A Farewell to Charms

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Ill: «Transcendence #3», A3, 2019, Moiret Allegiere

 

The nightsky is ripped in half by a flash of lightning. The streets below are brightly lit for a split second as rain pours down in buckets. In this split second we see, marching through the streets uniformally, groups of men, grey of skin, wading in electrically charged rainwater reaching their knees.

A torrential downpour from moody skies, vivid vivisections portrayed on monumental televisionscreens anchored to cosmetically challenged greyscale buildings interspersed occasionally with the simple words «Obey!» and «Submit!».

The sidewalks and pavements are all cracked and broken, dilapitated from feet trudging along day after day, year after year, on the same path towards mindnumbing oblivion. The wear-and-tear of mind-and-soul-breaking monotonous routines. Left foot. Right foot. Onwards, ever onwards towards the same uninspired goal.

Whispers from loudspeakers anchored underneath the ground rise up, amplified through the water and through the bones and flesh of the men marching there, so as to emulate their own internal monologues in a bewitching sing-song voice of poisonous charm and thinly veiled contempt.

A constant stream of sentences, fragmented, disjointed, yet somehow maintaining an illusion of internal consistency as the core message remains the same, summed up in a coarse, hoarse, rude and rudimentary misconception of compassion: «Some of you are all well and good, but you could still do better.». Whispered in a seductive, alluring voice resonating through tides and times of evolutionary guidelines, being carried through the bloodstream of this marching group of men from their feet, through their balls and cocks, straight up into their brains, minds, souls. In brilliant unsung unison repeated by the grey marching masses: «We could still do better».

Swiftly now, swiftly, the water is rising, and as their arms move in splendid synchronicity with each other, we see the water evaporate from muscles and tendons rotting from external empathetic malnourishment as the arms rise from the water and plunge straight into the water again, repeating the process over and over. And sweat flows down their faces in the cold air; a sweat born from constant toil and stress, not from warmth nor from heat, internally or externally. A anxious cold sweat wiped away by the constant rain; emulating windshieldwipers moving to the rhythm of the unseen whips constantly caressing their backs, leaving red and inflamed lines resembling dried-up riverbeds. Wounds left to never heal, opened and reopened and then opened again.

Confined to small spaces in small hours of sleep granted graciously by the powers-that-be, nailed to restless sleep in beds lined with lead, the whispered voices remain in concrete-dreams and are absorbed by neurological impulses, ingrained falsehoods now internalized and taken as concrete truth: «You and only you can do better».

And then – what could be better? They could crawl through broken glass in broken streets lined with broken dreams and beat their own chests bloody with sharp rocks picked from the rabble of values and virtues they used to have, chanting as a liturgy that «We can still do better!», and they would still be told that – yes – you can still do better.

There is no sharp and brilliant end-goal in mind; merely a fleeting unending demand for change, to change this, change that, change everything and then change it back. There is no pleasing the demands, and apologies only makes it worse, wildeyed wonders staring out from underneath a jumbled, confused mess of wordsalads changing goalposts eternally and seeking ever new and ever fresh hunting grounds for conceived ills and faults and flaws in slick post-reason city streets and alleys.

In the gutters lie broken men, shattered, forgotten and left to die as the men marching on looks on or ignores, marching ever onwards to the beat of the drum fantastic, thinking that these dying men did not heed the call to change and so did not change and so got what they deserved. And the music and the sentiments rise up and engulf them in strategic strikes of pen and paper, torrents of abuse and buckets of piss to clean the wounds which, the claim is, the men brought on themselves by being men incapable of just and needed justly needed change.

A life in servitude and constant change, days of stress, devoid of stability and devoid of meaning and devoid of reason as heads nod, down, up, nodding, bopping, bobbing up and down as every demand is met to change and reinvent and do again that which was done yesterday to soothe the aging illness of the world inhabited by mad despair, wild desires and the wickedness of men.

The boots and bots go stomp and stomp and stomp. There is no rest to be had from the constant flow of self-contradictory and self-congratulatory information running wildly through the wild interconnectedness of our internal internets; everything is a issue that needs to be dealt with and everyone shall be damned sure to know this and to say this. And all demands shall be met and damn the demands that are already met as they are damned near never met anyways because, it is proven, it is never good enough. That demand belongs to yesterday. This demand belongs to today. In absolute contradiction to the demands of yesterday, but still containing the same definitive shame and sentiment yesterday as today.

So try and try again, and fail and fail again and be met again with the constant reminder of your moral inferiority and lack of compassion, of virtue and understanding, for refusing to change even as you do change and even as the sweat pouring down your face is replaced with blood from open gashes in your forehead created by a mind rupturing from the inside due to the stress in attempting to understand the what and how and when and where, subsequently failing to submit to the change needed to be a good man, a man worthy of love and fornication and subsequent procreation to drive the geneflow onwards and keep the bloody goddamned thing alive and going for a few centuries more.

And try and try again to not buckle under the constant misinformation and malignant assaults as you march in piss reaching up to your ears and trickling into your mind, wanting only to please but never succeeding in pleasing and never reaching destination unknown; a destination changing every day as new information is absorbed from the lightning cracking the sky manifested as birds chirping, tweeting, flapping their wings and viscious beaks. And then internalize the emotional violence from up high in the castles of unimagined horrors beset with jewels and encased in death and despair and destruction and wild-eyed confusion and a thirst for power so extreme that nothing penetrates the walls of the castle but that which is already considered good and pure and proper and true. And that which is already considered good and proper and true is the old calamity disguised as the new, and a paranoid kick in the womb sets the whole thing in motion to drive the stake into the hearts of men; intravenously injected neuroticism in women to make them blame men constantly and seek men constantly to provide for them and protect them from the constant evil force that is men who are, hopefully, not you.

And, as a bone thrown to the dogs, we are told the fable of the few good men so as to believe that we have something to strive towards; that we may maybe be viewed as one of these «good men», and that we are as such deserving of the good charms of a woman if only we could tow the party line and consider our very nature as toxic as we march through these streets doing what we do, ever trying to change in our attempt to please and to serve, no matter the pleasure sought, to be accepted and viewed in a way that is less hostile and less damaging to the inherent good and pure of womanhood.

Marching as we do, with our heads submerged in water, we have not yet realised that the beats of the drum which we march to in these grim nights and days are that of a slow and sombre funeral drum. And we have not yet realised that there is not a few good men scattered here and there, but a few bad men scattered here and there. And these bad men are stopped, and have been stopped for all time, by the everyday goodness, kindness and compassion of everyday man.

– Moiret Allegiere, 23.01.2019

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Guest post: My Trip Through the Polypharmacy Blender

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Ill: «Au Contraire #3», Moiret Allegiere, 2017

The following two stories is a guest post, written by a friend of mine named Rory. In my opinion, his story is incredibly important, and as such need to be spread far and wide and heard by as many as possible. I hope you will find it informative and eyeopening.

 

I was asked by David Healy to write my own story after he read my comment on another RxISK story. I agreed but have been surprised how hard it was to sit down and do it. I knew the story, the words were in my head. Yet I avoided getting started. Perhaps it was because of the painful emotions I knew it would bring to the surface. Or maybe because it reminds me of the pain and suffering my family had to endure, how much we lost and the fact that I may not be able to do anything about it. Or it could be my frustration from the cognitive difficulties I still have, making writing a difficult task that drains what little energy I have.

My trip started this way: I was ill, injured and in pain. I went to my doctors for help, and they proceeded to drug me into oblivion. My PCP or “family doctor” diagnosed me with fibromyalgia. I don’t think he really knew what I had, but once he put a name on my symptoms, he started throwing drugs at them. I was in constant pain, chronically fatigued and began to have severe bouts of anxiety. For four years I saw doctor after doctor but none of them could tell me what was wrong, or why I was getting worse not better despite all the drugs. It turns out I had autoimmune arthritis. I’d had it for 30 years, and since it was misdiagnosed and untreated for so long, my spine was a total wreck.

I have worked in construction for 38 years, as a skilled tilesetter with my own business. I love the work but it can be rough on the back. I am now on disability due to a combination of my disease and the multiple toxic “treatments” I was put on.

Seven seizure warnings… and five for serotonin syndrome

From the beginning of my four-year search and the two years following my diagnosis I was on an ever-changing cocktail of drugs that kept me off balance constantly. I was at that time unaware of the drug companies’ influence on medical practice, and I trusted that my doctors knew all about the drugs they were giving me. Big, big mistake! They knew very little about the drugs and the “side effects.” They, like me, believed what we are told about side effects – that they are “mild and rare.” Nothing could be further from the truth.

My drug list started with Wellbutrin, Trazodone and Flexeril. When Lyrica and Cymbalta were added, the real trouble began. At the end of six years my list of drugs included, among other things, FIVE major drug interaction WARNINGS for serotonin syndrome. FIVE! Not to mention seven warnings about an increased risk of seizures. And not one doctor saw that as a problem. If they did, they didn’t say anything. I carried my drug list to every appointment, so all my many doctors had my updated list. None of them said anything about the dangers. Neither did my pharmacists.

Being somewhat of a health seeker, I really didn’t like taking all those drugs and worried what they might be doing to me. I asked friends about it. They said “The doctors know what they are doing, trust them, take the medications.” My meditation/self hypnosis counselor said, “I have several clients, some of them pro athletes, who take multiple meds. I tell them to concentrate only on the positive effects of the medicines, not on the negative effects. That way your body will know what to do with the medicine.” Hmm, that didn’t work out very good for me.

