web analytics

Tag: Trauma model of mental disorders

Categories
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
Aryan beauty Psychohistory

Importance

In my post yesterday, I wrote:

Psychiatry is just the tip of the iceberg. The whole problem has to do with a society that wants to know nothing about existential problems.

This includes the racial right and explains why my posts on the subject don’t get comments, leaving Ben and me talking to ourselves.

But almost everyone knows that it is a calamity to live with a loved one who suffers from a severe mental disorder. Why not try to grasp the new paradigm for understanding disorders? (Well, not so new: some honest mental health professionals have been saying since the 1940s that abusive parents were involved in their children’s disorders.) The fact is that without properly understanding mental disorders, it is impossible to do anything substantial to save either our disordered loved ones, or the madmen who are ethnically self-destroying in the West.

The case of Benjamin, whom I will continue to quote, illustrates the new paradigm. The antidepressants he religiously took were of no use to him because those pills never addressed the root cause of his self-harming behaviour. In my Day of Wrath (DOW) I mention that pre-Hispanic Amerindians practised self-harm, and even Emperor Moctezuma had to ritually self-harm (drawing blood from his ear, for example). The Mayans did it too, even the kings. Given that in Mesoamerican culture self-harm was not only accepted but promoted—in Tenochtitlan children had to self-harm at the elite school, the Calmécac—it should be obvious that the subject needs to be investigated.

I iterate: it is impossible to save the Aryan if psychoses are not fully understood. Yesterday, for example, I watched Disney’s Sleeping Beauty for the umpteenth time. Those were times when Aryans still knew, like Prince Philip, that we must fight for the maiden we met in the forest, “gold of sunshine in her hair; lips that shame the red, red rose…”

What is worth remembering about those healthier times in which the film was released is that Aryan beauty—the 14 words!—was still valued to the extent that its preservation was sought.

My claim is that, although it is universal and not individual, the psychosis that currently covers the West—rampant feminism is nothing more than ethnic suicide for those who practise it—can only be understood through a psychohistorical variant of the trauma model of mental disorders. The Amish don’t suffer from this psychosis, and a female friend of my sister’s, educated in the old-fashioned way (remember what I said in my post yesterday about a very traditionalist priest I met) had nine children in Monterrey.

It is of no use for our goal if I focus exclusively on Mein Kampf today when the white race is suffering from a folie en masse that is annihilating it. The cause of mental disorders should be investigated, far from the medical models that only serve to enrich Big Pharma. Anyone who assimilates the content of DOW—and even better, its more detailed expansion in my trilogy—will understand not only the self-harming Aztecs but also the individual disorders that contemporary Aryans suffer from, such as so-called schizophrenia and others.

Categories
Hojas Susurrantes (book)

Consumption, 6

My brief optimism in those weeks did not last. Soon enough, my mood plummeted back into its soft, sad hole, and my scalpel was in my hands again. This time, I did not tell my parents. I also tried my hardest to be more careful at school, wearing a long-sleeved underlayer and bandaging my arms with elasticated crepe bandages from my mother’s medical cabinet. Though still relatively containable, the damage I was inflicting increased, as did the frequency.

In between, I drifted in moody silence, occasionally breaking into vast floods of tears, up in my bedroom, soaking my pillow, or in the downstairs’ craft room’ sat in the corner on a wooden kitchen chair, the dining room long turned over to my burgeoning library, my computer, and a table of fantasy lead figures with a painting desk to one side. Contained, or so they thought, in my historical reading habits or my miniature painting, much time was still spent by myself, my parents “giving me some space”.

However, sometimes my Dad would come in and tell me to go to bed, his tone more irritable than usual, impatient with me in conversation, and his face grim, exhausted from his gruelling work, and less inclined to talk about our usual spread of cultural interests, or indeed my feelings, curt and prescriptive, asking me simply, “have you self-harmed today?” and accepting my denial at face value, then stomping out. In the evening, murmurs came from their bedroom. Occasionally, voices were raised, and my mother would appear on the stairs in tears. […]

Here we see not only that Benjamin’s parents lacked empathy for what was happening to their son, or rather, what they had been doing to their teenage son in conjunction with the abuse at school. As if that weren’t enough the parents used psychiatry: a fraudulent profession that, without medical evidence, makes big business with Big Pharma by claiming that all mental problems are biomedical. On my Spanish-language website you can read a section in which I expose how Giuseppe Amara, the psychiatrist my mother wanted to use to break my teenage will, had a sort of unspoken slogan: “Family problems, medical solutions”.

Naturally! If someone wants to profit from the pain of others, children included, they will never, ever side with the affected party. They will always side with those who can pay for their services, no matter how surreal it may be to drug a victim of, say, school bullying instead of rescuing the child from the insulting environment. In my trilogy I call this “psychiatric revictimisation”.

