectuals, whether Jewish or white Iberian, are not the only narcissist intellectuals whose ‘semi-permeable membrane’ prevents them from the most elementary cognitive dissonance (only the media narrative enters their minds, not the bare facts about the Ukrainian war). Europe is also plagued by narcissistic pundits, who are now in a state of great bewilderment due to the start of negotiations between Putin and Trump. Since their membrane allows only positive feedback all they can do, as Alexander Mercouris said yesterday, is to fall into a level of ‘anger, rage, hysteria and panic’. After all, the Americans and the Russians, at last, begin to resume diplomatic relations! (this was never a war between Ukraine and Russia, but between the US-led NATO and Russia).

I reiterate what I said yesterday. Understanding psychosis in the most severe psychiatric cases, even if we are talking about schizophrenia, is fundamental to understanding the membrane of ‘normal’ people.

Categories
Benjamin (commenter) Psychiatry Welfare of animals

Dear César,

Good evening. I’m about to go to bed. I have a few few minutes after finishing a painting though, and not much else to get on with so I went over to The Unz Review. It’s been months since I’ve been able to stomach any of the articles on there. I open it up and shut it in seconds each time.

I see Jared Taylor has a piece on a liberal genetics scientist from Harvard called David Reich. I won’t get into the article, as genetics-themed white nationalist articles bore me, and never ever approach with a broad enough knowledge to discern nature from nurture. I’m far more interested in physical/racial anthropology anyway. Jared’s quoted a paper showing (among many other things) gene patterns associated with bipolar and schizophrenia.

I felt so weary at that point, just “oh no, this shit again?”. Someone should tell him/the lot of them that they are no genes for mental illness. He could try anything by Jay Joseph (I have the three books on the twins studies debacle) or Madness and Genetic Determinism by Patrick D. Hahn. I read the comments, and was surprised that not one person noticed this or brought him up about it—as you know, it’s a big comments section. The comments were mainly meat eaters making veganism jibes, with their dietary dogma scientism. So David Reich uses idiot science, and Taylor just repeats him non-controversially. I don’t comment there, and I can’t be bothered to put it to them. You’d have to teach 99% from square one on the topic, and naturally, being American, they’d assume they knew better, and just bat you off.

That’s definitely the last time I browse there. I can’t browse anything but your website these days. I even find YouTube a struggle. Apart from WDH, the net’s just a shopping market for me, to pick up as many supplies as I can before time runs out.

Then there’s Patriotic Alternative (PA) advertising their latest conference, a key detail being their complimentary “delicious evening meal of various meats, including minted lamb, chicken and pork”.

I shudder having to share a planet with these people. They’re scum. Literal Hobbit-minds. I suppose I just can’t cope with morons. The worst is that they don’t/can’t/will never realise that they are morons. The entire international ‘movement’ sphere annoys me, far too much. I don’t care if they call themselves white advocates or the wombles (British children’s television puppet animal) in their wretched little normie socialite club. The labels and monikers and self-aggrandizements are transparent. They don’t speak for me in any fashion. I wish these PA/white nationalist would come round to my door for their activist vote campaigning so I could tell them as much face to face. I think I actually wish the net would fail and be shut down at times also, driving people into the real-world (and them silenced and in disarray, stripped of publicity opportunities).

I was thinking of what we discussed last night on animals. The worst thing for me is knowing it goes on live-time and 24/7, and as I’m sat up here typing, many millions are being slaughtered painfully. And then they brag about it, as if they were discussing Bitcoin, or lead, or a piece of coal; “meat”.

It’s odd, but I think I dislike the Right more than the left. I find neochristians/liberals/modern statists intolerable if they have any form of official authority, but the everyday people’s idealistic left just seem like people I can walk up to in a coffee shop—I miss going out to chat—and not immediately hear something retardedly smug and Neanderthal out of, considering I have no interest in talking on politics with people (that docile quality doesn’t so much apply to the American ones).

