…nothing more than sitting in my study office, day after day, as the weeks pile up, feeling impotent, raging, and yearning to be able to make a difference, yet knowing that one person is simply not enough, and that not enough people so far are this angry, and this embittered against our many enemies, not knowing how to proceed (and not for a lack of imagination)”.
Thank you for sharing these key posts by the late Alex Linder. I’ve now read them all…
It leaves me asking the question, given that (as I think he also recalls somewhere in the posts) most of the latter-day—and indeed historical—converts to White Nationalism, and from that to National Socialism, come from those already affiliated to a greater or lesser degree with (Anglo-American) conservatism, how are we to gather new members who are suitably radical, seeing as standard bourgeois conservatives, whether bog-standard racialists, with all the trappings of the individualist WASP work ethic, or worse evangelicals, simply will not do (for a number of reasons covered a myriad times on this site and elsewhere)? Did it make any sense before when I inquired as to the practicalities of trying to ‘turn’ leftists?
I’m just hoping for your new generations—the zoomers—currently. It’s clear White Nationalism, at least in any mainstream capacity, is dead, and those remaining big-name gatekeepers are holding tightly onto too many of the stragglers who have yet to to realise all of this. Dead in that there is no real-world progress and it has become a stilted money-maker, akin to a relaxed social club. Until exterminationism, in a practical sense, is assimilated psychologically, I don’t think any progress can be made.
It infuriates me that people aren’t angrier. I hate just having to hang around impotently, as what could be the rest of the decade or more wears on.
by Benjamin
A boy extracting a thorn from his foot.
It’s interesting that no one [among mainstream racialist forums] acknowledged Alex Linder’s death properly on those sites. I wasn’t aware until now [click on the above link]. I find it quite disrespectful and petty of them actually… we’re meant to be on the same side! But the second he’s dead and OD is criticising him…
I take it they saw him the way I assume they see you/us, as a thorn in their side—as opposed to the truth: a better source of information and inspiration on Aryan survival.
By their own stubborn, head in the sand cowardice, these supposedly pro-White sites have made themselves our enemies (they’re a lot more unreasonable with you than you are with them). It’s good that you’re starting a radio show again, albeit solo. It will give you greater reach (against them).
On the ethnosuicide of the white man, in my post two weeks ago I wrote:
Although it is universal and not individual, the psychosis that currently covers the West… can only be understood through a psychohistorical variant of the trauma model of mental disorders.
Then I added:
Anyone who assimilates the content of Day of Wrath—and even better, its more detailed expansion in my trilogy—will understand not only the self-harming Aztecs but also the… disorders that contemporary Aryans suffer from.
The case of Benjamin, a self-harmer, whose autobiographical book I recently summarised—:
Consumption, 0
Consumption, 1
Consumption, 2
Consumption, 3
Consumption, 4
Consumption, 5
Consumption, 6
Consumption, 7
Consumption, 8
Consumption, 9
Consumption, 10
Consumption, 11
Consumption, 12
Consumption, 13
Consumption, 14
Consumption, 15
Consumption, 16
—is, in individual psychosis, analogous to the mass psychosis that the West has suffered since 1945: horrible self-harming! And just as Benjamin had to confront his past in his attempts to heal himself, Westerners will have to confront their historical past, specifically their unacknowledged traumas: the criminal history of Christianity and, more recently, the Hellstorm Holocaust (see the featured post).
Without this basic psychoanalysis—unlike William Pierce’s Who We Are I don’t see this analysis in the contemporary racial right—the Aryans will never heal. They will remain as psychotic as Benjamin was before he began to digest his extremely painful past. Both the criminal history of Christianity and the Holocaust of Germans in WW2 are as buried in the Aryan collective unconscious as Benjamin’s hellish past was before he began his healing process.
In other words, for the Aryan to stop ethno-suiciding he must face his past, and the best way to do that is to start digesting didactic essays on how the Judeo-Christians murdered the Greco-Roman world, such as Eduardo Velasco’s essay and Tom Goodrich’s books on the Hellstorm genocide.