In biological psychiatry the environment is never questioned. All the blame is placed on the victim: his brain or genes. That is why Benjamin’s doctor simply prescribed him SRI antidepressants without making the slightest inquiry as to whether the problem had an existential cause, as was the case.

In my case, as I recount in Letter to mom Medusa, shortly after I tried to tell the psychoanalyst in his office what my parents were doing to me at home, Giuseppe Amara prescribed that they bombard my brain with the most incisive neuroleptic (even though I had no psychiatric symptoms)! Although it may seem incredible to unsuspecting readers, this is precisely how psychiatry works: the client, the father or mother, who requests his services is always right, and “he who pays the piper calls the tune” (children can never pay the so-called mental health professional).

But Benjamin did have symptoms. I don’t want to go into the details of how he self-harmed because it is very disturbing. Anyone who wants to find out can obtain a copy of his book. I just want to reiterate what I recently said in the comments section: We explain the internal process of the self-harmer on page 40 of my book Day of Wrath, and anyone who wants to delve deeper into the subject should read the entire chapter, not just page 40. Benjamin’s story continues:

A useless, stupid form, I had no reason now to look for justifications, settled into my pattern. I was simply a sinner, a wretched waste, and each new lunge at myself, conducted with fierce, black hatred and the coldest rage, cemented my necessity to continue. After all, I was evil now, and I had disappointed my parents, let down all around me, and betrayed the words of God. And the only cure for that weakness and that criminal lack of decency was to cut it better, however long it took, to redeem myself through pain, a pain I did not, at any point, enjoy, a terrible sensation wracking my pale, sensitive skin.

I shouldn’t be allowed to escape unpunished, I thought, clear to me; it was only right. I had upset them, scared them and hurt their feelings. My poor parents. What a monster I was. My head filled with rude swear words, names for myself, “the c**t”, “the bast*rd”, “the f**king idiot”. And so the blades went in, one by one then in tandem, clasped between fingers, in wincing gasps of agony and falling skin, and the days went on. “Please”, I pleaded with myself, “mercy”. “F**k you, you pathetic bast*rd”, I answered myself silently, “you did this”, “now shut up!”

This sort of Gollum’s warfare against the healthy part of his self denotes, according to our point of view in Day of Wrath, what Colin Ross calls “the locus of control shift”: something closely related to “the problem of attachment to the perpetrator” whom we are conditioned to love as children. Benjamin then includes another disturbing paragraph about the details of his self-harm, which I will also refrain from quoting. He then writes:

“Benjamin!” my father said in snappy annoyance. “Sit down here now and stop being so antisocial.” So I sat on the black leather upholstery of the sofa for a while and tried to smile a little more, listening to my aunties tell their jokes, pretending I couldn’t feel the detestable sensation under my clothes, an ever-present sting perched there, legs together, quiet and reserved, and riddled with hundreds of sharp little scratches, my burning surface partially skinned and my clothes slightly damp, distracted and cloudy in mind, just waiting to head upstairs again. […]

Shame had become guilt, and I was fused with self-hate, my rigged moral perfectionism inverting the reality of my historical situation, inculcated from such a young age with steady doses of mental poison that I was now at a critical threshold, as if in toxic shock.

In between these bouts of auto-sadism, I was still cogent and in full cognitive clarity, my intellectual faculties otherwise unaffected, and, provided they did not persist in making inquiries or watch me like a hawk (which did not become apparent to them until much later), I found other people did not notice anything was wrong. Though the pupils had heard of my first injuries from Josh, they had no idea of the scale, and I gather most considered it an isolated incident, a ‘fad’ that I would soon grow out of.

When I returned from Ireland in the new year, binning two of my shirts before leaving, washing out the stains from my jacket lining in the sink, and packing my suitcase, I was able to blend straight back into the school environment, continuing my lessons in the commencing term, with a little SSRI tablet a day, and nothing really to add to that, to all intents and purposes getting slightly better, or so everyone thought. Much as it was well understood that “he’s got Depression”, “he did this…” and “he’s ill now”, no one, curiously, had ever paused to ask me how I felt or to inquire what actually was wrong. […]

One day, near the end of the Spring term, not long before my AS exams, I was sitting in the dorm study room with another boy named Gerald, a half- Malaysian pupil whom I had a mild friendship with […] Gerald had caught me crying also, in the dorm and various quiet parts of the school, and soon after began to distance himself again, considering me “nuts” and “a bit of a head case”, disapproving of my distress, and frustrated that I didn’t just “snap out of it”.

Psychiatry is just the tip of the iceberg. The whole problem has to do with a society that wants to know nothing about existential problems—unless they are presented in theatrical tragedies, as the Greeks did, or in modern movies where the plot can be understood even by housewives. But if someone in real life wants to communicate that she suffers from a maddening dynamics with her mother, like the self-harmer woman in the film La Pianiste, she is generally ignored not only by those close to them, but also by so-called mental health professionals.

