The cultivation of fear. A ramble on forced fragility and manufactured frailty:

Make your own damn culture lowres

Illustration: «Make your own damn culture», A3, 2019, Moiret Allegiere.

 

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In some strange past I struggled with severe anxiety. It seems centuries ago now, looking at it with the beautiful lenses of hindsight. Understanding this type of anxiety is not easy. It should be experienced in order to understand it. Imagine being in a constant state of fight-or-flight, a body and a mind constantly tense; clockwork all wound up ready to spring into action – or retreat from action, sensing danger around every corner and in every shadow.

It should go without saying that this permanent stress, this level of heightened awareness in regards to ones surroundings, this constant over-thinking and over-analysing of situations in order to weed out any threats takes its toll on body and mind.

It is not pretty.

The results of this chronic stress, these sudden surges of adrenaline through the body, uncalled for, unwanted and unnecessary does not lend itself to good health, be that health physical or psychological. In the end, isolation seems to be the best and wisest choice to make. It seems to be the only option available; a survival tactic so as not to suffer the horrors of sudden panic, dread and despair. This just feeds the beast, as constant exposure to whatever triggers the anxiety is the only way to overcome the anxiety. Not isolation, but exposure. Isolation breeds further insanity – if you will allow me some self-deprecating humour.

The reason I am bringing this up is simple. It is the fostering and nurturing of fear, anxiety and dubious trepidation; the culture of fear crafted by feminism when gazing at the dynamics between men and women. The notion, disgusting as it is, that men and masculinity is something that women need to fear – that all men everywhere have nothing else on their mind but to assault and oppress women. It is a culture of fear, a bacterial culture handcrafted by the might and influence of an ideology whose very survival hinges on painting men as perpetrators and women as victims, forever and ever. Nurturing this fear and keeping women constantly on their toes for fear of men is not healthy. Not for women, not for men, not for society at large.

The rhetoric and false and cherry-picked statistics of feminism and their cohorts gave birth to a constant fear and mistrust between men and women. With the prime notion being that women need to fear men, and men in turn have nothing to fear from women. As the old saying goes, old as time itself: women good, men bad.

This is not, under any circumstances, a view of the genders as equal. Viewing the genders equally would be understanding – as stated time and again – that men and women both have the capacity for bad and for good. One is not worse or better than the other. Claiming that one is worse than the other, that one is better than the other, is quite the contrary of viewing and treating the genders equally. This is seen, time and again, in politics as well as the justice system, as women are given leniency in sentencing, whereas men are not. Harsher sentences for men for the same crimes as women. For women are wonderful. And men are not.

Female perpetrators of whatever crime are given excuses for their actions, more often than not. They need to be understood. Often they are painted as the real victim, because she must have been abused at some point in time. Probably by a man. Men who have been abused prior in their life, are not given leniency or understanding of the trauma. Men who do bad are simply monsters. Women who do bad are simply victims. Very peculiar.

In viewing men in this light, and women in the other light, there is no wonder that men are painted as monsters and, in being monsters, also being something that women need to fear. When men do bad – it is because they are, at heart, bad. And when one man is, at heart, bad, there is a possibility that all men are – that this is something that exist in the very nature of men. Men do bad because they are bad. Women do bad because they have been hurt by someone doing bad. And this is not equal treatment. All manner of mental gymnastics and round-about excuses do not detract from this simple fact.

When I struggled with this severe anxiety of mine – and it was severe, there is no doubt about that – it blew the fucking lid of the scales, and prompted my psychiatrist at the time to tell me that the best solution for me was isolation. Now, this is of course some terrible and horrible advice to give to someone when they are supposed to overcome some trembling and futile ailment of the psyche.

It is obvious to me now, when looking at it through a mind not muddied and clouded with medications, that he had completely given up on me – that he saw no future hope for me getting better and overcoming this nonsensical fear and trepidation of mine. It also went completely contrary to what I had read and heard about overcoming anxiety.

It is something that must be overcome through exposure, gradual at first and then – feet first into the murky and cold waters of society at large, to understand that my anxiety was driven by delusions crafted by prior experiences with people who did not – to put it lightly – wish me well or treat me well. Wallowing in these delusions did nothing but paint a picture in my mind of everyone being my enemy in some way, shape or form. When the reality is something else entirely. Most people are completely neutral towards me and my existence. Most people have more than enough with themselves.

That is the simple fact of the matter.