Just as it helped Benjamin to discover his past through a profound retrospection and introspection into where the trauma causing his symptoms lay, the Aryan won’t regain his sanity unless he goes, like Bran the Broken, into the cave of the three-eyed raven to see the historical past of Westeros—not as the System tells us the story but as it really happened…
The three eyed raven
Editor’s 2 cents:
In chapter 14, we read that the father said the following to his son:
“I don’t know what you have to complain about, Benjamin; you’ve never suffered!” He has repeated this mantra several other times over the years. It was the final nail in the coffin.
This sentence perfectly portrays what a “schizogenic” father is: he who “schizophrenises” his son. The father’s repeated statement—which reminds me of what my mother used to say to me after my parents and a psychoanalyst crucified me at seventeen (and I could no longer pursue a career)—not only denotes a colossal lack of empathy towards his son, but also a complete reversal of the facts (in real life Ben suffered a maddening hell)!
Anyone who wants to understand why narcissistic parents are capable of these maddening inversions of reality could watch Richard Grannon’s videos on narcissism. However, Grannon, like other YouTubers, focuses on adults who have a narcissistic partner. In my opinion, all these channels are cowardly because the adult can easily cut off the narcissistic partner. On the other hand, as Alice Miller tells us, the child doesn’t have that option! He (or she) has to stay at home and put up with the schizogenic behaviour of the narcissistic parent (who, due to his infinite sin of pride, is unable to see the beam in his eye) until the abusive behaviour blows the child’s mind, as happened to Benjamin.
I am currently in a serious predicament because, after my siblings sold our parents’ mansion, my financial situation has become precarious. Even so, I believe I must continue translating my work on this subject although of course, instead of using Benjamin’s life as the basis for my explanation, I use my own.
My father and mother have never accepted their responsibility for the trauma they caused me in childhood and adolescence. I don’t think they ever will. They are too proud by far to accept the truth of gross personal error. What my father did and what my mother did not do. As only consolation for what has been a hellish life, I look back with warm reminiscences on that one instance – that tiny spark of hopeful joy – where she did come to my defence in the sharing of truth, sad only that she, in turn was abused by cold professionals on account of their hubris, and arrogance, and industry gaslighting, the fundamental – unfalsifiable – tenets of bio-reductionist psychiatry, a pseudoscience of ignorance and blind dogmatism. I have covered the evils of psychiatry more comprehensively in my other books, though, so I will not repeat myself here.
Beyond all the pain and heartbreak, I still love my parents. When read by them, I hope this book will go some way towards redeveloping our relationship together before their deaths. They raised me as only they could, damaged themselves from their childhoods in 1940s Ireland, where I am aware my father was psychologically brutalised daily by the sadism of his harsh Christian Brothers schoolmasters and further tormented by his emotionally neglectful mother and a crowd of elderly aunts (as my grandfather was often away at sea for long stretches, and fighting in the Second World War), for whom nothing he ever accomplished or achieved academically was ever good enough, and where my mother and her large family lived in constant fear of hunger and deprivation, coupled to a terror of her father, and his endless shouting and rows with her mother, and (I think) some physical violence. The great hurt has been passed down through generations, from parents to children and then to their children. It is understandable, at least. It is a shame I cannot write their own stories yet, as they deserve to be heard.
I wrote this book as official self-therapy, in final resolution, to unlock the repressed sadnesses I have never been able to recount otherwise and to come to terms with myself and with my family, to heal. To know myself again. It has been a painful journey, but I hope some small understanding can be gained from these lines. Mental illness is an expression of family trauma, not brain abnormalities, chemical imbalances, or genetic defects. For this reason, its aetiology is sadly taboo in our society. After all, the Christian commandments to honour our fathers and mothers have long saturated Western thought, shared by parental introjection down many centuries, subconsciously shaping our morality and credulity and inspiring our decision-making. To hold them to account instead is to transgress this unwritten assumption. One can see why the psychiatrists and their industry act as gatekeepers and parental defenders, in cahoots with abusive parents over any genuine healing treatment of their victims. To admit otherwise would destroy the claimed legitimacy of their profession.
However, maybe now more will be inspired by this document to share their home lives, and our society, finally, after more than three hundred years of exposure to this punitive and fallacious pseudomedical torture, will begin in turn to knit together again and recover. It is at least a hope. We all owe ourselves that. In general now, given this main autobiographical account (among an expanding group of others), it has become clear that psychotic patients are not born but made.