For example, in my trilogy I recount how my mother, who really was the crazy one in the house, projected her evil onto me and sent me to various professionals over the years. None of them wanted to listen to me. But the most shocking thing is something I confess in the third volume.

Only a very traditionalist priest, whom my mother suggested I go to on the advice of Mrs Eva Grimaldi, listened to me! The reason for this wouldn’t be understood in the least unless the reader is familiar with the critical literature on all mental health professions, whether pseudo-medical like psychiatry, or mere therapy with psychoanalysts or clinical psychologists. (See, for example, Against Therapy: Emotional Tyranny and the Myth of Psychological Healing by Jeffrey Masson, with whom I exchanged a brief correspondence several years ago.)

Categories
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
Neanderthalism

Exchange

Editor’s Note: My recent exchange with
Benjamin this morning is worth a post:

 

______ 卐 ______

 

Benjamin said: The most offensive comment I ever get from anyone in my life on anything creative or meaningful (presenting books, paintings, articles, whatever…) is ‘oh, that’s interesting’. One knows the person couldn’t give a damn about you at that point. It’s simply filler, as they never, ever elaborate why. I’m still thinking about presenting Consumption to my eldest aunt – one of my mother’s surviving sisters, and the closest to me growing up – but I know it’ll either be ‘oh that’s interesting’ or ‘that’s very sad you write that’, and ‘ I’ll have to give it some thought’, or stub words to that effect, cutting off all further emotion, discussion and commitment.

I should say, I think the only reason my mother wanted to read my book at first was to humour me, then increasingly to prove me wrong (I was critically examined over many sections), and finally in tears when she realised she couldn’t, she kind of softened towards me. I find it a tragedy she died so soon afterwards, and I never got to discuss it with her. All I know is she agreed (or if she still didn’t on anything she’s taken it into the ground with her).

Dad will never read it, that’s for sure. If you forced him to, his response would be to tut and call it fantasy, and then if I persisted, to shout at me, and to cut me off forever in rage and social embarrassment. I wrote a spurious book many years ago briefly mentioning Dad’s conduct and he did read a few lines of that one, and I remember all he said was “you don’t make me look very good in this”, and laughed a little, as if what I had written was hysterical nonsense, or a big neurotic running joke, unable always to twig that he simply wasn’t ‘very good’ to me, no. It’s not even denial.

I’m sorry for your tragedies, and for your uncle’s death. I’d like to hope that what happened to Corina and Octavio (and his daughter) cannot happen again. But how does one change society on this taboo issue if no one is prepared to read these books – or always too little too late? I suppose one can still put them out there, and hope. I always wanted psychiatry destroyed in my lifetime. I don’t think that’ll happen though, although I see it as a major gatekeeper to the (parental) trauma model being understood by the public.

I think I use you as my witness personally. I hope it isn’t an imposition. Ideally, I would have had a family or local friends to go to, but their silence and standoffish ignorance on this matter is galling. I’m not used to being asked what’s wrong.
 

I responded: That’s precisely why the encounter in my life of someone like Paulina, the first person who took pity on me, was so important even though it happened more than twenty years after my teens (what Miller calls an “enlightened witness”). Ideally, someone should appear when you’re being abused as a child. That and only that could have saved us (what Miller calls a “helping witness”). The sad thing is that many didn’t have either…

And when it comes to the mental health professions, psychiatry is the way the System defends itself; like the Inquisition defended the Roman Church against the dissidents of the time. Thomas Szasz wrote a book comparing psychiatry to the Inquisition, and he said something that stuck with me: “An Inquisition [like psychiatry] cannot be reformed, only abolished”.

Indeed, and this shows that even people like Colin Ross, the current proponent of the trauma model, are still lost on this point—like John Read et al., who believe that change is possible within academia. They’re like white nationalists who believe that voting for Trump can bring about change. In fact, WN is another variant of country-club conservatism as Michael O’Meara put it, an American who knows French.

Plus ça change, plus c’est la même chose.
 

Benjamin said: So it seems, as with the other issues we discussed recently, that it’s come down to this again: the necessity of a (violent, it’s obvious there is no other sort) revolution, in this as in all areas… what we really mean by bringing down the System, across all its entangled branches and avenues. Everything has reached a multi-faceted dead end otherwise… science, technology, academia, health, family wellbeing… the race itself is long-stalled biologically, at least since the Cro-Magnon era. I suppose the only thing to do now is to school would-be revolutionaries and auxiliary radicals on why they’re fighting (or will be fighting), which I suppose is what this site functions as, beyond your autobiographical space.

Personally, from what I note, the 4 words ["Eliminad todo sufrimiento innecesario" —Ed.] seem far harder for people to latch onto and assimilate than the vaguer, more generalised concept of the 14, even though I see both as to some degree synonymous, or semi-symmetric perhaps.