How to become an alcoholic in 30 days or less

Before my trip through the Pharma looking glass began, I had quit drinking altogether. I had been sober for five years, solidly sober and liked it. In October 2010 I was on Trazodone and Wellbutrin. When Flexeril and Naprelan were added, within weeks I suddenly had strong urges to drink, which had been totally absent until that point. I now know that Flexeril (cyclo-benzaprine) acts just like a tricyclic antidepressant and should never be mixed with trazodone or Wellbutrin. The urge and the thoughts of drinking came on suddenly and very strong.

I made two trips to alcohol rehab, attended AA regularly but could not stay sober to save my life. I had numerous run-ins with the law as well. My behavior had become so bizarre, unpredictable, unstable and dangerous that I thought I had lost my mind and myself completely. I had no control over my thoughts, emotions or behavior, no matter what I did or how hard I tried. I watched my family suffer horribly in fear and confusion at what was happening.

Now I know why. Drugs can drive people to drink for relief from the agonizing akathisia that they cause. Couple that with the disinhibiting effect of the drugs, and it’s a recipe for alcoholism. That’s not just true for the antidepressants, but Lyrica too. The warning on Lyrica says that “People who have had a drinking problem in the past may be prone to abuse Lyrica.” It really should say: “If you take Lyrica you may have strong, uncontrollable urges to drink.” Lyrica can cause alcohol abuse, I have no doubt. So can Cymbalta, Zoloft and several other drugs I was on. I didn’t have a chance in hell to stay sober on those drugs.

“One way or another, this is going to stop.”

By April 2014 I was at the end of my rope. My life and my mind were coming completely apart, and I and everyone else who tried to help me was helpless to stop it. I went to my PCP or family doctor, whom I had not seen in quite a while. I explained what was happening and told him that I could not go on this way. “One way or another, this is going to stop,” I told him. He understood what I was saying.

I handed him my medication list and asked if he saw a problem. By that time it included 12 drugs: Cymbalta, Lyrica, trazodone, Trileptal, gabapentin, Wellbutrin, tramadol, Soma, Amrix (more cyclobenzaprine), Etodolac, lisinopril and Sprix (ketorolac). Some were for physical pain, some were for bipolar disorder, and some were for both. The lisinopril was for blood pressure.

He immediately became alarmed, saying “Who prescribed all this!? You can’t take all this at once! This is lethal! Serotonin Syndrome. You have to stop!” He had sent me to a psychiatrist a couple years prior to this because of my behavior problems, depression and what he thought might be bipolar disorder. The shrink added more drugs, never suspecting that my problems were all drug-related. The more he drugged me the worse I got. He blamed me – it was my worsening mental illness, he said.

I stopped five of the drugs my PCP had checked off on my list that day—cold turkey. The doctor did not warn me about what might happen if I stopped all at once, and I didn’t have a clue this would be a problem. The next few weeks were torture, but I made it. I don’t remember much about that period, and maybe that’s a good thing. I do not know why I was able to stop that many psychoactive drugs at once and survive, but I did. Several doctors and counselors have commented that I was either very tough or very lucky, or both.

Reawakening

After about two months I noticed I was different. I was sober, and I stayed that way with little effort. My anger, irritability and restlessness had come way down the scale. I could actually think, read and comprehend what I was reading. Something had changed, and I wanted to know why. I started researching; behavior change, causes. I found that chronic pain, chronic fatigue and many physical illnesses can cause behavior changes.

Then I found the RxISK.org site. The most surprising thing I found was how prescription drugs could be responsible for severe and uncontrolled behavior problems. The very same problems I was having! So why did none of my doctors recognize this? Did they not know this about the drugs they were giving me? If they did, they did not tell me.

What some are saying about drug companies running the information show and hiding the truth about their chemicals appears to be very true. Very few doctors are aware of the risks involved in the drugs they so willingly hand out. My shrink was the worst offender. He obviously did not have any clue that all of my symptoms were drug-induced. He followed the DSM to the letter and I was at the point of suicide. I know that to be true since all my symptoms have miraculously disappeared since I stopped taking the drugs.

Imagine that. I didn’t need the drugs after all. They were not helping, they were hurting me!

Is anyone looking out for the patient?

When I went back to my PCP after coming off most of the rest of the drugs I had been taking, I took along a RxISK report for Lyrica. I asked him to read it, and sign it if he agreed that my symptoms could be from Lyrica. That is what is suggested on the RxISK site: take the report to your doctor. I had multiple reports for the different drugs, but decided to take just the one since he was so insistent that Lyrica would help me and that I keep taking it. My RxISK score was 8 out of a possible 9, meaning it was very, very likely my problems were connected to Lyrica.

He read it and said he had never heard of any of this about Lyrica. He knew nothing about mood or behavioral side effects from that drug. He would not sign the report, out of fear of being sued, I guess. He acted very nervous and apprehensive. He asked if I was going to sue him, or sue someone. He kept asking about RxISK: “What is it? What do they do? I’ve never seen this before.”

His response to the RxISK report dampened my willingness to do that again. However, I may now have the will to take the rest of the reports to him and my shrink. That would be very interesting to see the look on his face, my shrink. I might just do that.

Recently I talked to the doctor who treats my autoimmune condition about that medication list. I had showed it to him back in April 2014, right before I saw my PCP and stopped the drugs. To my surprise, he said, “I saw that list and I remember thinking, how is this guy even standing in front of me today? Why is he not dead?”

I asked him why he didn’t say anything at the time. He said, “I can get into a great deal of trouble by criticizing the prescribing habits of other doctors. Legal trouble.” WOW. I did not know how to respond, so I didn’t. I just thought about it for a while, what that means for patients. Your doctor might not look out for you, even if your life is in danger, for fear of legal trouble.

I have taken my med list to my pharmacists also, and asked them for their opinion. All of them said it was way too much medication, with several duplications—two meds that do the same thing. I asked why they did not say something to me as I was getting these prescriptions filled. They said, “Well, your doctor prescribed it, so I guess he thought it was OK.” Another said, “You didn’t ask.”

What writing this has done, I hope, is renewed my willingness to pick up the ball and continue spreading the word about pharmaceuticals and the dangers. I am planning on taking the RxISK reports to the prescribing doctors and to pharmacists. There seems to be so much lack of knowledge and apathy about drugs from the people who prescribe them and sell them.

Every time I hear on a drug commercial, “Ask your doctor,” it reminds me of just how bad the situation really is, and how ridiculous the phrase is. Ask your doctor about ________. Really?

 

***

 

A couple years ago I wrote my story and posted it on http://www.RxISK titled: “My Trip Through The Polypharmacy Blender”

Below is a short summary followed by an update on my life as it is now. Many thanks to Bob Fiddaman who kept encouraging me to finish this after several starts, fails, and stalls. It is difficult to write due to having to relive the painful emotions of what I had to survive and live through while telling this account of my life.

In short, I was ill, injured and in constant pain. I went to my doctors for help and they proceeded to drug me into oblivion. I had been in pain for a long time, years in fact and it was getting worse, interfering with my ability to work and function in every area of life. I went to my PCP or family doctor because after all, he knew me well and I could trust him. After a quick and mostly verbal exam, he diagnosed me with fibromyalgia and started prescribing medications. They helped a little but not much so he kept adding and changing medications. Little did I know that he, like the majority of doctors, did not know much about the drugs he was prescribing and what they actually do to a person, physically and emotionally do to a person. He, like most doctors and patients, believe what we have been told about prescription drugs. They are safe, effective and the “side effects” are mild and rare.

Nothing could be further from the truth.  The “side effects” are not mild and they are not rare. Drug companies have done an excellent job of deceiving most of us about the truth of what these chemicals actually do inside a body. I began to have emotional and behavioral problems after a few short months of “treatment” with medications so my doctor sent me to a psychiatrist. That was another huge mistake, one that cannot be exaggerated enough. The shrink added more drugs on top of what I was already taking, completely ignoring the drug interaction warnings and completely neglecting to inform me of what to watch out for. The more he drugged me the worse I became. My emotions, my behavior, my life spiraled out of control and I was at the point of suicide to end the horror of what my life had become.

Five major drug interaction warnings for serotonin syndrome. Seven for seizures and blackouts and he said nothing to me. Neither did any other doctor I was seeing nor any of my pharmacists. No one said a word about it until I specifically asked my family doctor when I went to see him out of desperation and as a last stop before ending my struggle the only way I could think of ending it.

I asked my PCP if he saw a problem with my medications because I was not getting better but getting worse and I was at the end of my rope. When he saw the list he panicked, literally panicked.

“Who prescribed this? You can’t take all of these drugs together. This is lethal! You have to stop. Serotonin syndrome. You have to stop now!” All of my doctors saw my medication list each time I visited them. That is what we are told to do, bring your medication list to every doctor appointment.  He was the first to say anything about my medications and I suspect it is only because I specifically asked him about it.

So I did. I stopped five of the medications cold turkey that day, five that he checked off on the list of more than ten prescriptions. That was the beginning of my recovery. A long and painful recovery that is still in progress.