______ 卐 ______
Benjamin’s book can be obtained here.
Those familiar with Jeffrey Masson’s work know that he is a critic of psychoanalysis and misnamed psychotherapies. Although this series has focused on psychiatry, as I have said in my books so-called “therapy” is the little sister of big brother: the psychiatrist. Both operate within the family and social dynamics of blaming the victim and exonerating the perpetrator: usually the victim’s parent.
In the following pages of Consumption, from those already cited in the previous instalment, I read about a shameful case that exemplifies this. In a “family therapy” session, a psychotherapist sided a hundred per cent with Benjamin’s father—the perp!—and, in the days that followed, when Ben no longer wanted to go to “therapy”, the therapist officially turned against Ben through an insulting psychoanalysis, in a letter addressed to his parents and even an academic article.
Normies have a wildly distorted idea of psychotherapy: the fantasies with which Hollywood and television brainwash us. In reality, siding with the perpetrator is extremely typical of the so-called mental health professions, whether it be psychiatry or all kinds of “psychotherapies” in talking sessions.
Unlike what I did in the previous post, here I won’t quote long paragraphs about how the female therapist only added insult to injury to the already victimised son. I have experienced something similar to what happened to Benjamin with the therapists hired by my mother more than once. What it takes adult children years to understand is that the therapist acts as a professional whose client is a kind of mobster who hires the services of a lawyer. Just as the Corleone family’s lawyer never, ever sides with the law but with the mobster, the therapist always serves the person who pays him.
Those of us who like Jeffrey Masson, Benjamin and I, know that all the therapies offered by the System are iatrogenic (counterproductive) can be counted on the fingers of one hand. Psychiatry is iatrogenic through its neurotoxins, and “psychotherapy” is iatrogenic through its continued campaign of insulting the child-victim, as happened to the author of Consumption (pages 224-234 of the copy I own).
Book II
Chapter 8
One morning, I walked into the kitchen to prepare breakfast for myself. Just a piece of cucumber; I ate sparingly in those days to compensate for the nagging desire for food stimulated by the Olanzapine, where no meal was ever filling enough, and where my metabolism was negatively affected, leading to more tiredness atop the already exacerbated lethargy on account of the emotional dulling and cognitive impairment that accompanies psychotropic antipsychotic drug use. My parents were already awake. My father stood with his back to me as if dressed for work, chatting to my mother, laughing about something. As I came in, I caught the tail end of his words, “…and it’s a shame he’s not creative either. What could I do with him? It’s clear he’s a bit of an idiot, haha. Not much going on.”
I quickly realised, to my horror, that he was talking about me. My mother was silent, listening politely. Her opinion was hard to gather from her, although I had seen her nod as he spoke. As I heard his words, a withering shame took hold of me, and I made my presence known to them, tears forming at his betrayal, “Dad! I heard you! How can you say that?!” to which my Dad turned suddenly, embarrassed to be caught out. He stared open-mouthed at me, mumbling “Oh” but not giving me the desired answer.
By this point, tears were streaming from me, and I was sobbing audibly and very upset. As if the recent weeks (and longer) had not been awful enough, this was the final straw. Instead of comforting me, my mother stood there watching, saying, “Oh, come on now, Benjamin, he didn’t mean it…” to which all I could say, through painful sobs, was, “No, Mum, he did! He knew what he was saying there!” She repeated her platitudes to me, and Dad started to speak also, adding that he was “only talking, don’t take it seriously”, but by then, I was in an awful state. All the years of hurt welled up in me; all the times he had said as much to my face when she was annoyed or just in an idle comment as if it was an obvious statement. He had mocked my abilities and my very person on hundreds of occasions. And to think recently, only a day or two before, when I had asked Mum what Dad thought of me, she had said, “he loves you very much, and he’s very proud of you and your creations. He particularly likes your drawings at the moment.” I was torn now, unsure how to process the blatant mixed messages beyond being very upset. This wasn’t love; this was an abuse of my mind in a regular stream of matter-of-fact put-downs and snappy below-the-belt remarks.
My thoughts were overpowered with grief and rage, and before I could help myself, my eyes glazed over, and my head started to dip down. And then, quick as a flash, I grabbed out at my right arm with my mouth and proceeded to bite my teeth firmly onto the skin, still crying, tugging at a healed area, trying to prise more flesh off in that familiar agonising pain.