Eventually we’ll have to go somewhere else for those sorts of conversations. I’m not sure of the prudence of me continuing to type this even, right out in the open. The stepping stone from the theoretical to the practical is the hardest for me to strategize, the point where mutual internal jihad had reached its zenith, so to speak, and there should then instead be organization, and such, etc.

Anyway, I’m getting ahead of myself. I know I’ve found it very frustrating for decades, where no one has really taken the slightest bit of interest (care) in my history, and yet have still professed to being my friends… ‘twigging’, and realising in clarity the scale of this problem across our race drives one to want to act, and as soon as possible (even though there is no way to do that currently).
 

I responded: No: there’s no way to do it, and you can see what happened to our friend Tyrone for even suggesting it on podcasts (although years ago his parents put him in a psychiatric hospital for a while, now the System has locked him up for seven years!).

Mauricio liked my Paths of Glory metaphor. Kirk Douglas’s soldiers couldn’t go out to fight because of the hail of bullets. It was a time of staying in the trenches in a state of exasperation, but necessary…

The degenerate Aryan I recently saw in Europe is still in “happy mode”. Several sociopolitical, economic, and especially energy catastrophes will have to converge for him to enter “angry mode”; eventually a defensive “combat mode” and finally “killing mode” (bloody revolution). In the meantime, they’re behaving like lobotomised eunuchs.

Unlike Europeans, racialist Americans are no longer lobotomized: they’re beginning to think. But they’re still eunuchs. Otherwise they would already be talking about how to bring Turner’s diaries into the real world.
 

Benjamin said: P.S. I just re-read the, as you say, epistolary scold from Corina. I was particularly struck by the lines (and can only imagine how much they hurt and infuriated you):

“The damage is done and only you can fix it.”

and

“…not all people in the world are therapists or psychiatrists or psychoanalysts and we don’t want to hear about problems, let alone such serious ones. We are normal people who run away from problems. We are not interested and cannot do anything about it.”

Both directly echo things my partner has said to me before when I raise the issue of my childhood with her, the first being the equivalent of ‘just let it go’ (which is impossible naturally short of developing dementia, and translates literally as ‘repress yourself again’), or ‘get over it’ (a callous statement in itself indicating their lack of patience/empathy more than any psychological insight – they don’t realise you’re trying to do that, and can only do that if listened to). And the second a terrible misunderstanding – you are at first not looking for change, just to be listened to at all: as another example, in my case I didn’t want to be taken out of my environment when I emailed my Tyrolean penpal Harald about latter-day trauma, nor would it have been possible for him to do so, I just wanted to be listened to long-distance… also, as if one needed a license or a professional qualification to be a compassionate listener! Their ‘we’re not therapists’ line is simply a cop out to avoid them of their responsibility.

I can see why Corina wrote why she did then, as it’s all too common to, as you say, see things backwards, putting again all responsibility for both the experiences and the healing process onto the victim. People are so quick to give this prescriptive black pedagogy ‘advice’, or otherwise to act non-committal with the silent treatment, or wash their hands of the matter. Another reason I’d like vast swathes of the population exterminated, as by your 4 words doctrine – if they really can’t develop empathy for these matters then they’re simply a liability in general.
 

I responded:

Corina was the only one who saw what my parents were doing to me when I was a teenager, but she didn’t confess it to me because she was fourteen years old, and when she tried to tell my mother, she only received a slap in the face, which ended the argument for decades, until Corina herself developed paranoid symptoms, although in her lucid moments we were finally able to communicate.

But when Cori wrote that letter she was acting as an agent of the System, what Miller calls “poisonous pedagogy”. Szasz hits the nail on the head when he said that psychiatry is like paediatrics: instead of listening, they try to lecture the victim (although Szasz never fully grasped the trauma model).

All these people giving advice don’t realise that what they’re doing is similar to telling the messenger who has just escaped the clutches of someone like Jeffrey Dahmer, and wants to alert his neighbours that there’s a serial killer in the block to calm down; to seek professional help, to forgive and forget, to not suffer from self-pity but take a stress pill instead, etc. The result of this insane deafness? Another victim of the serial killer!

This crazy example is not a false analogy.

If my grandmother Yoya had listened to me during the anecdote I tell at the beginning of “Nobody Wanted to Listen” she could have acted as my helping witness, intervened to the best of her humble ability (my parents had the power), and prevent my crucifixion and, in the years to come, prevent Corina’s psychological catastrophe too. But we lacked a helping witness.

All this explains, in effect, why I have developed an exterminationist philosophy. The current version of Homo sapiens remains a kind of Homo sapiens neanderthalensis in the sense that it still needs to be greatly ennobled.

Categories
Autobiography Child abuse

Consumption, 1

“The stars are not for man” —Karellen in the novel Childhood’s End.