Three Years Later

The pain was not fibromyalgia, it was autoimmune arthritis. It has a long scary name but basically, it is a form of rheumatoid arthritis that is serum negative for rheumatism. Undifferentiated Spondyloarthropathy or USpA. It is not uncommon, just not well recognized at the time and often misdiagnosed or undiagnosed as in my case. Because it was undiagnosed for 30 plus years it really made a wreck of my spine and shoulders. Three multi-level spinal fusions repaired the worst of the damage but there remains a great deal of structural damage and a good deal of daily pain.

The wreckage left by the disease is much easier to bare than is the wreckage left by the “treatment” by the western medicine model that uses pharmaceuticals and the damage they cause to lives and relationships and reputations.

What Is Left Over?

My marriage did not survive the ordeal and now I am no longer in touch with two of my three children due to the events related to my “treatment”. There is no doubt these events are related, in fact directly caused by my “treatment”. These events, behaviors, are spelled out in black and white in the FDA and in the drug company self-administered test research data and warnings. Spelled out clearly and precisely and then often followed by the phrase, «these side effects are mild and rare». Be advised, that phrase is well crafted to intentionally disarm the natural human self-preservation instinct we all have. The instinct to pay attention, to be alert to a possible danger and to act when we experience the afore-described phenomena. The phrase is very effective. Even effective on the professionals who prescribe and distribute those drugs because most of them do not consider the side effects important enough to mention to the patient. After all, the findings come from those who are educated and in authority so it must be true.

A side note; “Side effect” is a term created by drug manufacturers. Drugs do not have side effects. There is no such thing as a side effect. Drugs have effects. If one has a reaction as a consequence of taking a drug it is an effect of the drug. Calling it a side effect is intended to make you think it is unintentional, inconsequential and therefore not important. It really didn’t happen or really does not matter because that was not the reason you took the medication. The term is an intentional disarming tool created and skillfully used by drug companies.

Another phrase often used by drug companies is, “your doctor has determined the benefits outweigh the risks of using this medicine.” Did your doctor actually say that?  Does your doctor actually know that is true, is it a fact or at least a realistic expectation?

Interestingly the doctors are just as susceptible as we are to the power of suggestion of these phrases. The truth is our doctor often does not know what the risks are. They have not bothered to research the risks, instead relying on what the drug company sales representative verbally told them in the office sales pitch about the drugs.  Sadly, that is as far as most doctors go with research on the tools they use to treat you with.

What Is Left Of My Life Now I Am Alone?

I have a few friends and a few family members who understand and support me. I now have a criminal record as an abuser. Something completely opposite of my true character. That is what the drugs are capable of doing. They can and do change a person to someone they are not.

Take a person who is ill, injured and in pain, put them on mind-altering chemicals that cause serotonin syndrome, akathisia, and disinhibition and see what you get. You get a person stuck in the fight or flight mode. A person who is in survival mindset and who has lost control over how they act regardless of what they know to be right and wrong. Contrary to the belief of many, even professional councilors, it is possible to cause a person to lose the ability to choose how to act 100% of the time and choose how to behave at all times. If you think that is not true try it yourself. It is entirely possible and even very likely that if you alter a persons brain chemistry that person will lose the ability to choose how to behave. They may be able to choose most of the time but not all of the time.

So today I carry around a criminal record as an abuser even though my true identity is nothing like that. My life up until this point had a nearly spotless record save a few traffic tickets, most of which originated in my youth. I was an upstanding, law-abiding citizen, so much so that I had a license to carry a handgun concealed on my person if I chose to do so.

Now during the period of «treatment» in the form of drugging with as many as 12-14 psychoactive pharmaceuticals at a time, all legally prescribed and taken as directed, I was a menace to society. Not so much to society really but more to myself and to the people I loved the most and who bore the brunt of my drug-induced and akathisia driven behavior. Chemically altered, I was not myself and I was helpless to do anything about it.

Seeking Justice

Now having some time to somewhat recover from the drugging and from the emotional turmoil, I wanted to do something to help myself and other individuals and their families, possibly saving them from a similar fate or worse than the one I had to endure. At first, I had anger toward the doctors whose negligence caused my and my families suffering. I went after a way to try to recoup some of the monetary loss caused by their mistakes and at the same time hopefully dissuade the doctors and pharmacists from being so careless in the future. I contacted some 20 law firms, presented my evidence to them and asked if they were interested in representing me in a lawsuit. All of them said I had a strong case, most of them said I had an 80-90% chance of winning. However, they said, because of Tort Reform in Texas limiting the maximum award amount to $250,000, it would not be profitable enough for them to pursue a lawsuit. They said it costs about $100,000 to prosecute a medical negligence case and that there would not be enough money left over to make it worth their while to take the case. It’s not that I couldn’t win, just that they could make more money on other types of cases.

OK, I thought, I’ll go to the Texas Medical Board first and try to obtain a ruling or sanction against the psychiatrist first, then threaten a lawsuit and force him to settle without a trial. Surely that would work in my favor. Wrong again. I filed a complaint and waited for an answer. After two months waiting, I received a letter with a two-sentence denial stating there was not enough evidence to show the «good doctor« was negligent in his treatment. I was really surprised because I was very careful and methodical in putting together all the evidence. I had my medical records from him and all my doctors including his notes from each appointment, pharmacy records, testimony from my wife who attended most of my appointments, everything I needed to show that he prescribed multiple medications that I should never have been taking simultaneously. Records showing cold stops and starts with multiple psych drugs simultaneously, multiple drug interaction warnings, no instructions about side effects to watch for, reporting from my wife and I about my condition involving anger and aggression. It was all there in black and white.

Stunned, I filed an appeal, went to Austin for the hearing and testified with all of my evidence which was very clear and sufficient to show negligence.

I was stunned again with a ruling that there was not enough «clear evidence» showing negligence. I could not even get validation that anything wrong was done. I could not get the powers that be to acknowledge I had been treated incorrectly. I could get no validation that the doctors and pharmacists had done anything wrong. The evidence was there. It was clear and condemning, even in the doctor’s handwritten notes.

You see, the Medical Board is made up of doctors and healthcare providers and they protect their own. They too may one day need the protection of their peers so they are not about to stain the water by punishing one of their own.

Today

So here I sit today. My life completely uprooted, burnt and in ashes from the firestorm of «treatment» I received because I did what I was supposed to do. Go to your doctor and follow his/her instructions. And there is nothing I can do about it. I cannot even get validation that anything was done incorrectly. What irks me even further is that these healthcare professionals were paid well to practice medicine in this way. They were compensated well, praised for their work, respected by the community and their peers while all the while making me out to be the bad guy, the one who was sick. I trusted them and paid them to destroy my life.

The justice system is just as bad. They believe what they are told by professionals in the medicine and healthcare system. Furthermore, they feel compelled to dish out justice when something wrong is done but they suffer from a systemic flaw that does not allow them to find the real culprit. The pressure is on them to do something and they automatically take the easy and most obvious route at dishing out punishment directed at the most obvious offense, even though the offender may not be the one truly at fault. The offender may be a victim as well. But, it is easy, safe and more economical to focus on the most glaring, the most currently popular and trending knee-jerk, emotion-triggering act. Physical abuse. They go home with a win in their pocket and a sense of accomplishment without being questioned by anyone and without ever having to ask the difficult question. Why? What caused this? Who is responsible for this? What contributed to this?

For this, they are compensated and praised by everyone. That praise cements their conviction that they were right, that they did the right thing. Besides, even if they did know or even suspect that the prescriptions were the cause they face a huge uphill battle against wealthy pharmaceutical companies who hire expert lawyers. Lawyers who know how to obfuscate and twist the truth so there is doubt enough to absolve them of guilt. A win would be hard to get and a loss would not look good on a prosecutors record.  That record of wins is how they are graded and compensated so getting at the truth is not their first priority, winning is. That is a systemic flaw preventing true justice being done.

I am left wondering how many times this has happened to unsuspecting people. People who still probably do not know what went wrong. People who are left thinking they are at fault when in fact the fault squarely rests on the healthcare providers and the pharmaceutical companies who peddle this poison and intentionally mislead doctors and the public about what the drugs actually do. It is 10 months since my trip to Austin and the humiliating experience of being blamed again for what was clearly not my fault. I am just now beginning to feel like I can pick myself up and try to salvage a life from this mess. Just now groping to find the will to get up every day and find a positive attitude so I can move forward.  I’m still not sure what I want to do or even what I am capable of accomplishing. I want to continue to try to make a difference, if for no other reason than to possibly help prevent some other persons and families from having to suffer this kind of hell. Just not sure what to do at this point. Somehow I have to find a way to support myself since my wife divorced me and took away the last bit of security I had in this world. After supporting myself I will have to dig up the energy and will to continue trying to make a difference. That is hard to do because I have been having to swallow the bitter pill of defeat each time I made an effort to do something.

Lessons To Be Learned

One invaluable lesson I have learned is to trust no one and no institution until they earn that trust. Not healthcare, not the justice system, not the Medical Boards or any other consumer safety organization and certainly not any business institution such as pharmaceuticals who have a profit margin at stake. If I sound jaded or angry it is because I am. I am with good cause to be angry, not just because of what happened to me but because this continues to happen every day to other good people who often never learn the truth. My Dad was one of those good persons. He died thinking he was sick, but that is another story to tell. A life completely destroyed by negligent treatment by healthcare as it is today.

Lives are being destroyed for the sake of profit and the guilty go unpunished.