Dad was relatively quick to notice this, although my mother was shocked. “No… Benjamin!” he called, “No! No! Don’t do that! Stop doing that!” He reached out for me, in my feral daze, and started to try and pull my clenched jaws off my arm. But I was locked tight and tearing. Blood was beginning to form now around the creases of my mouth as I continued to pull away at the skin (and self-biting is a strenuous process), as Dad, taking my head in both his hands, tried to lever me off the wound, in some strain. He could not do it, though; so tight was my mouth lodged, trickling gore.
He proceeded to hit me on my upper arm, again and again, trying to dislodge me from my grisly exercise of pain and anguish, and at this, under his blows, I came away from my arm and, howling in nineteen years of pent up rage at him for effortlessly breaking me, a piecemeal homicide of words alone, I flew at him, and we exchanged a flurry of blows there on his floor by the kitchen door. He backed up against the dining table, swiping at my face and upper torso with hard slaps, knocking my head sideways, and I punched out at his shoulder with my bleeding right arm. He snarled now at me in rough exhales, his teeth clenched.
After more long seconds of pitiless violence, I drew back from him, the tears still exploding from my eyes, and returned to my arm, lunging at it again, more desperate in the first place to wound myself than to defend from him after all, despite his out of control desire to fight with me. I leaned back crouched down, cowering before him like a wounded child, pathetic given my height, fearful then and in misery, just wishing he could see me and see that I was hurt and that forever he would stop his incessant jibes, breaking my heart. That he would recognise his own wounded son there pathetic before him. With a final desperate pull, I tore a big piece of rubbery skin off my arm, dragging it up with a ripping yank, blood splattering all over my mouth and in flecks onto the floor and the dining chair next to me, and sucked up a mouthful of hot blood with it, and raised my head again to his height, his blows still impacting me, and spat the chewed off piece of flesh into his face, impacting him on the cheek, with my blood – the same as coursed in his veins – splattered over his eyes.
There was a long pause. He stared at me then, drawn back, a haggard statue before me, motionless. I gazed into his deep blue-grey eyes with orange cores, as blue as the winter waves, and saw the look on his face, a piercing, harrowing expression of mournful incomprehension, the saddest sight. I realised then that he could never understand me. The image of his face then has locked with me all these years. He breathed heavily and said nothing.
The piece of torn flesh was still lying on the floor as I left the room sombrely, exhausted by tears, blood trickling all down my arm and over my hand and palm, falling in droplets to the floor all across the living room, through the hall, and into my bedroom. As I entered my room, I slammed my hand against the white emulsion-painted wood of the door, leaving a bloody handprint gathered in blobs at the bottom, like wet paint, dripping down the gleaming surface. And then I sat down on my futon bed, calling fiercely to my mother not to disturb me, and, with my fingertip dipped in my blood, scratched a poem quickly onto some sheets of A4, my mind racing, but my heart dimmed, all soul destroyed. It was not the first poem I had written in my blood, but it was the most bitter and abject in sheer misery. I titled it “Flush”, like a panic-stricken bird driven from its hidden safety into the air, or just like excrement to be disposed of, very much like I viewed myself.
Flush
Nineteen long years on the cutting-room floor
I told you there were tears, and you got bored
There’s blood in my gullet
And my fingers scrape a hole
And outside in the hallway you’re still polishing the cold
[…]
After finishing my poem, I tossed the papers aside and emerged from my room. An ambulance was not involved, as I resisted official treatment, telling my mother not to contact anyone, which I think she held to. I would not let her dress my wounds either, and simply snatched a fresh pink towel and held it under me until the flow ceased, making sure this time that I cleaned my blood off the floor myself.
Much later, I approached my Dad’s chair. His words to me were simple as I spoke to him, with him sat there staring into space still, no more expression of discomfort and sadness on his face, or indeed of anything at all. “Dad…” I told him, looking for some reconciliation perhaps, or at least to judge his thoughts, to know where I stood. His reply was immediate and cold. “F**k off.”
Never again after this did my Dad physically push me about or hit me, but as if this intense altercation had meant nothing to him, soon – and as always, for he cannot change – the belittling insults continued. Broken and in clinging disappointment, I hoped only that Family Therapy might assist me, and I looked forward to it, counting down the days until I could finally share all of this and be listened to.