As I said in the comments section of my previous post today, it is foolish to be a cosmologist when your race is being actively destroyed. This is not the time to fantasise about space travel, but rather to travel into inner space; that is, to fulfil the mandate of the Oracle of Delphi. A quote already cited in this blog (and on a page of my Day of Wrath) sheds light on the subject:

Only a ripe artist, one thoroughly acquainted with the workings of the mind, can be successful here. This is why psychological self-portraiture has appeared so late among the arts, belonging exclusively to our own days and those yet to come. Man had to discover continents, to fathom his seas, to learn his language, before he could turn his gaze inward to explore the universe of his soul.

We are commanded to know the universe of our own soul! I iterate: it is madness to start planning interstellar travel without first knowing oneself, knowledge that implies knowing what causes the darkest hour of the West. That is why it is worth quoting some passages from Benjamin’s book, Consumption, whose blurb I quoted a couple of days ago.

The key to understanding psychosis is what Colin Ross calls the problem of attachment with the perp, a concept explained in my Day of Wrath. Well into the book, Benjamin wrote:

I love my father. It is the deepest, most intrinsic love and one I could never shift or diminish, even if I wanted to. It brings me to tears as I think about it… But then I remember (and how could I forget?) these terrible childhood tortures on my father’s part…

One of the things Neanderthals don’t want to understand is that the mind is like the body: it has a breaking point. Primitive people, whom we revile as “Neanderthals”, seem to be saying—so alienated are they by their work ethic—that despite all mistreatment the human mind is infinitely resilient. The truth is that, just as it is not the same for the body to fall from one metre, three metres or from an aeroplane, the same is true of the mind: there are orders of magnitude in which the self can, literally, break.

In Benjamin’s life, and I am not only referring to his first trauma with his father when he was just five years old (the “apple episode” that I won’t recount here), there was also trauma at school. I am referring not only to bullying but also to the rape by a traitorous government that imported non-whites, including teenagers, due to the self-hatred that the English have suffered since 1945: a madness, alas, shared by the entire West.

I would like to quote a passage from Consumption after the rape of a mudblood that the author experienced at the age of six:

…I cannot remember as she [his mother] drove down the long evening lanes, the sun reddening in a haze over the yellow fields, and I sat way down in the seat, the seatbelt pulled down over my stomach, my legs curled up tight in the lock of my forearms, foggy, and faint in mind, with soreness all over, and with nothing I could have been able, or, tragically, allowed to say.

I never mentioned this incident to my parents afterwards, not once, for at least twenty-eight years, though I knew of it the while, even when they were, in some way, aware that I had had bad times at school. They still have no real clue, and I was brushed aside with an “Oh, that’s terrible. Oh, did that happen to you? How awful!” of polite disbelief when I did mention it to my mother, crying and raging down the phone, her reception the same as if it were a coffee morning anecdote in passing, or a fanciful tale for inadvertent amusement, as narrated by my aunt in one of her drunken outbreaks of hysteria. Each new time I tried, periodically over years, I’d hear an “Oh? Really? That’s not good to hear” from her, as if her memory too was missing over the occurrences, and she was instead hearing for the first time, and, dogmatically, she has always been known to tell others that “his early life was good” and “no, nothing ever happened to him, he had a good life with us” and words to that effect, all a further torture for me, as if she was honest, and as if it were her place (and her place alone) to say…

The gulley where I was molested

I did not blame my mother at the time for not helping me, and was unsure even how she could have. I could not register the pain myself and, bizarrely, forgot soon enough as times moved on, relegating it to a small corner pocket of an otherwise full and engaged mind, but as an adult, I raged mercilessly at her for her disbelief and was more than wounded.

This is where the soul murder only begins, plunging the child into a spiral of amplifying abuse until his mind collapses. When parents without empathy don’t understand, or do not want to understand, why their child no longer wants to get along with their schoolmates, instead of blaming the environment they blame the child: courtesy of biological psychiatry, although there are still professionals who realise that the fault did not lie with the child. Benjamin tells us:

Indeed, my thorough lack of interest in football was one of the prime reasons that my parents, in some heightened suspicion of me, took me at this age [seven years old] down to the village surgery to request an autism evaluation…

…given that I was used to being heavily bullied, “he dislikes noisy groups of children.” Though the GP listened to their unfounded complaints, did a few simple tests on me, and gave me the all-clear almost immediately, telling them quite bluntly to go away and stop speculating, I was left upset by this lack of faith on their parts, and the initial zeal of their incorrect sentiment offended me a little, acknowledging to myself that, for some frustrating reason, they had been swift to pathologise my innocuous – and totally normal – childhood behaviours, and still somehow, despite capitulating outwardly, could not entirely take the doctor’s firm “no” for an answer, confident in thinking themselves equipped to know my health better.