____________________________________________________________________________________________

Links;

Visit my blog:

https://moiretallegiere.wordpress.com/

Check out my youtubechannel:

https://www.youtube.com/channel/UC3IaCxAXE3pQd7PCdvHoaaA

Check out my bitchutechannel:

https://www.bitchute.com/channel/EvbGZyTZSraY/

Stalk me on social media (as long as it lasts):

twatter:

https://twitter.com/MAllegiere

Gab:

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Minds:

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Flickr:

https://www.flickr.com/photos/152465815@N04/

 

Lashing out, lashing in, let me begin:

transcendence 2 a3 lowres

Ill: «Transcendence #2», A3, 2019, Moiret Allegiere

 

This is going to be a relatively long one. Grab a drink, buckle yourself in and get comfortable.

Last night, (14.01.2019) I woke at five in the morning with the horrible sensation of not being able to breathe properly. A reasonable person would probably have taken this as a sign of some difficulties with the heart; a cause for great concern and an immediate evacuation to the halls of healing provided by our health services. Not me, though. I engaged in deep breathing until it passed, and then I fell asleep again, and woke with the mindshattering sound of my alarmclock going of three hours later. A reasonable person would probably consider my actioan in this instance to be of some concern; a sign that I am not taking my health seriously. The truth of the matter is that I am used to waking up like this. There is a lingering subconscious panic and dread somewhere in the dark recesses of my unconscious psyche still; a vague voice whispering that I am not yet, for lack of a better word, fulfilled.

Of course, these nocturnal bouts of panic and doom has lessened immensely over the course of the past two years. Prior to this, it happened every night and was far more severe. Every night for two years, I woke with what can only be described as night-terrors, and could not get back to sleep no matter how much I tried. The confusion and pure panic in those moments made me fear and avoid sleep as much as I could; sometimes not going to bed at all, but clincing to being awake as though my life depended on it. And maybe it did. At the very least, I belive my sanity – or what little was left of it in those fabled days of yore – depended upon it.

Sitting like that, alone at night with nothing for comfort but youtube and my own random, racing thoughts gave me a lot of room to think. Probably too much room to think. It also granted me the ability, over time, to control my thoughts and fracturing mind. Not as good as I would wish, but better than it ever had or has been. Some good came of it, even if I spent three years, give or take, in a state of constant agitation and panic. It put me on a path I desperately needed to be put upon, though I did not know it at the time.

For a multitude of years, I had been going to therapy. And their way of helping me was to put me on drugs, drugs and more drugs. I was given drugs to counteract the sideeffects of the other drugs I was on, and new drugs to combat the effects of those drugs which were meant to combat the effects of the other drugs. An entire, multicoloured galaxy of uppers, downers, screamers and streamers to keep me sane. That is: to keep me numb and burnt out. To keep my mind from being my mind. Due to the amount of drugs, and the relatively young age at which I was given these, they halted my emotional development and put my life dead in its tracks for several years. Nothing happened. I was sitting in stasis – gaining weight and gaining pessimism and gaining an everexpanding sense of frustration in regards to my life – or lack of life. This frustration was very much subconscious, but manifested in several severely selfdestructive ways. Which, of course, made the psychiatrists give me more drugs. The circle was complete. And the damage was done. And the damage still lingers.

At the time, of course, I believed that the fault for my life going absolutely nowhere was that of my own and my mind, fractured and ruined as I had been told that it was, from seeing shrink after shrink since I was fifteen years old and my teenage temperament, all gloomy depression and confused anxiety, was treated as a severe mental illness. Thus, being told half my life that there was something wrong with me meant that there had to be something wrong with me.

In essence, I was brought up into illness by the hum-diddle school of psychology. This is, of course, not to say that I am not responsible for the poor choices I have made. Because of course I am. My actions and choices were and are my own. There are contributing factors, however. And a lot of those contributing factors stemmed from the psychiatric dissolution of my self through drugs supposed to help me along the way, but who at their core halted my core from growing and developing roots which would gain sustenance from myself. Instead of aiding my growth, they halted my growth. Instead of making me better, they made me worse.

Diagnosis after diagnosis was thrown at me, and nothing seemed to stick. No diagnosis was correct, and yet I was given medications to treat the diagnosis which I did not have, time and again. Faulty diagnosis – medication – faulty diagnosis – medication. And then, of course – medication to combat the effects of other medications. Whenever a certain diagnosis was shown to be wrong, they did not halt the drugs given for that diagnosis. They conjured forth a new diagnosis and gave me drugs for that as well. My medical journal is a confusing mess. As was my life at the time; mirroring it perfectly, all jumbled and confused and frustrating. I could go on about this, but I won`t. I think I have gone on for long enough. I plan to expand on this, and my experience in quitting medication and psychology, at some later point. Maybe as a book, maybe as a series of blogposts. Probably both. Suffice it to say; I learned a lot from this experience through clawing my way through hell.

Now, the reason I am bringing all this up is very simple: it has to do with the mental health – or lack thereof – of boys and men. Or, more to the point – the lack of proper mental health services for men and boys. In particular since traditional masculinity – that is to say, masculinity at all – is now considered both pathological and as an ideology, whatever the fuck that means, by the powers that be. How, then, can a man trust to a mental health service when it deems masculinity itself to be at the root of all issues a man face?

What men are told, then, when seeking counseling, is that he is ill for the simple reason that he is a man. That if he only stopped being masculine, as nature has made him, he would be better. I can not conceive of how that would help him in any way, shape or form. Picture this scenario:

Therapist: So, what`s bothering you?

Patient: Well, I am feeling suicidal. My life is going nowhere. I can`t find employment and I can`t find any field of study to enter.

Therapist: Why do you think that is?

Patient: Well, they have these gender qoutas that is favouring women in my chosen field. And due to this, I can not find employment or somewhere to study despite being qualified and having tons of experience.

Therapist: Do you think this is a bad thing?

Patient: well, yes. I think the ones that are the most qualified should get the job.

Therapist: Do you not think women are qualified to work in your field?

Patient: Not when I am more qualified than they are, no.

Therapist: That, I think, is your male privilege speaking. You are so used to getting the world handed to you on a platter due to being a man, and now you are struggling to comprehend this loss of privilege.

Patient: what? No – I don`t think that is…

Therapist: Why are you so scared of gender equality?

Now, of course, this is probably a case of hyperbole on my part. But it drives the point home. Imagine seeking help due to self-loathing and suicidal tendencies, and then being told that your very nature is the cause of your issues. And then being told that it is not even your nature, but a social construct – a supposed ideology of masculinity – that has sown the seeds of your discontent. Now imagine being a young man. Or a boy. Seeking counsel and guidance for the same, impressionable as all hell and confused from the raging tide of hormones which only puberty can bring. This therapy and poor counsel can only breed more confusion. You are not you, they seem to say. Your nature is not in your nature. Moreover – that which is not your nature and which is not you, but which you still cling to and which still defines you – is toxic and destructive at its core and need to change. And this change, it seems, is not to help you grow, but to help the rest of the world grow.

Through counselling you are beat into servitude, one phony concerned sentence at a time, smooth as a serpents hiss, all forked tongue and whispered promises of betterment; if only you would understand your inherent toxicity and privilege, all would be well. Considering that men are the group most at risk for suicide, this does not bode well for the future of men.

This is not science. This is ideology parading around town masquerading as science. It is beautifully crafted; vile hatred of men and masculinity clothed as great concern for boys and men. I can not even begin to fathom how telling a young man who is struggling with suicidal urges – or a grown man, for that matter – that the fundamental reason for his suicidality is, in essence, his fundamental being, his very core. Couple this with the constant reminder – through massmedia, through social media, through schools and education, politics and parliament, through jobs and through parents, siblings, friends and family – that men are inherently bad, that there is something wrong with men, that men need to change for the betterment of all… You`ve got a recipe for disaster. Either individually, personal and private, or socially, public and societal.

Not only is a man told that he needs to change, he is told that he needs to change for the good of all, not for the good of himself. That his own emotional wellbeing takes the backseat to the emotional wellbeing of the world. And that his hurt hurts the world more than it hurts himself. He does not matter. Even when it is his wellbeing that he pays with blood and sweat and tears to be guided towards. What he is supposed to say is quite simple: «Serviam».

I will serve.

At the expense of myself, I will serve.

Which is, honestly and funnily enough, the traditional expectations levvied at men all the way from the beginning of time. What was that about the ideology of masculinity; the toxicity of traditional masculinity? Hah! It seems we have gone full fruitless circle once again. Now, imagine a girl or young woman going into therapeutic sessions and being told this; that her very nature is what is wrong with her. Can you imagine what levels of foaming-at-the-mouth-and-crotch outrage we would have seen then? And, I would like to add – rightly and justly so.

My school of thought is that everyone should be treated equally, regardless of gender or sexuality or colour of skin or what-have-you. This, it would seem, is not the school of thought which these self-proclaimed fighters for equality and justice for all is following.

This is, of course, not to say that people should not strive to be the best they can be. Bettering oneself and growing as a human being is of incredible importance, and gazing ever inwards deeply and labouriously is a important tool in doing just that. Know thy self, as the saying goes. When we have a cultural zeitgeist telling men – and only men – that they are flawed and need to change, however, we are at a loss of balance. Selfimprovement is not gendered. Nor is faults and flaws. Every individual, regardless of gender, has faults and flaws and room for improvement. Letting the faults of the world rest solely on the shoulders of one group is disingenuous at best and pure viscious malice at worst.