Regarding the sixth chapter (five pages) of the second book of Consumption, I would like to quote this passage:
Mum was patient with me in her response, a brief irritation crossing her face as she considered Dad’s encouragement of atheism in me. She paused for a second, thought hard, and then replied, “you can believe whatever you want, Benjamin. I’m not stopping you. But I’d say to pray tonight and ask God to help you come to terms with things.”
“He’ll [his father] hate me, Mum.”
“No, no, it’ll be ok, son, he’s a patient person, and he loves you boundlessly; I think he’ll listen to you, provided you’re polite and respectful. Just see if this helps, ok?”
The big problem with “poisonous pedagogy” is that it idealises the figure of the father to the point of considering him a kind of God the Father in his relationship with his son. The quoted paragraph reminds me of a scene from LOTR, which also appears in Peter Jackson’s movie, in which Gandalf lies to Faramir, claiming that his father loves him when in fact he wants him dead (five years ago I talked about the lie of the “sage” Gandalf here).
In real life, unlike in fairy tales some parents not only love but hate their children at the same time: that’s why they have broken minds. As Ronald Laing once said, despite the claims of biological psychiatry, those who are labelled schizophrenic do have broken minds: their psyches are divided by this Jekyll-Hyde behaviour of the abusive parent.
What I have been quoting from Consumption gives an idea of the nightmare Benjamin lived through.
But for those looking for Hollywood-style entertainment, I would suggest watching Shine, which Ben and I saw yesterday (albeit separated by the Atlantic). Like Consumption, that film, which won an Oscar for Best Actor, gives a fairly good idea of how an abusive father can schizophrenise the son he loves most!
In these years, my dreams started to play on me again and horrify me. Always from childhood, I had had regular nightmares, tossing and turning in the sheets and sobbing out […]
However, one particular recurring dream motif pushed to the surface around my 18th year (although I had nightmares involving it one and off rarely since at least the age of eight). By one point in my ‘home year’, it had come to me almost every time I slept. I would just be drifting off, and, suddenly, in black and white, and with internal sound, huge, spined, skeletal slugs would push into my vision out of the perceptual blackness, often coming from the right of my view, circling in front of me, all feelers and demonic faces of jutting bone and bloody teeth, but still basically giant black slugs beneath the macabre inventiveness. They were an almost infinite array of them […] tugging off chunks of skin […] engulfed in hellish molluscs, in a cold spray of my blood.
After what felt like long minutes of this, I would wake in horrified agony, leaping up out of bed screaming. I would often urinate in fear or otherwise scrabble back and forth […] Having the light on as I slept, as I had been accustomed to doing my whole life, made no tangible difference. Every single night, for days on end, I would be left run down and exhausted, terrified to return to sleep, a pronounced somniphobia and artificial insomnia developing in me […]
Over the years, I have tried many times to assuage this fear and shift the dreams by taking them out into the waking reality, drawing these devilish alien slugs, or designing them with computer art programs.
The abstract beginning of a slug dream
One of the slugs preparing to bite me
Bony slugs clambering into my vision
More demonic slugs emerge
A terrifying toothed slug gets up close to my face
Eight months after my return from Brookside, my nightmares started to get to me, no doubt aided by Dad’s continuing stress-inducing rows and an inability to relax at any moment when awake, conscious only that my door would be flung back, and Dad would storm into my room to find some new, insignificant, niggling excuse to wear me down.
Editor’s interpolated note: To escape the living nightmare, Benjamin attempted suicide at the age of eighteen.
I awoke partially in the ambulance and again on a hospital gurney, feeling the sharp scratch of a needle on my inner arm and hearing voices around me […] I had first been given a 5-pint emergency blood transfusion in the evening. […]
I had been taking both of my tablets [psychiatric meds - Ed.] for over a year now. Why was I feeling like this? I had long decided that that was a foolish question. These tablets were a sham. […]
Past all these faded symbolic worries, there was always Dad. I approached each new conversation with the hope of warmth and basic human respect, but that was rarely, if ever, the case. I realised one thing, at least. I loved him, but I was afraid of him. As for my mother […] at least she did not mock me.