In the coming days I will continue reading Consumption. For now, the above quote provides a clear idea not only of the literary genre that Benjamin and I want to inaugurate, but also of why studying inner space is infinitely more important than studying outer space. The first may save the white race from its ongoing self-destruction; the second may not.

The stars are not for man.

Categories
Child abuse

Consumption:

Memories of my Childhood (back cover)

by Benjamin

 
A candid psychiatric autobiography on the guilt, shame, fear, and long-term trauma instigated by parental emotional abuse in a toxic environment of schoolyard bullying, medical malpractice, molestation, and harrowing physical violence, and the spiralling personal consequences for a wounded childhood.

Beginning when Benjamin was not yet a toddler, this heart-wrenching account tracks his sad dissolution across his early life, up through school, and into the climax of the depression that engulfed his late teenage years, culminating in a terrifying and destructive psychosis and the effective murder of his soul.

Inspired by the writings of Alice Miller, César Tort, and John Modrow, this two-book life history seeks to create a new literary genre, that of vindictive autobiography, where the painful abuses of Benjamin’s parents are spelled out in full detail, and, contrary to the ‘wisdom’ of most modern psychological therapies, they are held to account and not forgiven.

As Benjamin explains:

I love my Mum and Dad, but forgiveness is not a one way street, and they have never assimilated their responsibility, apologised, or tried to make things right, instead foisting me with further trauma on the cynical, pseudoscientific victim-blaming of the orthodox psychiatric industry.

Though I was raised as a strict Catholic, my writings seek to repudiate the fourth commandment, remembering the words of Friedrich Nietzsche in Twilight of the Idols: ‘When one gives up the Christian faith, one pulls the right to Christian morality out from under one’s feet.’

__________________

Editor’s note: Benjamin’s book is available here.

Categories
Alice Miller Child abuse

Remarkable

sentences of Alice Miller’s
Breaking Down the Wall of Silence:

 

______ 卐 ______

 

“…the wall of silence behind which society has sought to protect itself from the truth about cruelty and abuse in childhood”. (Foreword, page 5)

“Parents are indeed capable of routinely torturing their children without anyone interceding”. (Chapter 1, “Eve’s Initiative”, page 14)

“…remained completely repressed in me for almost sixty years. As a result, I betrayed that little girl [the inner girl that still inhabited in Miller’s heart]… There was no one to help me condemn cruelty”. (Chapter 2, “Out of the Prison of Confusion”, page 20)

“Hard as it is to believe, in the entire world there is not one single faculty in which a degree is offered in the study of psychic injuries in childhood”. (Ibid., page 25)

“So psychiatrists have… chosen not to know how psychoses develop”. (Chapter 3, “The Psychiatrists’ Campaign Against the Act of Remembering”, page 32)

“…that voice [of Miller’s inner wounded child], because it has taught me more than all the books I have ever read”. (Ibid., page 33)

“My justifiable anger makes me strong and aware. I can see through the lies because I have stopped forgiving, stopped praying or speculating, stopped laying the guilt on myself” (Ibid., page 35)

“…how damaging it is to preach forgetfulness and forgiveness. Isn’t that just what your patients have done their whole lives, and is that not why they have remained disordered?” (Ibid., pages 36-37)

“…what was previously regarded as a sin—criticism of our parents—is, in reality, our only chance of becoming healthy”. (Ibid., page 38)

“Psychoanalysis does not distort the truth by accident. It does so by necessity. It is an effective system for the suppression of the truth about childhood, a truth feared by our entire society. Not surprisingly, it enjoys great esteem among intellectuals”. (Chapter 4, “Blindman’s Buff and the Flight from the Facts in Psychoanalysis”, pages, 42-43)

“…fear of the truth about child abuse is a leitmotif of nearly all forms of therapy known to me”. (Ibid., page 48)

“Hate that we have experienced is not a poison, but one way out of the trap…” (Chapter 5, “The Media and the Wall of Silence”, page 61)

“To dismiss such people as ‘self-pitying’ only says something about one’s own early experiences…” (Ibid., page 71)

“And why, anyway, do human beings go on worshipping such horrific gods? (Chapter 6, “Child Sacrifice as ‘Tradition’”, page 77. Miller is referring to the god of the Jews. See also pages 193-199 of my book Day of Wrath.)