Conservatives are the type who sneered and bullied me at public school, and I know that demographic well. I’ve noticed over the years that friends-wise I only seem to get on with people who’ve had a harsh life. Nigel and Mick had that same ‘underground’, lines-on-the-face quality to them. Ideally, I’d only talk to National Socialists though.

Oh well, ha. Just idle yearning.

Best regards for the night,

Benjamin

______ 卐 ______

Editor’s 2¢:

It’s curious. I visit The Unz Review once a day—it’s the only site I visit every day—but I don’t stay more than a few seconds before leaving! The titles of the new articles alone are enough for me to realise that we are dealing with neo-normies, not with National Socialists who want to seize State power in a future revolution.

But the last time I visited the site I was struck by the photo Jared Taylor chose: a guy hugging an Australian Aborigine who looks like a perfect Neanderthal (they have an even lower IQ than sub-Saharan blacks). So, before I received Benjamin’s email, I had seen Taylor’s video in full.

Curious, I said above. And it’s that when Jared talked about schizophrenia as genetic my mind immediately flew to thoughts very similar to Benjamin’s. For example, when I spent years researching psychiatry in-depth, I even corresponded with Jay Joseph, mentioned by Benjamin (as well as having read some of his academic papers).

Why does the racial right ignore the scientific critique of biological psychiatry?

A dozen years ago I made an editorial mistake. Greg Johnson had already accepted a paper I wrote for publication in Counter-Currents, ‘Why Psychiatry is False Science’. Since I had noticed at the time that Johnson was publishing articles that Tanstaafl had previously published in Age of Treason, it seemed natural to publish my paper here. Johnson replied that having published it here first, he would no longer publish it in his webzine.

Had it been published there, racialists would at least have a sense that there is a formal critique of psychiatry. (For those interested in getting started on the subject, in addition to my article linked above, you might want to check out Robert Whitaker’s YouTube lectures on psychiatry.)

Regarding the second part of Benjamin’s email, I have already spoken at length on this site on the subject. We must always remember that the bourgeois conservative type was, for the Führer, an even worse kind of person than the radical leftist. However misguided he may be, the radical at least wants to change society, sometimes by force. The bourgeois conservative, on the other hand, prioritises his money and status in society. With these people we aren’t going to get anywhere, even when they come close to racialism.

Like Benjamin, I no longer tolerate visiting white nationalist sites because they have fallen to a kind of improved conservatism, not the only thing that can save us: an improved National Socialism (see my featured post, ‘The Wall’).

A word about what Benjamin says about animal abuse.

A young American neo-Nazi, who fell from grace a few years ago, once commented how he had gone to a friend’s farm raising rabbits and helped to kill them, that it had been ‘a primal experience’.

One of the reasons I have called today’s neonazis pretenders is precisely because of anecdotes like the above. Every connoisseur of Hitler knows that he wanted to abolish the slaughterhouses after winning the war and, in the meantime, he was a vegetarian. In other words, American neonazis have been behaving like typical white nationalists but using NS paraphernalia.

As I have said a lot of times, it is high time that a new generation emerges that leaves the pretenders’ movement behind and tries to understand real National Socialism, so my next post will quote once again from Savitri Devi’s book.

Categories
Psychiatry

Thoughtpolice

Update September 11, 2024:

I have grayed out what I wrote a couple of months ago because I just found out what really happened, thanks to the thick autobiographical book that Benjamin was kind enough to send me from the UK. I am referring specifically to pages 691-692 which honestly describe why he was committed to a psychiatric ward. When I wrote what now appears in grey (and my comments in the comments section) I was unaware of what had actually happened.

 

______ 卐 ______

 

British commenter of this site, Benjamin, has been committed to a psychiatric ward in the UK. Power asked his wife to send to me this message:

I am a legitimate enemy of the state now in extrajudicial forced detention under methodical daily psychiatric torture. Railroaded by authoritarians beyond all due process. Their ignorance will kill me without laying a finger on me. It is impossible not to wonder if unconsciously, unspoken, and never acknowledged, some small part of them desires or requires that, from much higher level than here, not just to save their jobs and guilty profession, much as this discrete latter conclusion is more obvious, on direct empirical observation of their terrible, terrorizing, ganged-up responses.