And so, what I did to conquer this anxiety of mine was some deep and thorough soul-searching combined with the aforementioned exposure. I had not then, nor do I have now, any interest in living a life of anxiety, fear and trepidation. And I should not wish this on anyone. Of course, I dropped any and all connection to psychiatry. To me, at any rate, they did far more harm than good.

The root cause of my issues was not examined at all. Merely a superficial fixing of the symptoms through medications and a call for isolation. Out of sight, out of mind. And me, then, through medications and maltreatment, even more out of my mind. But at the very least out of the sight of society at large. No exploration of my anxiety. No treatment either. No therapeutic path to walk, no deep dive into my psyche. Drugged into oblivion and washed away.

I can not help but think that my treatment would be far different and more empathetic had I been a woman and not a man. The emotional pain of men is something society does not wish to see. This goes for professionals as well. The emotional pain of women, however, is something society must band together to fix.

I remember reading an article, this was several years ago now. I could not dig it up if I tried. It was written by a man. The title was something along the lines of “Last night, I became a rapist”.

He did not become a rapist.

In fact, there was no sexual encounter at all.

What had happened was this: he was walking home, and was walking behind a woman who was scared of him, constantly looking over her shoulder and fearing this horrible man walking behind her. He solved this anxiety of hers by crossing the road and taking a detour on his way home so that she should not feel the discomfort of having to walk on the same pavement as a man.

Obviously, from having the same paranoid sensations myself whenever I was out walking by myself, I recognized her anxiety. And I remember thinking that he should not have to inconvenience himself due to her neurosis. He is not responsible for some random stranger and her anxiety. Had he just kept walking behind her, she could perhaps have learned something from the experience. She could have learned that not every single man out there is out to get her. She might have overcome some of the anxiety.

He ended the article, simpering and stupid as it was, by telling all men that if they walked behind a woman on their way home, they should cross the road and take a different route to get home so she should not feel this discomfort. How fucking ridiculous!

No-one ever did this for me when I was in the throes of some stupid delusional anxious fever-dream. That would be doing me a disservice. And it was doing her a disservice. And it is doing every man everywhere a disservice.

Go out of your way, men, to make the burden of walking home easier on women, lessening her neurosis for about two seconds. So she can go home and say that she was followed by some stranger on her way home, giving further credence to the feminist fear-mongering. Heh. I am saying this only partly in jest.

You have to make it harder on yourself, of course, as you have to take a detour. Then despair for being born a man and thusly the object of scorn and fear from women, who of course happen to be your superiors in every way, shape and form. What horrible objectification of men this is, viewing us as nothing but objects of terror and violence and primal sexual urges. Gaze upon the privilege granted us by being born men! The righteous privilege of being feared and shunned and scorned and ridiculed and demanded to sacrifice so that someone whom we have no ill intent towards shall feel safe based on her own neurotic delusions born from paranoid dementia in feminist rhetoric.

It is even more strange when considering the simple fact that men are far more likely to be the victims of violent assault from strangers than women are. This does not matter, of course, as we have been spoon-fed this silly lie that women are victims of violent men far more than men are. That men have nothing to fear, whereas women have all to fear. When a man attacks a woman, it is because he hates women. This is taking into consideration whether or not he has assaulted more men previously. As is very likely.

Men who experience violence is par for the course, commonplace, and something that is expected. Most every man will, at some point in their lives, experience violence. Usually from other men, this is true. I fail to see why this should matter, though. It only matters when one views the genders as being at war with one another. When men and women are on opposing teams, any violence done towards a woman by a man is an act of war, done because she is a woman and not for any other reason. In painting masculinity as toxic, any violence done upon a man by another man is further proof of the degeneracy of the opposing side. The language of feminism is the language of war-rhetoric. This side is degenerate scum, that side is pure and clean and just.

Women need not change the way they think. They need not become braver. They are free to wallow in their misery, their anxiety and their dread and mistrust of all men. Men must change the way they behave, even when it is a tiny minority of men doing bad, all men must rethink their lives and take collective responsibility for the actions of a few bad men. I fail to see how this is any different than claiming that the Jews have poisoned the well.

Women, whether as a group or as individuals, need not change a thing about themselves. The messengers of feminism have ridden into the town-square and read aloud a statement from the queen, proclaiming all women everywhere to be perfect just the way they are. No faults, no flaws, no nothing. And everything they feel is true, no matter if it is true or not. No matter if it is factual or not. There is no objective fact. All is based on subjective feeling. If you happen to be a woman. The experiences of men need not apply. Nor do the facts of the matter.