“The danger does not lie with individuals, however criminal they may be. Far more, it lies in the ignorance of our entire society… Teachers, attorneys, doctors, social workers, priests, and other respected representatives of society protect parents… Even the child protection agencies insist that this crime, and this crime alone, should go unpunished”. (Chapter 8, “The Monstrous Consequences of Denial”, page 87)

“The majority of therapists fear this truth. They work under the influence of destructive interpretations culled from both Western and Oriental religions, which preach forgiveness… they offer traditional morality… Forgiveness does not resolve latent hatred and self-hatred but rather covers them up in a very dangerous way”. (Chapter 9, “The Liberating Experience of Painful Truth”, page 131)

“By refusing to forgive, I give up my illusions. A mistreated child, of course, cannot live without them. But a grown-up therapist must be able to manage it. His or her patients should be able to ask: ‘Why should I forgive, when no one is asking me to? I mean, my parents refuse to understand and to know what they did to me. So why should I go on trying to understand and forgive my parents and whatever happened in their childhood, with things like psychoanalysis and transactional analysis? What’s the use? Whom does it help? It doesn’t help my parents to see the truth. But it does prevent me from experiencing my feelings, the feelings that would give me access to the truth. But under the bell-jar of forgiveness, feelings cannot and may not blossom freely’. Such reflections are, unfortunately, not common in therapeutic circles, in which forgiveness is the ultimate law”. (Ibid., page 135)

“This ideology is indivisible with the command ‘Thou shalt not be aware’ [of the cruelty your parents inflicted to you] and with the repetition of that cruelty on the next generation.

”But the demand for forgiveness that I often encounter can pose a danger for therapy, even though it is an expression of our culture. Mistreatment of children is the order of the day, and those errors are therefore trivialized by the majority of adults. Forgiving can have negative consequences, not only for the individual, but for society at large, because it can mean disguising erroneous opinions and attitudes, and involves drawing a curtain across reality so that we cannot see what is taking place behind it.

”The possibility of change depends on whether there is a sufficient number of enlightened witnesses to create a safety net for the growing consciousness of those who have been mistreated as children, so that they do not fall into the darkness of forgetfulness, from which they will later emerge as criminals or the mentally ill”. (Ibid., pages 135-136)

“How much unnecessary suffering [emphasis by Ed.] would I, my children and their future children, have been spared if I had been able to read this book when I was young…” (Ibid., letter to Miller, page 157)

“If one day the secret of childhood were to become no longer a secret, the state would be able to save immense sums that it spends on hospitals, psychiatric clinics, and prisons maintaining our blindness. That this might deliberately happen is almost too incredible a thought”. (Ibid., page 143)

Categories
Autobiography Child abuse

Selfish heirs

I finally have internet service after a few days without it due to moving from Yautepec, in the state of Morelos, to Mexico City.

After living alone in the house in Tlalpan my parents left behind, so large it had three pianos in various locations, my siblings decided to sell it. Since the money from the sale was divided among six heirs, the modest sum I received was only enough to rent a tiny place in the neighbourhood of Mexico City where I lived as a child and teenager.

Before my move from Yautepec, a town where the only white person was my dentist, where I had gone after the selling of my parents’ house in search of cheap rent, I had been talking on this site with Benjamin. We both have in common not just the fourteen words, but the four words (never, ever torment animals or children, which I summarise under the motto “Eliminate all unnecessary suffering”).

It’s curious how those who—unlike the distorted image Hollywood deceives us with—have been tormented by their parents to the point of psychic breakdown can, in their lucid states, see things that normies are incapable of seeing.

For example, when looking for an apartment in the capital, I had to pay for hotels because my brother, who inherited the family business, only let me stay in his apartment for one day, even though there was one room empty since his only son moved out. On the other hand, my old friend Marco, whom I’ve talked about on this site in several posts to illustrate what many YouTubers call “narcissism”, a condition that sometimes borders on psychosis, allowed my beloved family furniture into his home until his death. If it weren’t for Marco, I would have been dealt a terrible blow: the furniture that reminds me of the time when my parents hadn’t yet abused me would have been lost (Marco also offered me a room in his house to live in for a few days while I sorted out my affairs, although I declined his generous offer).

That’s the world! No one among the heirs of the Tort family after my parents passed is aware of what happened (my sister Corina died suddenly in 2016, and by law, her share of the inheritance went to her son, who now lives in Barcelona). Due to the torment my parents inflicted on me I was left unable to pursue a career, and wages in Mexico are so low that I couldn’t work either. If my siblings had been aware of what had happened, they would have left me the house so that I, who turns 67 next month, could live there for the rest of my days.

But they wanted money and now my future has become precarious…

My late sister Corina was fully aware that our parents murdered our souls, but no one who inherited the house has any conscience, and the same could be said of the family’s relatives and acquaintances. I am writing this entry because I owe the moral support, or the storage of my furniture, to people who have suffered psychotic breakdowns. Those I know who haven’t had these breakdowns don’t sympathise with me, nor with the new generations of children whose souls are being murdered at home; or with the animals being tortured in slaughterhouses and other sinister places.

I will use the little money I had left from the inheritance to translate into English my books where I narrate the tragedy that befell my family: a tragedy that not only destroyed the lives of Corina and me, but is repeated by millions of other abusive parents, with the difference that unlike me the victims do not write their autobiographies.