The outrage at claiming there is something wrong with the very nature of women would be immense. Of this, I think, there is little doubt. Claiming that there is something wrong with the very nature of men, however, is equality and justice made manifest; a social justice feverdream conjured forth from a mass-brainwashed collective psychosis, enginereed and finely crafted over decades. The genders should be treated equally. And so, we must teach men that there is something wrong with men – we must teach our societies that there is something wrong with men and nothing wrong with women. In the name of equal treatment. Summed up thusly: Men bad, Women good. For equality, for justice, for truth and mad pathology. One for one and all for one.

***

Now picture a young man. Confused by the hormones coursing through his body at the peak of puberty. Confused by a troubled upbringing, perhaps, or the loss of a loved one, or a lack of direction. Maybe only confused by life itself, and in need of some guidance and some help to overcome some obstacle or other. And so he seeks counselling. He seeks therapy. If only to gain some perspective, or to vent his frustrations to someone who`s job it is to understand and lend an empathetic and helpful ear. Someone who gets paid to help someone overcome difficult obstacles. And he vents. He opens up. He tells all. And is told that the reasons he feels like this is that he is conditioned to not feel – that he has been cast in the mold of oppressor and tyrant by a society which, apparently, only has his best interests in mind. That he should cast aside his notions of who he is and replace it with who his therapist thinks he should be. And who his therapist thinks he should be is far detached from the reality of who he, by nature, is. And who his therapist thinks he is – tyrant and oppressor, privileged and pampered – is far detached from the reality of who he, by nature, is.

Now, would not this cause more confusion? Would not this fester in his mind like a tumour; growing and growing more and more the more he is told that he is at fault for his own issues by virtue of his birth? Mix the condemnation levvied at men and masculinity by the educational system which he is forced through into the mix, toss the misandry imposed upon him through the news which he absorbs and the girls in his class into the cauldron, stoke the fires with politicians telling him that he is evil incarnate and that he has no real issues to worry about and that he should bend the knee to help girls and to help women overcome the obstacles which he is directly or indirectly responsible for by privilege inherent from birth. And now, bring it to a boil with a family which tells him the same.

Burnout.

Washout.

Done and dusted.

Cleared, cleaned, clinically insane.

And this is what our culture celebrates – a constant demonizing of men for the perceived benefit of not the men in question, but the world around them. And we dare paint this travesty as being of benefit to boys and men. We dare paint it as a major benefit, which sees boys and young men dropping out and burning out, not participating nor launching, but washing up on the dust-and-cobwebbed-bedecked shores of our cultural wasteland.

Any voices raised – by the boys and men in question, or by others concerned – in opposition to the proposition that boys and men need to be socially enginereed into useful objects, helpful to all but themselves, is shouted down and held forth as a shining example of exactly why we need this misandric turn of page and phrase, this hatred disguised disgustingly as concern. It is a lose-lose situation. For boys and men.

What the claim is is of course: oh, no, it`s not all men. (Excepting, of course, when the same voices shine through the fog with a beacon saying #yesallmen) It`s just the bullies and the rapists, the harassers and the violent carriers of toxicity, of the virus of masculinity. If you should feel offended by the message, it means you are one of them and so you prove the point of the message. Clever. Very clever. It`s that worldwide emotional manipulation poking its bedazzled head out of the sand again, turning the victim into the victimizer. Agree with the message, and you are a good man and it is your job to stop other men behaving toxically. Object to the message, and you are one of the bad men and proof that the message need be told. One man is responsible for the actions of all men, which is to say that all men are responsible for the actions of one man. When that action is bad, that is. Flip the script, and you will learn that one woman is not responsible for the actions of all women and that all women are not responsible for the actions of one women. If they are bad. If they are good, it is a cause for celebration of all women. Women good, men bad. The bad done by one man is proof of the wickedness of all men. The good done by one woman is proof of the kindness of all women. Nuance is dead. Both men and women have the same capacity for both good and evil. This is forgotten in the gender-wars and the propaganda of the language therein.

A man can not win either way. Either we need to change, or we need to make other men change. To serve and to please, to serve and to protect. Or to kill ourselves in the process; to fail at life and withdraw into the nothing, into the ether. To be drugged unconscious and met with naught but disdain in the public and the private sphere, and being met with naught but distrust and blame-and-shame when we seek therapy and understanding from medical professionals who`s very job is to help and aid. And then to be forcefed a multitude of drugs to suppress our nature, quite literally being turned into mindless inactive zombies incapable of participating in any way, shape or form.

The result is a generation of boys and men turned away at the gates of life; denied the respect and compassion, understanding and empathy which they deserve. An entire generation of boys and men being taught from birth that there is something genuinely wrong with who they are at their very core. This, one would assume, is not proper behaviour towards any group of people. And one would be right in assuming this. Such as it is, our societies need their sacrificial goat – their idol to be shouted at and despised and blamed for the ills of the fracturing world we see before us, and simulatenously being told to fix it: both God and Devil. It is a mass communal unleashing of frustration and the Jungian shadow of humanity itself. The evil and vindictive force within us all. Men are the only group in society upon which this vindictiveness, this hatred, this frustration and this perplexing shadow of our souls and psyches may be unleashed with impunity. And they dare label it as compassion and concern for boys and men!

Don`t believe it? Try throwing the same vile abuse and everchanging demands for change at any other group in our splintering culture, and see how far that gets you. Try telling women as a group that they need to change. Or blacks. Or muslims. Or jews. Or homosexuals. Pick and chose, and see how far you get before the armies come marching at you from the virtuous anthill of the chronically concerned and offended.

This hatred and abuse get internalized by the boys and young men in question. Creating ever more need for therapy and psychiatric assessments of their being and of their ruptured psyche. Yet another of those viscious and vacuous circles manufactured by our daycare-societies. And being met with drugs, disbelief and disillusioning tales of their inherent privilege and propensity for oppression and toxicity in therapeutic sessions from beyond the wide-eyed wonder of the massmanufactured concern-trolling of this noxious fume of feminist indoctrination, they come to believe in the evil of their being. And the mood changes, the mood spirals ever downwards and, in lew of understanding, they are given more drugs. Causing the mood to descend further into the abyss. And the abyss opens wide to engulf them and swallow them whole. Perpetually lost boys floating aimlessly in a continuing vacuum; emotionally flatlined by neurotoxins and with a growing rage and resentment for which there is no release, no understanding and no help.

And as men are drawn towards action in times of personal crisis, they reach a breaking point and lash either outwards or inwards. Drawing from the core of their being; the masculine call to action which has been supressed and denied and labelled as inherently toxic. They snap. As one does, who has stared into the abyss for far too long. Manifested most often in selfharm and selfdestruction – or – more visibly destructive to society as a whole, it manifests as them taking others down with them in a blaze of fire and fury. This is where you get your mass-shooters and mass-murderers, your posterboys for toxicity and hatred.

And then, refining and re-engineering the circle once again, this is a call for the media to write articles on what is wrong with masculinity, holding these individuals forth as definite proof of the fact that there is something fundamentally wrong and defective with boys and men; not showing the least bit of concern for the tragedy which happened and having no qualms in using it as a tool to push ever more anti-male sentiments, stoking the fires already burning under the feet of the young boys and men which are doomed to failure and bound to lose in a society who`s blatant hatred of them is veiled as concern for their wellbeing!

Imagine for a moment what would have happened if these young men were shown compassion, understanding and empathy instead of ridicule and scorn. Instead of being labelled as incels or virgin-losers by feminisms doctrine when they voiced their opposition, or being marked by birth with the sign of the devil; a swinging cock and balls eternally flagellating the poor oppressed under their naturally oppressive nature.

Ave, Ave, Feministas.

This doctrine creates men there is something wrong with. Men ruined and broken by a society which claims to care equally for all, but which shows time and again that it cares nothing at all for men and for boys; a society in which men and boys are told to man up in order to help women and to attack their brothers for perceived trespasses on the virtue of women. Men, you need to help women. Women, you need to help other women. Noone needs to help men; they can help themselves by bending the knee and helping women and only women. That is to say, as stated time and again: by helping feminism and only feminism. Not only that; they are also told that manning up is proof of toxic masculinity; the suppression of feelings inherent in the toxicity. So man up and help and don`t man up and help by not manning up. Only express your feelings in a way suitable to feminisms gold standard. Meaning: express our feelings about men and masculinity, and share our emotions.

I have stared into the abyss of selfloathing myself. For years upon years; indoctrinated into the eternal victimcult, being reminded over and over that it is me and only me that is at fault. That my being is wrong, defective, destructive and hateful. I have been told that we live in a society in which women are oppressed, and I have seen time and again how this is not the case. Yet; I could not see through the veil across my eyes nor break away from the chokechain around my neck. I considered qoutas and affirmative action a necessity; proof of womens oppression when it is, in fact, proof of quite the opposite. Preferential treatment is not proof of oppression. One being treated better than the other – at the expense of the other, I might add – is not proof of the other oppressing the one. It is proof of the one being treated far better than the other by the other, which is claimed to treat the one worse. And, yes, the words «One» and «Other» are used with a purpose in mind. We are othering boys and men, turning them into second-class citizens to be treated with mistrust, and if not mistrust, then downright fear and loathing. And we are turning women into the One, a saving force and perpetual grace; an aristocracy which we must never contradict, never oppose, under pain of social death.