Fostering powerless women is the bread and butter of feminism, and so is forcing men to submit to the delusions of neurotic women instead of having these women face up to, understand and overcome this neuroticism of theirs. This neuroticism, this tactical usage of frailty and weakness and anxious trepidation is nothing but emotional manipulation. When you see women in positions of leadership – politicians – pretending to shake in their boots and in their knickers for some passing joke made by some passing man several months ago, it begs the question as to why anyone so frail and weak should be in that position to begin with.

One should think that anyone in a position of leadership, be they male or female, ought to be strong enough to withstand the storm. Of course not. Not when they happen to be a woman, whose frailty and weakness and fear and anxiety is nothing but a bargaining chip, a methodical manipulation of our emotions to feel pity for her and as a result of this barge in to her defence, preferably with votes or through her gofundme-account.

I should not think it too harsh a trespass on reason to actually want the leaders of a nation to be strong enough to handle a passing joke or comment without breaking down emotionally, without crying crocodile-tears and telling everyone around them how pitiful they are and how much we must pity them for having to deal with the brutish nature of these horrid men. The strength of these women are their facade of weakness. Being powerless, or rather – portraying herself as being powerless, means men barge in to protect and to provide, to save her from the horrors of being a woman in a male-dominated field. Whatever the hell that means. It is this stupidity, this nonsense, once again. This ridiculous fuckwittery of the genders being at war instead of in a state of co-operation. It bothers me, more than it probably should. Or, as my wife is wont to say, it should probably bother me way more than it does.

Alas, no – having strong and powerful leaders – that is not the beat of the funeral drum to which we march. We march beneath the banner of forced female fragility, to the tranquil rhythm of weaponized fear. The fear of men manufactured through decades of social engineering felt by all women everywhere, whose feelings are fact and not some hand-crafted frail fear and anxiety designed to gather our sympathies and our empathies and place them at their feet, to bow down before their emotional distress and say, singingly, soothingly, lovingly: “Sorry mother dear, we will behave”.

Being a man struggling with anxiety is not easy. See, there is no empathy nor understanding there from the concrete-jungles of society. Merely a push into the bubbling cauldron, boiling away at my sanity. The interesting part of it is that, of course, there must be this push, there must be this poke-and-prod to get out there and actually do something about it instead of isolation. Which is frantically fascinating to me. It is as though the behaviours were switched between the mental health professional who treated me and those around me, be they professional acquaintances or friends and family, with my psyche-docs telling me to hide away and the ones who did not understand the thing pushing and prodding, in short telling me to “man up”.

Now, this pushing and prodding did not come from a place of empathy – that much was certain, as there was no understanding of the anxiety nor any attempt to understand why I suffered this anxiety. Nothing but disbelief. And of course, the usual sentiment that I was making it up. For what gain, I never understood.

Grown men should not act like that, and so the only thing left to do was to dive into shallow waters, head first, and break my neck on impact. Then one is just left with confusion, with constantly changing messages, trite trash and a complete lack of understanding and empathy.

Men must talk about their emotions more. Even when men need not talk about their emotions. In particular not when in emotional distress or suffering emotional weakness. There is no-one there to listen. Men in emotional distress breed disgust. Particularly in the minds of those who claim to fight for equality. Telling men to open up about their emotions, and then poo-poo it as being nothing when they do creates confusion and inner turmoil.

What the old “men need to be more emotional” actually mean is for men to listen more to the emotions of women, and speak of their own emotions only in a manner deemed suitable by feminism. Which translates to admitting to their male privilege and toxic masculinity; that all the emotional distress a man may feel is born from him being a man, and nothing more. Seeing how society treat women in emotional distress in comparison to how society treat men in emotional distress is disconcerting, to say the least. Experiencing it first-hand upon ones mind and body is something else entirely, and teaches one nothing but the simple fact that one is all alone. No-one is looking out for you, even when they claim to be looking out for everyone equally.

Nurturing and fostering delusional anxiety and fear in women the way feminism does is damaging. Creating this mirage, casting this holographic picture over all of society that what any woman may feel is real, no matter the facts and the reality of the situation is severely damaging. It is also incredibly dangerous. To all but feminism, who thrive on female victimhood and see no qualms in manufacturing this fear, these delusional anxieties and holding them up, waving in the wind, as some sort of strength in women instead of it being a weakness, as some manner of fact instead of delusion.