Those who are not familiar with my critique of psychiatry should now read what I have written about this pseudoscience which, from its origins, has imprisoned dissidents. Cf. my books Day of Wrath (pages 21-30) and Daybreak (pages 27-41; 105-127).

Update of 1:58 p.m. Benjamin’s wife says:

Hi César, they are basically moving him onto a section 3 because it is their view that he needs medication to prevent any further psychotic episodes and he is refusing to take it and that way they can force it on him without his consent.

They are putting him on an injection medication that he has been on before which gave him terrible side effects and did nothing to stop the episodes from occurring.

One of my articles linked above (in Daybreak) is titled ‘From the Great confinement to Chemical Gulag’.

Categories
Narcissism Psychiatry Psychohistory Psychology

Narcissism, P.S.

I haven’t said the last word in my series on mental disorders in general, and narcissism in particular. I refer to the ‘Marco case’, what I wrote from the end of February to the beginning of this month in six posts (#1, #2, #3, #4, #5 and #6). I am not finished with the subject because I am convinced that understanding cases of psychoses of specific people sheds light on the folie en mass that the white man in general is currently suffering from across the West. In this, I resemble the logo used by the late Lloyd deMause, whom I have mentioned on my books and on this site: a globe sitting on the couch of the psychoanalyst.

In my series on narcissism I said that it bothered me that some Jewish psychologists made the important findings whereas, if Uncle Adolf had won the war, those same findings would have been made by Aryans. Today I discovered the channel of YouTuber Richard Grannon, who, like Vaknin, delves into the aetiology of narcissistic disorder although, unlike Vaknin, Grannon looks like an Aryan man.

From this point in his video until before minute nine, Grannon mentions a theme I have touched on in passing: Even though narcissists distort reality astronomically, mental health professionals have been very reluctant to call them psychotic. Grannon doesn’t say why but I say it now.

Academic psychiatry is based on the lie that neuroses have an environmental aetiology for a victim, i.e. a toxic environment and psychotherapy may be useful here; but that psychoses have a biological aetiology and therefore those suffering from this condition have to take their meds. This is the only way Big Pharma can do its multi-billion dollar business (as psychiatrist Peter Breggin has pointed out, the American Psychiatric Association and Big Pharma are business partners—it’s as simple as that!).

But someone who doesn’t buy into the myth that neuroses and psychoses have different aetiologies can better understand not only the various psychoses but realise that in narcissistic disorder the subject is clearly out of touch with reality; i.e. he is psychotic as Grannon tells us in his video linked above. Orthodox psychiatry doesn’t like to acknowledge this because it is known that narcissism has an environmental aetiology (extremely poor mothering), and official psychiatry will never, ever concede that a single psychotic disorder may have an environmental causation. Its collusion with Big Pharma dictates its ideology.

Much of the evil that the West suffers is the same that the common narcissist (or psychotic subject) suffers. The contemporary Westerner has created a false self-image, as can be seen in the highlighted post ‘Myth’, linked to the top of this page in red letters. Just as the psychotic subject is unable to abandon his false self and return to the world of the sane, the common Westerner doesn’t renounce the folie en mass that has been infecting the white man’s mind since World War II.

As I have already said, biography and history are the same, whereas History is simply the galaxy of individual biographies: billions of stars gravitating towards each other.

Categories
Narcissism Psychiatry Psychology

Narcissism, 1

A diabolical idea occurred to me today.

You may recall that last month I discussed Sam Vaknin in my short posts ‘Mr Darcy’ and ‘Five Minutes’ in the context of what is now fashionable to label ‘narcissism’ on various YouTube channels. I would prefer the term ‘malignant egomania’ or something along those lines, but there are so many videos on various YouTube channels that if I want any traffic to flow to my opinion on the subject, I have no choice but to use the popular expression.