The topic is relevant even for racialists. A few years ago, one of them contacted me because he had serious mental health issues, and in my anti-psychiatric writings he found an oasis in a desert of incomprehension. And there’s a well-known racialist who has a website that he started even before The West’s Darkest Hour appeared. Many years ago he had such severe mental health issues that he was once labelled schizophrenic, if I remember his testimony correctly.

The topic of how abusive parents murder the souls of their children is fundamental, although it remains taboo in our societies. If Alice Miller weren’t anti-Nazi I would recommend her book, Breaking Down the Wall of Silence.

Categories
Child abuse

Lidz

I want to expand on what I discussed yesterday with Benjamin about the trauma model of mental disorders because the topic is a universal taboo, including in the racialist community, to the point that catastrophes like those of William Pierce and Don Black’s children are incomprehensible. (My working hypothesis is that, had they been treated well as children, they would have followed in their parents’ footsteps instead of betraying their ideals.)

It all has to do with the omnipresent taboo, and I’d like to illustrate it with the first reading I ever did of a mental health professional who, unlike bio-reductionist psychiatry, which is pseudoscientific, was one of the pioneers in talking about parents who schizophrenized their children.

Theodore Lidz

It was 1983 when I was broke precisely because of the abuse I had suffered at home the previous decade. At the famous Gandhi Bookstore in Mexico City, I read the interview with Dr Theodore Lidz in the book Laing and Anti-Psychiatry, edited by Robert Boyers and Robert Orrill. Back then, there were no comfortable armchairs like those found in Barnes & Noble bookstores, and I had to read that long interview standing up because the subject fascinated me. It was the first time in my life I had read someone who came close to what I believed had happened in my family.

Seven years later, I managed to buy a copy of Boyers and Orrill’s book, translated into Spanish by Alianza Editorial of Madrid, which was the same edition I had read at the Gandhi Bookstore. Since I don’t have the original English version, I can’t quote a passage from the interview with Lidz verbatim, but I can restate its content.

When the interviewer asked if Lidz was surprised that books on schizophrenia, like those by Ronald Laing, had become popular among young people (this is a 1971 book and reflected the mood of the 1960s), Lidz replied that he was surprised that Laing wrote for the general public and not for a professional audience. What struck me as I reread that interview yesterday was that Lidz added that it wasn’t the public’s business to know what happens in these families, even though Laing might have altered the details to make his cases anonymous. Lidz added that, in his work on cases of schizogenic parents—that is, those who drive their children mad—he wasn’t able to publish the reports of most of the families because some of the parents were quite well-known, and even with pseudonyms, they could have been recognised. He added that some of the cases ran to 50 to 80 typewritten pages, ‘truly precious documents’, but that they couldn’t be published.

This struck me greatly because in my Letter to Mom Medusa, I cite a case in which Lidz violated what he said above: the case of Mrs Newcomb (a pseudonym) and her extremely passive husband, who helped me so much in understanding my parents.

On the next page I reread yesterday, Lidz, with whom I spoke on the phone in the 1990s when he was already quite old, surprised me again because he wrote that he didn’t believe the schizogenic parents had done anything wrong; that they hadn’t meant to harm the child, and that this contrasted with what Laing wrote, for whom the parents’ intentions were often malicious. Lidz added, and here I retranslate it again from my Spanish copy into English, that ‘parents do the best they can—they can’t be different from what they are’.

This goes against the thesis of my autobiographical books, where I say that my father could have chosen the good: not to be influenced by the lies his wife told about me, but rather should have communicated with me in my adolescence (cf. both the final pages of Hojas Susurrantes and the first chapter of ¿Me Ayudarás?).

It’s been forty-two years since I first read the very lucid interview with Lidz standing in the Gandhi Bookstore, an interview that was a turning point in the research I did on my parents. It’s only natural that after so many years, my thinking has matured, largely due to the work of Alice Miller: the first psychologist in history who, unlike her predecessors (like Lidz), unequivocally took the side of the victimized child. (Despite what Lidz said, Laing didn’t completely side with the victim either, as we see in the middle chapter of my Hojas Susurrantes.)

In the previous thread, Benjamin complained that the racial right couldn’t care less about the issue, to which I responded that the German woman who received the mantle after Alice Miller died said that blaming parents is the most potent taboo in the human psyche. I’m posting this entry because, I see now, the taboo was present even in the works of my admired mentors, whom I read decades ago. The abysmal difference between them and us is that, in siding with the victim, we don’t care about what Lidz and company feared: that the public would realise which families the clinical material refers to, those ‘truly precious documents’ he didn’t dare publish (and which would have done enormous good for our cause had they been published!).

Do you now understand the new literary genre that people like John Modrow, Benjamin and I want to inaugurate? By siding a hundred per cent with the victim, not only do we not care about people recognising the abusive families, but we write using their real names!

Only revenge heals the wounded soul, even though we’re talking about literary revenge.