As with most boys and men, I lashed inwards as the abyss stared back into me. And as a result of lashing inwards, I was drugged into oblivion, balancing on a razorblade and tiptoeing through existence with no goals, no mind, no motives, no nothing. Psychopharmaceuticals scorched my neural pathways and burnt a hole into my mind who`s damage still lingers with me, running through my mind and my body in white scorching lines manifesting as chronic pain and chronic fatigue. Still burnt out; four years after ending my days as a drug-mule for the pharmaceutical bliss of our un-empathetic psychiatrists offices. And I am pissed off. Rightfully so.

My days of lashing inwards is drawing to an end. I employ the pen and what little energy I still have left to explore ideas and to lash outwards in a more cerebral manner; employing what explosive energy might linger in the core of my being in an attempt to change minds and inspire others to do the same; to partake in the battle of ideas we are caught up in.

We need to show that we deserve respect and understanding, compassion and empathy. And we must stand still and strong in this storm. And in standing still we move ever forwards on our path to make our societies understand that boys and men need to be met with empathy and understanding, not ridiculed, shunned, feared and blamed when opening up. We need to turn this tide and we need to stand together to do so. What differences we may have in our core values – traditional or non-traditional, conservative or liberal, etcetera, etcetera, need to be forgotten and put aside for the moment so that we can focus our energies towards a greater good; showing that masculinity is inherently good and that men are inherently good. Cooperation across the board is what we need.

There is a mass-awakening to be done. Imagine if boys and men were met with empathetic ears and, through action, shown that it is in fact our current cultural zeitgeist that is flawed at it`s core, not them. We would see far less mass-shootings. Far less men snapping. Far less men committing suicide. Feminst doctrine have created a self-fulfilling prophecy in their toxic masculinity narrative. And, I suspect, they are intensely pleased with themselves about this fact. Men and boys need to support other men and boys. And we need to stop internalizing the constant feedback-loop of hostility and negativity we are met with. Make the feminists live by their own rules by stating, quite simply: «If you belive that the genders should be treated equally, then you ought to start treating the genders equally». Or do not engage at all; there is no use in debating someone who has no interest in listening; who`s only concern is to speak and to have their voices heard at the expense of the voices of others.

If something is OK to be said about men in general, then it is OK to be said about women in general. If it is not suitable to be said about women in general, then it is not suitable to be said about men in general. Use their rulebook against them. Do not internalize hatred. Be strong. Be proud. Be yourself. And never let anyone condition you into believing that your masculinity is toxic. Stand still, holding a candle of self-respect to your heart and whisper to yourself: «Non serviam».

I will not serve.

For the sake of myself, I will not serve.

– Moiret Allegiere, 19.01.2019

______________________________________________________________________________________________

Links:

Visit my blog:

https://moiretallegiere.wordpress.com/

Check out my youtubechannel:

https://www.youtube.com/channel/UC3IaCxAXE3pQd7PCdvHoaaA

Check out my bitchutechannel:

https://www.bitchute.com/channel/EvbGZyTZSraY/

Stalk me on social media (as long as it lasts):

twatter:

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Gillette; the best a company can do?

transcendence 1 lowres

Ill: «Transcendence #1», A3, 2019, Moiret Allegiere

 

AN: This is a email I sent to Gillette following the travesty which is their new advertisement. I originally intended not to publish it here, but I was convinced to do otherwise. It is a spur-of-the-moment thing, and as such do not represent my usual output. For good, or bad.

 

Considering your advertisement: «We believe».

I will have to applaud you in this. What a brilliant piece of marketing genius this was – to, quite literally, piss in the faces of your main customerbase.

Way to go in painting all men as toxic and, in so doing, going with the flow of the newfound social justice hivemind. You are quite brave in flashing your virtue for all the world to see; going with the simplest and most popular opinion of the zeitgeist. All in an attempt to appeal to delicate feminist senisibilities whilst proclaiming loudly for all the world to see: Look at us; we are good men – we are progressive, we are modern, we are tolerant.

So tolerant, in fact, that you will consider half of the worlds population to be toxic; that you will consider the biggest part of your customer base to be fundamentally flawed, born with some inherent fault that can only be solved by telling them, over and over again, that there is something wrong with them. Really hammering the point home there, Gillette. Really good. Just like everyone else, in an attempt to keep face and maintain popularity.

Well done.

I am not buying any more of your products. And, I suspect, this applies to a hell of a lot more than me, both men and women. That is to say: the ones among us who believe both men and women to be capable of both good and evil.

Something you seem to have forgotten, in your attempt to flash your virtue: men are not the devil, women are not god. Women are not the devil, men are not god. This is just a fancy way to tell you, since you have forgotten, that women are human beings, and so are men. Not one is above the other. Yet you seem to firmly believe that is the case, and I will believe that that is what you believe until such time as a separate commercial painting women as toxic appears; telling them to shave of their toxic femininity and respect their men for once, just as the men respect them.

If you have any dignity and grace left, you will promptly apologize for labelling fifty percent of the worlds population as toxic. But leave the commercial online; lest we forget.

Moiret Allegiere, 16.01.2019

_____________________________________________________________________________________________

Various links:

Check out my youtubechannel:

https://www.youtube.com/channel/UC3IaCxAXE3pQd7PCdvHoaaA

Check out my bitchutechannel:

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Wanna buy my books?

http://www.blurb.com/user/Falaacus

Stalk me on social media (as long as it lasts):

twatter:

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Flickr:

https://www.flickr.com/photos/152465815@N04/

You can do better: on crybully asphalt rites and peace without peas.

coffee a3 lowres

Ill: «Coffee»,A3, 2019, Moiret Allegiere

 

A wild, wandering schoolyard bully comes of age through asphalt rites of gravel, mud and tears. She grows into the festering mold of mad, rupturing mycellium and hides her own insecurities in the safety of her projection that others are just as rotten and useless as she is. And through her veil of tears we are baptized in the gravel of her cottonmouthed words; a lingering foul odour of death and decay from her abysmal baptismal claws and painted cheeks. Grown up lost in the space-time continuum and seeking no solace in the self, solace comes only from reminding others of how she perceives them to be rotten, not seeing that she only recognizes the rot within herself.

Grounded not in reality but in a frantic mirage of her own design, she realizes that her own faults are not faults within herself but without herself. And so, the entire world needs to change to suit her needs. These needs change according to the flight of migrating birds, or according to the position of certain heavenly bodies of astrological significance, for instance the position of the moon, heaving and pulsating within her tremble-mind of virtue lost yet flashed dead-pan to an unsuspecting public.

And never growing past the point where she believed boys to have cooties, she lingers in statefunded institutions to teach others that boys have cooties still. And to teach her insecurities as objective fact, the closeted close-minded bully constructs gargantuan magical diagrams showing as objective fact that there are no objective facts; that only the subjective experience matters. And that is objective fact, no matter what her preaching choir sings about the dissolving of objective fact. All is subjective, except this which is objective by her design and hers alone.

And her disciples grow and flow along the same asphalt rites in which she herself was baptized in blood and tears and snot and snow; a fearful flight from introspection. The blame lies always somewhere else, and if it is not boys, it is a construct which boys created in ol` boys clubs fifteen thousand years ago, in the beginning of recorded time, subjective as the pitter-patter of tears streaming down the crybully-cheeks of her frail and delicate countenance, showing signs of shaming tactics and of shaming tacticians with magicians words that scream unfounded accusations as brilliant truths, hard as melting snow, solid as fog.

Within her own realm where nothing is truth, no truths will ever spring to mind but the truth that she is, in some way, shape or form oppressed terribly by the powerful cooties that be. The same powers that tremble and shake the very forces of the universe itself to make everything tailored to suit her everchanging needs and whims and flights of fancy. A spoiled child evaporating from the lack of the rod; never being told no and thusly never conceiving of the fact that other people have different needs and different opinions and personalities different from her own, spun round the thimbleneedle of her simpering baby-voice and childlike act.

A muttering, stuttering, perplexed and devouring parent stands over her in moonlit madness preparing ever-and-ever her bed and bedroom-stillness, checking every mattress to see if there is no pea underneath to disturb her slumber and much needed rest, frail and weak as she is. There is no pea, and yet she insists the pea is there, bright as day and clear as the bonefragments in her mirror-brain: there is a pea. If she insists, it must be true. Sorry princess, sorry – we shall bring new mattresses for you and we shall move you to a different room with a different view where no peas exist. And so it is done, and still there is a pea, conjured forth from her subjective manic pathology where all specks of dust grow into cobwebbed multitudes of trials and tribulations to be overcome by her and her alone, which she alone must face, and pity her in the grimness of this nightmare world which she must travail in horrid and deplorable whimsical fancies.

And as one, all voices rise to meet her demands, and proclaim that all peas shall be outlawed, lest they disturb her slumber. That some people might prefer to eat peasoup and object to this banning of all things pea-related is proof without doubt that there is a vast conspiracy to ruin her life for her and only her. Clearly, these people are out to get her and clearly they can not possibly like peas. Clearly, this is some madness they have been told to believe by the cootie-riddled boys of ol` boys clubs which she could not enter in the schoolyard years of her growing and developing temperament. Ban all peas: they are hurtful to her and others like her. And the objections to this banning is proof of this. If you like peasoup, you hate her. And by hating her, you hate all women. Liking peas is likened to hating all who do not like peas, and all who do not like peas are only her and those like her; her tribe of clean and sober right-thinking haters of peas, both personal and public. The logic is infallible in its infinite infantile infrastructure.