As I have already said, the fundamental flaw of all these channels is that they expose the subject academically, without concrete examples; and they rarely talk about ‘narcissistic’ parents, those suffering from malignant egomania: a condition that compels them to destroy the minds of their children.

The correct way to expose this pathology would be, in the ancient world, as it was done in Greek tragedy: where tragedies were events of a family, even if they used fictitious characters. It is also possible to use real-life people. Those who have read Stefan Zweig’s The Struggle with the Daimon about the Germans Hölderlin, Kleist and Nietzsche will know that it was a tragedy that Kleist burned his History of My Mind before committing suicide. That missing work would, it seems, have marked the beginning of an authentic depth psychology—unlike the epistemological error that reigns in the universities (for example, the Jew Vaknin pays obeisance to the Jew Freud, whom we have roundly exposed on this site).

True depth psychology, which I conjecture would have begun with Kleist, would begin with those who devised the trauma model of mental disorders. Before that, all we had about tormented souls was Zweig’s approach, illustrating it with 19th-century biographical cases. More evolved is to enter the world whose door Alice Miller opened in the second half of the 20th century.

Since, unlike the YouTubers, I have entered the world whose door Miller opened for us (cf. my trilogy), the diabolical idea I came up with means analysing the former friend I talk about in ‘Mr Darcy’ to illustrate what malignant egomania is. In this way I circumvent, one hundred per cent, the fundamental flaw of every vlogger who talks about it: none of them dares to give concrete examples through life cases of real people!

It could be objected that this has nothing to do with the darkest hour of the West. I differ because biography and history are two sides of the same psychological coin. The ethnosuicidal psychosis from which virtually all Western Aryans currently suffer must be analysed. And to solve inexact problems (not mathematical, computational or chess problems), it is important to limit the scale of the problem to avoid confusing ourselves: what has happened to the mental health professions, especially psychiatry (my original contribution to the unmasking of this pseudo-science can be read here). Only then can we hope to solve our inexact problem, or at least come closer to a theoretical solution.

Instead of a pretentious (and failed) metahistorical work like Oswald Spengler’s, limiting the scale means simply understanding ourselves and our neighbours to, from this limited scale, jump into trying to solve the white man’s ethnosuicidal passion. Youtubers cannot do this because they aren’t even able to use the real names of their parents and close ones, as I do in my books.

Whoever criticises his father with his real name will be able to criticise anyone. However, as the person I have analysed is still alive, I will only use his first name, omitting his surnames. (I use the plural because in the Spanish-speaking world not only the father’s surname is used, but also the mother’s. For example, the current president of Mexico is known by his surnames ‘López Obrador’.)

As soon as I can start the series, I will do so, and I will show how understanding a particular case of narcissism can help us to understand the crazy West that, after 1945, only thinks of ethnosuicide.

Categories
Psychiatry Psychology

Unprocessed commenters

As you might have guessed from my post yesterday, ‘Mr Darcy’, that entry was an oblique reference to a commenter who, despite my warnings years ago, believed I had an obligation to answer all his questions.

Recently I’ve written here about other Englishmen I dealt with personally on my last trip to London, who this month were imprisoned in their country, basically for thoughtcrime. But I didn’t tell the whole story in the case of one of them, Tyrone Patten-Walsh, who used to comment here under the name Joseph Walsh.

In the middle of last year, Walsh posted a couple of comments on The Unz Review that are worth quoting. The abysmal difference between a person like me, who entered the racialist world after half a century of existence—having used decades of my life to process the trauma my parents caused when I was a teenager—, and those racialists who had a similar life but never processed their traumas, is discovered in these comments. Last year Walsh wrote:

I’m still here Cesar, still watching, still observing. My re-trial begins next Monday the 5th of June. Obviously I hope not to go to prison but I don’t care if I do. The media reported on my trial last summer here and here.

I took great joy in the prosecution terming me and my co-defendant “unapologetic white supremacists”. Actually I’m an Anglo-Saxon supremacist. German supremacism and Nordic supremacism are for those lower down the hierarchy of mankind.

I know if I go to prison I’ll likely be greeted by white cowards who’ll be taking a beating from their Black and Muslim superiors. Blacks and Muslims have racial pride and blend racial and religious pride with criminal activity and domination of prisons. White males in UK prisons seem to not be able to do this, predictably. In American prisons there IS a combination between White Supremacy and crime, fortunately. What seems the logical thing to do to me is to use the prison system as a foundation for dominating the streets. Use the most secure prisons as headquarters for dominating the prison system and then monopolize crime on the streets. But white cowards have long ago consented to their streets (and prisons) being controlled by Third World criminal gangs.

Never mind. The white race can go to hell for all I care. I’ve saved myself and that’s what matters. Even if the white race does survive, it’s apparent to me that humanity is going nowhere. We’re a hopeless species. A doomed species. There never was any hope for mankind. Never was, never will be. A silly planet full of silly people leading their silly lives. If only all of humanity could be put in prison to be ‘alone with their thoughts’ then I would feel Justice had been done.

Robert Morgan, another commenter on The Unz Review who, like Walsh, has also never processed his childhood trauma, replied to Walsh with these words:

All the best people go to prison—Socrates, Sade, Hitler. More recently, Joseph Paul Franklin, die Brüder Schweigen, Charles Manson, Ted Kaczynski, Anders Breivik, Brenton Tarrant, and many more, both famous and obscure. Just as steel is tempered to make a better weapon, men are put in prison in order to acquire the necessary hardness.

Morgan is confused: several on his list have little in common with each other. Walsh replied:

Yes. I’ve observed that some of the greatest men of the past one hundred years spent time in prison. I thought Charles Manson’s way of handling his virtually lifelong imprisonment was fantastic, especially his wise insights that “the way out is not through the gate”. I engage in regular correspondence with two former associates of Charles Manson, namely Nikolas Schreck and James Mason. Another one of my favourites was Barry Mills who rose to become the leader of the Aryan Brotherhood prison gang in the American prison system from the 1980s until his death. He ended up enjoying prison, deliberately committing crimes to get back into prison because he could thrive inside there as a highly respected kingpin of organized crime in America.

Ever since my late teenage years I’ve always been fascinated by prison, especially American prisons. I remember watching documentaries about white supremacist prison gangs and loving the ruthlessness of the environment. It’s not an accident that I’ve ended up in trouble with “the Law”. It fits right in with the bigger picture of my life’s destiny. Just under two years ago I and my co-defendant [Chris Gibbons] appeared before a judge at the Old Bailey court in London where William Joyce and John Amery were put on trial, essentially for being part of the same cause as Joyce and Amery, only eight decades further down the line. I’m aware of my individual place and purpose within the big picture of human history as a whole.

Walsh quoted Morgan again:

The torture of prison—the main point of it—is to expose you unremittingly to the depredations of your “fellow man”, and this would be defeated if everyone got his own cell.

And then responded:

I have an associate who spent some time in prisons here in England. He said “The people are the punishment. If you were in there on your own it wouldn’t be a punishment.”

As far as ‘punishment’, I’ve already suffered immensely since I was 17 when I was incarcerated in a mental institute for ‘mental illness’. I’ve spent a year of my life locked up for ‘insanity’ already. 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.

Here we see the great cognitive distortion in Walsh’s perspective. What he says sounds much more like ‘Hollywood Hitler’ than the historical Hitler whose biography we have begun to ponder, at a snail’s pace but I will try to ponder it through the book by another Englishman, Brendan Simms. Walsh continues:

If I do 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.

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 most certainly did lol.

Thanks for your [Morgan] words of support anyway.

All this stuff about Satan, Manson, serial killers and so on is nothing but extremely dense mental darkness: a ‘paleological’ way of dealing with trauma (see my book Day of Wrath).