Orobouros shall be the symbol of the new dawn. Grand peaburnings are afoot. All cheer and marvel at this wild and tribal magic: the peas go up in flame, and now the world shall know peace at last, and our schoolyard bully, ravaged and ruined by the peas, shall be left in perpetual peace in this lack of peas.

That is, of course, until she notices that there are monsters in her closets when she sleeps. These monsters peak in at her while she is sleeping, and they disturb her sleep and her slumber and her peace of pealess mind. And so, they to must be removed by some stroke of some brush or some sledgehammer-justice doled out to crumbled cabinets and closets lurking in the corners of bedrooms world-over. And the whole thing starts over again. Her subjective knowledge trumps the clear objective fact of the matter. There are monsters in her closets, so we must ban closets. All must be banned, all the time, all over the world, to rid the world of monsters and cooties and emptyheaded disturbances infringing on her rights to sleep in her bed in complete and utter peace, with no peas and no monsters and no peace of mind but the piece that left with the peas and the monsters in the closets.

And who would have thunk it; the ol` boys club to which she protests and objects, which she claims hate her and all the others like her, wriggle in their seats in terror at her terror and, with a wish to protect her as much as her doting, overprotective parents did and do, they conspire to rid the world of her grievances as much as humanly possible. Peaburnings and closet-and-cabinet smashings are now written into law, mandated and enforced by violent thugs marching in uniform synchronicity through streets illuminated by the constantly combusting flames fuelled by her internal combusting engine; the burning of all things which offend her delicate bully-sensibilities and the enforcement of her will by the powers to which she object ever so much; the long violent arm of the ol` boys club which also must be torn down for their constant ignoring of her pleas for pealess peace in perpetuity; her clinging to catatonic cravings for a constantly cabinet-and-closet free cosmos.

Through her wishes and through her immaculate visions of peace from her psychologically projected rot, the world turns clinically clean and sterile. A cleanliness maintained through force via the evaporating deathgrip of a crybully choking the life out of everything; a boot stomping on a human face forever and ever, maintaining an illusion of freedom through freedom being gradually eroded by a voice whispering in cold shivers: save us from ourselves: we can not tolerate disagreements.

Moiret Allegiere, 12.01.2019

Open up to be shut down

fatherhood 1 a3 lowres

Ill: «Fatherhood», A3, 2019, Moiret Allegiere

 

Open up, man. See the bright light of salvation. Open up and speak and talk, man. There is no judgement. If only all you men supressed your masculinity and opened up about how you are feeling, everything would be smooth as silk and satin laced with arsenic and cyanide. If only, if only, you stopped acting manly and opened up, all your woes would leave you. All that tension would just float out of your muscles in a phlegmatic cough rising from your cancer-ridden lungs.

All day, everyday. Open up and talk. And you shall see and sense the bright light of salvation and you shall be cleansed and bathed in the tears of God. Supress your natural side. Deny who you are. And become what the feminists want you to be. And all shall be well and good.

The assumption, of course, is that men are not by nature masculine but are masculine by their own design. That behaving like a man is nothing but a act to cover up weakness. That one is not being a man, but merely pretending to be a man.

That men act as men because we are, in fact, men, is a thought that does not even strike these social constructivist nonsense-makers babble-mouthed brainstems. Men are not men. We are a blank slate tortured and malformed by societal expectations of how men should behave. In order to rectify this, we must change how we behave to please the feminists and become the shining light of salvation ourselves. If we only acted more like women, we shall be free. Because that is the golden standard that all shall follow: the proclaimed social construct of femininity. Because all is a construct and all constructs are bad. Except for the construct of femininity, which is the true nature of all human beings.

So we are told to open up and talk about our emotions. And so we talk about them. Only to be met with ridicule, to be told that male tears are a delicious beverage to drink and to bathe in via shirts and mugs, and to see that our pain is a source of amusement and ridicule. Our conferences on mens issues are protested, shouted down and shut down. And we are labelled as crybabies with no real issues. Mens emotional pain is not taken seriously, even by the same forces that would have us open up and talk about our emotional pain. It is, of course, only a way for feminists to proclaim that they care ever so much about men, if only men were the way they wanted them to be; if only men succumbed to their will. That is to say: do not talk about issues regarding men that are not preapproved by feminists, and above all do not talk about them in a way not preapproved by feminists. In other words: shut up and listen.

In this world where we are told one thing only to experience that the opposite is true, what`s a man to do? Damned if you do, and damned if you don`t. Men act instead of talk. As a general rule. And women talk instead of act. As a general rule. And when the powers that be tell us to open up and speak, only to make us realise when we finally do that we are told to shut up and listen, we grow confused. And confusion brings inner turmoil when there is no release. And there is no release, because we are told that our way of handling our emotions is wrong and we are shown that attempting to talk about our emotions is wrong. Both are wrong, in the minds and eyes of feminists. Men can not do anything right. And our societies see no issues with telling us this, constantly bombarding us with conflicting messages and commands to do this, do that, do all the things even when the things contradict the other things and the actions of feminists show quite the opposite of what they say. If you object to this, you are showing how toxic masculinity is. And are thusly nothing but a neckbearded, basement dwelling, incel virgin loser who can`t find a woman. Should you wish to find a woman, you are acting as though you are entitled to sex. Should you not wish to find a woman, you are a misogynist who hates women.

Freeze. In the headlights of this foul year of our lord. Freeze. And do nothing. And wait for the inevitable barrage of articles asking: where have all the good men gone? Where did chivalry go? It`s time for men to shape up and step up and be gentlemen again. Even when that is deemed as sexism. It doesn`t matter. Everything is sexist, no matter what and how and where and when. So here we stand, frozen in the headlights, waiting for the truck to hit. And when it hits, and images of our mangled, broken bodies start floating about atop the riproaring tide of our engines of mass-manipulation; our sanctified massmedia newsoutlets, the conclusion remains the same: there is something wrong with men, and men need to change.

Asking men to talk more about their emotions presupposes that someone is willing to listen. And that is seldom, if ever, the case. As made evident by the aforementioned «male tears» mugs and shirts. It`s wrong when we don`t talk about our issues. And when we do, it is either goddamned hilarious or dangerous. Hilarious to feminists and dangerous to women. Men talking about issues affecting men is taking away from issues affecting women. Even when the claim is that men need to talk more about their issues. This is what we are told and this is what we are shown. And this lays down a fertile breeding ground to spawn broken men; our societies beckoning us to come closer with the same hand that pushes us away and holds our heads under water.

It is not a secret that men experience far less empathy than women, be that politically, intimately, socially. This begins already at birth, with boys being left to cry longer than girls before they are picked up by their parents. It is not a secret, that is, to those who do not cling to the nonsensical belief that women are disenfranchised and oppressed; not being shown empathy in any way, shape or form. Whils`t being shown all the empathy our careworn societies have to offer; all serpent-tongue and smoother than hissing silk.

A broken man is useless to society, since he has nothing to give, no value in and of himself. Better for him to off himself than find value in and of himself. Women, on the other hand, have always had value in and of themselves. And feminists know this. A broken women must be mended, fixed and repaired by any means necessary, given all the help there is. All the time. And she will experience this.

A broken man may be told that there are empathetic ears. He may be told that people will help. He is, however, shown time and again, that noone wishes to have anything to do with him. That there is no help for him, no ears to listen and no hands to help. He is pushed away and hidden away, being told to open up and then being told to shut up and let women speak when he finally caves in and opens up.

It is not the case that men are emotionally stunted. Or that men are not in touch with their emotions. It just so happen that men process their emotions differently than women – as a general rule. There is nothing wrong with this. What is wrong is being told that the way men process emotion is wrong. That we need to do it differently, that we need to be socially engineered to do it differently. Only to experience, when we do it differently, that noone is willing to listen. That it is wrong for us to talk about our fears and pains. That leaves no room to maneuver. No way to do anything about our emotions, no path to thread. The beaten path is wrong, the new path is wrong, all paths are wrong, and there is no place for us to go at the end of the day when yet another sleepless night is crawling in on us and the whispering voices from our minds keep us from sleeping and keep us from being emotionally fulfilled.

The silence in those long, yearning nights is a silence profound and deafening; a dangerous silence wherein all that is wrong with ones life and oneself floats around inside the inner sanctum of the mind; giant asteroids colliding with enormous planets in the vast vacuum of space, exploding over and over again. Pieces of order and stability being chipped away in grand galactic explosions until there is nothing left but a gnawing, biting, burning, shrivelled up and dying sun anxiously awaiting the imminent implosion of the fruitless void of the inner world.

The unbridled and unhinged celebration of the feminine path to healing being the one true path to healing strikes me as nothing but arrogance. That there are more ways than one to process and deal with emotions, be they good or bad, is a concept dying in our streets from malnourishment. And it is malnourished by the constant insistence from feminism – and as a result from society at large – that there is something fundamentally wrong with men, and that if only men could change and behave differently, all would be good in the world of men and the world at large. The notion that society should, perhaps, change the way it views and treats men is as foreign to these people and their views as introspection is. That mayhaps and maybe the best path to take to make men heal and make men whole is to not bombard men constantly with a barrage of hostility and enmity; to not continually tell us that we do everything wrong, no matter what and how we do it.