One example will suffice. When I was in his flat in London, I realised that Walsh was suffering from akathisia because of the drug the pseudoscientific psychiatrists had prescribed for him. But Walsh apparently ignored my advice, even though he started watching a Robert Whitaker video about these drugs that I had recommended on YouTube. (Whitaker was awarded the Pulitzer Prize for a series of articles questioning the ethics of psychiatric research.) Despite my offering to advise him on psychiatry and family trauma, Walsh went his own way: a way that we might call, as Krist Krusher does, the way of the ‘Siege-tards’ in reference to James Mason’s Siege (see Krusher’s indented quote in this post).

In July 2019 I tried to communicate these ideas to Walsh. But he got angry calling me a mongrel, etc., instead of answering my simple question: Is Charles Manson good for Hitler’s 88 words?

What to think of the Walsh case and others like him? One thing is certain: It is not possible to save the white race from an insane asylum or prison. It’s a shame that when WordPress Inc., cancelled my The West’s Darkest Hour account it was very difficult to retrieve articles and comments; and a heated discussion from a January 2019 post in the old incarnation of this site—a discussion about Charles Manson precisely—didn’t make it in the move to this new incarnation. But it is clear from what is linked above that Walsh didn’t attempt, in July of that same year, to answer my question: in what sense was Charles Manson useful to the fourteen words?

Unlike an internally processed man like me, who no longer suffers from any neurosis (let alone psychosis!), three smart commenters on that January 2019 thread, including Walsh, suffered psychic breakdowns in admiring this prisoner who has nothing to do with Hitler’s ideals.

Hopefully, Walsh will use his next seven years in prison to heal his troubled soul like Solzhenitsyn, instead of going the way of the Siege-tards. I have a hunch that Chris Gibbons, the other Englishman I met in London who got one more year in prison than Walsh, also for thoughtcrime, will have a better chance of processing his soul as Solzhenitsyn did.

Categories
Architecture Degenerate art Film Psychiatry

Breaking Bad

As visitors to this site know, unlike what Kevin MacDonald says in The Culture of Critique (Frankfurt School, etc.), I believe that it is art for mass consumption that is central to making an x-ray of what’s wrong with the Aryan psyche. From this angle, as I have so often said, literary landmarks of the past such as Ivanhoe, Uncle Tom’s Cabin and Ben-Hur serve as x-rays for us to see the 19th-century soul of the white man. In our century as in the last century, it is the movies, and degenerate art, that can serve as X-rays.

Breaking Bad is an American drama television series created and produced by Vince Gilligan, apparently a non-Jew. It tells the story of Walter White, a chemist. To pay for his cancer treatment and secure his family’s financial future, he begins cooking and selling methamphetamine, along with Jesse Pinkman, a former student of his. The series, set and produced in Albuquerque (New Mexico), is characterised by its desert settings and has been described as a sort of contemporary Western. The series premiered on 2008 and ended in 2013. Breaking Bad has been enthusiastically acclaimed by many critics and audiences, and is considered one of the best television series of all time. In 2013 it was one of the most watched cable television shows in the US, behind Game of Thrones.

Unlike those for whom Breaking Bad has become almost a cult series, to the extent that Vince Gilligan filmed a sequel movie with the actor who portrayed Jesse Pinkman, I am repulsed by the series and want to expose it. (Remember I’m currently doing something similar with HBO’s House of the Dragon.) So here we go…

What disgusted me the most is that in several episodes Jesse inordinately loves a ‘Hispanic’ mother and her son, another mestizo. Walter and Jesse are capable of killing to survive in the underworld of drug trafficking, and yet they set Walt up as a good family man and Jesse as a good Samaritan to these ‘Hispanics’. It doesn’t even make sense to talk about the plot: this kind of thing wouldn’t be happening in the seventh art if Hitler, not Uncle Sam, had had access to the atomic bomb.

Jesse’s love for the spic family was what bothered me most about Breaking Bad, but there are other bad messages. Remember what Kenneth Clark says, that to understand a culture you have to look at its architecture? I have never been to New Mexico, but the total absence of inspiring monuments in the New Mexico filmed in Breaking Bad, and other US states, is striking to me. Aryan aesthetics are only seen in the interiors of the homes of middle- and upper-class people in Breaking Bad. But the visual message for someone used to contemplating what we’ve been seeing in our ‘European Beauty’ series is that of an empty American culture: the ideal platform for betraying one’s ethnicity and becoming a junkie.

Another thing that irritated me greatly about the series is that the roles of husband and wife are egalitarian. And I don’t just mean Walter and his wife but the latter’s sister and Walter’s brother-in-law, DEA agent Hank Schrader. An egalitarian marriage lends itself to inconceivable surrealisms and incongruities because of what Jamie, one of the commenters on this site, said and I picked up in On Beth’s Cute Tits:

I still remember my uncle mentioning something like this when I asked him for advice once: ‘If you are going to talk about serious matters, like killing someone or a coup, don’t ever let the women know about it’.

And I realised he is dam right, and so are you César.

Women will go hysterical at such things as planning a murder or a coup. They will most likely betray you and warn the authorities or government, which they believe is the strongest (expect this behaviour from very feminised men and homosexuals as well).

Dr. William Pierce once mentioned in one of his American Dissident Voices broadcasts that women, as a whole, do not understand abstract concepts such as honour and self-denial. It is not in their nature to understand. Security and comfort are their priorities, and so submission their way of getting it.

And the older I get, the more I realise how true that is. The empowering of women is truly a weapon of mass destruction.

Indeed. The wives in Breaking Bad don’t understand honour or self-denial (Walter, on the other hand, is the paradigm of the selfless man who seeks the good of his family). Another irritating thing is that Walter’s son is a hetero, albeit feminised handicapped man, to the extent that he betrays his father when the authorities realised that Walter was involved in illicit business. A true Aryan male doesn’t behave that way.

Another issue that irritated me is that the culture in which the characters move seems to have material comfort as its sole focus. One of the most abominable things I read in one of Isaac Asimov’s books, and it pains me but it is true, is that nowadays everyone in the West is working simply to live in more material comfort. (The true Aryan puts his race as the motive of his faith, his action and his wars, and the material aspect becomes secondary.)

Finally, this whole DEA (Drug Enforcement Administration) thing is aberrant. Walter’s illegal business only affected teenagers and adults, who voluntarily consumed methamphetamine. I’m not saying it’s right to sell drugs on the streets, but that’s infinitely less wrong than what psychiatry does legally. When abusive parents want to finish destroying one of their children, they turn to a third party: the psychiatrist. The first thing the psychiatrist does is hang an insulting label on the child (a pseudo-medical diagnosis) prior to involuntarily drugging him with drugs that induce a physical torment called akathisia (see my post on the subject here).

I have written a lot about psychiatry (see this summary). My point is that it is an act of astronomical hypocrisy to prosecute traffickers of illegal narcotics for adults and, at the same time, ignore the legal drugs that are used to torment defenceless children. Keep in mind that consuming illicit drugs is voluntary, and the drugging of the child with licit drugs is involuntary (insofar as the child doesn’t want to be tormented with akathisia). From this angle, all series like Breaking Bad do is reinforce the astronomically hypocritical narrative of the System. That’s why one of the few things I did like about the series is that Hank Schrader, the DEA agent, ends up with a bullet in his forehead.

In short, for a normie Breaking Bad is akin to taking methamphetamine, or rather, the soma drug from Brave New World. It is pop art that pulls us to the dark side, to continue to see ourselves through the prism of a System that wants to destroy us. The masses don’t read what the subversive Jews of the Frankfurt School write. The masses are being drugged with what Orwell called prole feed. The attitude a true Aryan should have is the opposite of the attitude of Counter-Currents, a supposed pro-white webzine that idealises Hollywood’s prolefeed.