Remove the hostility and the constant attacks, and maybe, just maybe, let men speak and deal with our issues in a way deemed suitable by us instead of the feminist hivemind. Remove the blatant lies and constant protesting and shutting down of our conferences. Let men have their own spaces in which to air their issues and seek healing, instead of shutting them down for being foul misogynist hellholes if there are no women present.

This may come as a shock to the feminst armies, but I`ll take my chances and say it. Prepare your sniffingsalts and fainting coaches if you need them: men do not need women around in order to behave properly. We are quite capable of behaving properly under our own supervision. We are not children in need of constant parental guidance. There is not anything wrong with men. There is something wrong with a society which constantly tells us there are something wrong with men. Being constantly told that there is something wrong with men creates men there is something wrong with. Especially when there is no place to go for healing, no destination to reach and all ears and all eyes are deaf and blind by wilful design trickling down from the beginning of time; madness masquerading as reason burns the core. Society has gone insane, and the ones who still dance are considered insane by the ones who do not hear the music.

Moiret Allegiere, 09.01.2019

Intersecting bodies at the intersection of madness and gibberish: a rant

happyslapped by the godhead a3 lowres

Ill: «Happyslapped by the Godhead», A3, Moiret Allegiere, 2019

 

Feminism dictates. The world bends its knees. Then it tumbles, then it rolls. Lost in the vast vacuum of space for a while, beat down by the weight of heavy-handed assumptions, assertions and mandates dictated by bodypositive nonsense caught in the throes of orgasmatronic ecstasy. Woe unto the world, lest feminists have spoken. And so they spake, and so they shrieked.

It is a peculiar arrangement we have gotten ourselves into, is it not? We listen and we believe. And we bend at the middle until we break. Words of wisdom from the mouths of feminists dictate the course of society, deliberately dedicating dictatorial decisions on womens lives and bodies: women should be free to do what they want to do with their lives and their bodies, with no questions asked and no judgements passed. Hark; the choir offended sings – falsettoes rise with trembling vibratos. Or was that vibrators? I can`t remember.

Vibrato or vibrator – it doesn`t matter much, in the long run. It`s just silly illusions of literary talent coursing through my neural pathways, gathered from whatever strange force of inspiration I am currently channeling. Or challenging. The tides are rising again, the fever peaking again, the choir of offense touching upon the pinnacle of control. Tremble before the falsettoes and the feminist siren song of women being victims of their own choices! Again.

For uncounted years, the feminists have been telling us that womens bodies are womens bodies and that womens choices regarding womens bodies are their own to make. And no judgement should be passed, be that legally or socially. They seem to have forgotten, in the heat of the moment, or by their own design, that everyone is judged on their actions, be they male or female. They are astray within their solipsistic worldview in which only their own binocular projection of the world around them matters. Logic is only logical when viewed from within their current framework; the prismatic lens of the only gender that matters in the quest for equality between the genders.

And so they tell us, with forked tongue and eyes sewn shut, that their bodies are their choice. And we bend. And they rise. And they dare us, they doubledare us, to pass judgement on a womans choice to do what she wants to do. And so we don`t pass judgement, lest we be judged ourselves, lest we be thrown to the wolves and passed through the meatgrinder of feminist destruction of anyone who`s opinion is deemed by them unworthy to be held in the maniac limelight of the current year, whichever current that may be. Ok we say, we cleanse, we rinse, we repeat the mantra: her body her choice. And we pass judgement upon what men do, but not upon what women do. Because that is peak equality!

Then come the crossroads; the intersection where madness meets gibberish and is, somehow, considered sanity.

And I have forgotten, due to cosmic vibrations and solar storms, what the current year is. Have I been struck blind by the beast of interchangeable restorations? Have we gone full circle? Are we not in the current year anymore? Did the world end and noone remembered to tell me? I mean, I wouldn`t blame them if they did. I would just like a heads-up. That`s all.

Fine.

I`ll just try and remember that it is always the current year somewhere; that the currents of time will lay down the foundations for the current year, so that we can pick it apart at a later year to make it, once again, the current year. Because, after all, it is the current year and that should tell you all you need to know about our current year and the societies which dwell both within and without the current of the current year.

Did they not tell us that a womans body is her own to do with as she pleases? Why, then, pray tell, do the feminists tell women what to do with their bodies? A womans body is her own to do with as she pleases. As long as that woman does with her body what the feminists would have her do with her body. If you are a stripper, you are not allowed to do what you want to do with your body. Or if you are a gridgirl, or find yourself in any profession where you make your living of your looks in a way that would make the victorian-era enlightened feminist sniff and swoon, crying «poor me! Fetch me my sniffing salts, boy!» Or was that Bathsalts? Meh, never mind, no matter. The difference between the two are probably insignificant.

I should like some sniffing salts. Or some bathsalts, in order to understand this doublethink. Maybe that would put me in the frame of mind that these feminists exhibit when this topic comes up; make it possible for me to talk out of both corners of my mouth with my tongue gently licking and caressing the cavernous emptiness of my cranium.

Understanding this strange phenomenon is, to my eyes, impossible if one has a mind that is firmly put in its place and functioning on more than a baselevel of consciousness and conscience both. But, as stated before, all is possible in the feminist world of illogical logic and unreasonable reason.

It is not men that dictate what women do with their bodies. It is feminists. Under the guise that certain womens actions are actions that no woman in her right mind would take, were she not forced by men to do so. And so the feminists force her to not do so. And they label it equality. And they label it fairness. And they take away these womens jobs and incomes and consider it progress for womens rights. All the while chanting «My body, my choice!», all the while disregarding what these women whom they have deemed as being in professions unworthy of women have to say about the matter. Womens voices don`t matter much to feminism. Only feminist voices matter to feminism. It is almost as though one would be inclined to believe that feminists believe that all women are one and the same and that all women have the same goals and aspirations in life; namely – feminisms goals and aspirations. Which is… well, who the hell knows anymore? Everything is a feminist issue. Even the things which contradict the other things. All things are true. Even false things are true.

You need only listen to how feminists speak to, or about, these women whom they deem unworthy to see how quickly they pass judgement on what a woman choses to do with her body and her life. Tear the veil from your eyes and your ears and look and listen. Don`t repeat the mantra that it is only about equality. Don`t resort to pointing to the dictionary definition. Look, and listen, and all shall become clear.

It is a hodgepodge of moronic diatribes and astoundingly rude and disrespectful behaviour towards women. This coming from the same set of ideas that tell us that we should respect women by virtue of nothing but vagina. Of course, it is quite clear that they don`t mean we should respect women, but that we should respect feminist women. Or merely the concept of feminism itself, totalitarian ideology that it is. Respect women, or perish. Meaning: respect feminism, or perish.

Why is it that feminists can tell women what is proper conduct for women, and yet lambast anyone other than feminists who dare critique a woman? And that is not even women as a group, but one single woman. Here come the cries of harassment, here come the cries of misogyny and violence against women. Because women are so weak and frail, according to feminists, that they can not handle criticism. Unless that criticism is coming from feminists towards women who are not – in their eyes and goblin-minds – real women. «Don`t sexualize yourself. Go find real work instead.», they say. And so remove their jobs so they are forced to find some other area of employment. It does not matter what women want. It matters what feminism wants.

Over here, in the frozen wastes of Norway, one of our prominent radfem-groups are protesting BDSM. Because they, in their allembracing benevolence, consider it domestic violence. And so, they try and infiltrate our bedrooms. All the while claiming it a move for equality and liberation of women. It is astounding. This group protested the cinematic screening of 50 Shades of Grey; a series of books and movies mainly enjoyed by women. And written by a woman. For its supposed promotion of domestic violence. Do they not know what fiction is? Do they really believe that everyone apart from them are so simpleminded that they are incapable of separating fiction from reality? Or is it that psychological projection again; that they can not separate fiction from reality so noone else is able to either?

One of these feminists, when asked what they thought about women stripping for their partner, answered something along the lines of «Well, we don`t want to tell people what they may or may not do in their bedrooms. But it is a shame to see that the pornculture has seeped into our private lives like this.» Women are victims of their own choices. And a woman must never, ever, do anything to please her partner. If that partner is male. A male pleasing his partner is a good thing. A woman pleasing her partner is misogyny. Well, in all fairness: a male pleasing his partner is probably misogyny as well, according to the corrupted minds ruling the church of feminism.

Meanwhile, us sane and reasonable individuals consider it a good thing for a man to please his partner and a women to please her partner in a fair and functional relationship built upon cooperation and trust instead of enmity and competition. Bugger it. Millenium hand and shrimp. There is no reason to be found here, within feminisms fractured walls and ravaged halls.

Sexual liberation is a great thing! As long as women fuck in a way deemed suitable by feminists; under the covers, with the lights off and a copy of the Scum Manifesto clutched firmly in one hand, and the Communist Manifesto in the other. Or celebrate their sexuality in a way that is not offensive to the eternally offense-seeking minds of feminists. And there`s sex-negativity and sex-positivity and doublethink and doublespeak and doublestandards and not one semblance of reason amongst them.

The great feminist revolution claimed to be about liberation, but tears away our liberties and dictates our lives, making the private political and the political private, attempting to dictate what we do with our privates in the privacy of our own homes. Noone is free from the allseeing eye of feminism. A great eye, enveloped in flame, gazing ever hither and dither, eternally seeking more power, more might, more influence, more control! One ideology to rule them all, and in the darkness bind them.

Moiret Allegiere, 05.01.2019