Trembling in anxiety from someone telling a joke is not being strong. It is being severely weak. As well as lacking in humour and understanding of humour. Of course, they paint it as strength by the woman withstanding the horrors of man-joking, man-spreading, man-splaining, man-slamming, man-terrupting, man-existing or whatever. Then she gathers empathy and understanding by the bucket-load, further creating a wall between them and any criticism they may encounter by painting any-and-all criticism as an attack on all women everywhere and playing on the gynocentric nature of us all in order to build human-shields around themselves so they are free to say and to do and to spew whatever abject hatred they wish without facing any repercussions for their actions.

Kill all men.

Men are trash.

And so forth and so on.

All this while trembling in forced fear and fragility; whilst screaming strength and powerful resistance to misogyny and the patriarchy, demanding protection and pampering from the patriarchy by the forces of patriarchal evil. For they are so strong, so powerful, so fantastic in their strength and endurance that they are too frail and weak to handle criticism without yelling and screaming about male chauvinism and a society that absolutely hates women, despite treating men like second-class citizens, ordered to go out of their way to better the existence of women and women only. So incredibly oppressed by the man that all of society only listen to feminism and women on issues having to do with sex and with gender. So oppressed by the evils that men do that they are in complete control of all our institutions. So oppressed, in fact, that merely a trembling finger in the direction of a conference on men’s issues is enough to shut it down for the controversy of the thing.

Strange, that.

In this society in which men have all the power and all the privilege, whereas women and feminism hold no power and no privilege, the mere trembled mutter from the quivering lips of a feminist is enough to close down conferences on issues affecting men due to controversy – or fear of controversy. How many hoops does one have to jump through in order to pretend that men are the privileged ones, when discussion of men’s issues not seen through the wrinkled binocular lenses of feminism are deemed controversial? One should think that it would be the other way around, were the rhetoric of feminism based on truth and not lies.

Feminism have told women that they must fear all men. Creating a hostile world for men is not a problem what-so-ever. Because that would be equality, that is the pinnacle of feminism, the perplexing wonder of its beacon, its shining light, its lonely kitten-wail into the night beneath the twinkling stars of ill intent. To create, to manufacture, to nurture and make bloom a constant fear and distrust of men in the hearts and minds of women, telling them that they are children in need of constant supervision, that the state need to step in and remove responsibilities from their shoulders and place ever more on the shoulders of men. And supervise constantly all doings, all goings, all lives, be they private or public. The personal must be political. The political must be personal. Such a frightening thing to see happen. Weaponized female fragility to allow the state to meddle even more in our lives and affairs. As long as women are kept safe.

As long as men don’t matter.

And we cope with it. And we accept it. And we bite the bullet, time and again. And we put up with it and we lay our lives and our mental health on the line. Over and over again. For the safety, the benefit, the protection of women. All the while these same women shout at us to do more, that we are dangerous, that we are a material manifestation of the wickedness of the world. That we need to disregard our own safety and our own needs so that the safety of women and the needs of women be met. By our hands, the world shall be saved from us. We do not need to talk about our issues. Because we have no issues, we have no problems, we have no societal ills eating at us, picking at us, devouring us bit by bit by bit, day by day. For all their impotent raving about toxic masculinity, the forces of feminism are sure as all hell good at telling men to man up.

If you give them an inch, they will take a mile. And then they complain that they never receive anything. And they twist and they turn and they spin on the truth until truth means nothing and facts are nowhere to be found and all is a confusing mess; a neurotic network of twisted cables and forced anxiety, a culture of fear handcrafted by ideologues whose collapsing sanity and frail weakness is painted as sanity, is painted as strength and as truth and as beauty.

Look at this weak-willed woman – how strong she is!

Look at this weak-willed man, how pathetic he is!

On and on it goes. The circle has no end and no beginning. It just goes on and on for ever. Unless it is broken. And it can only be broken by not playing this game, not partaking in this ridiculous clown-world reality of ours, where weakness is strength, up is down, down is up, strength is weakness, masculinity is toxic, even when masculinity is called forth to save the poor women who can never be toxic, unless influenced by some man more powerful than she is. Weak as she is, weak at the knees.

Let us all fall down on our knees and weep and tremble in fragile fear together.

The future of our societies is one in which anxiety, fear, trepidation and delusion is celebrated and shown to be strength. Where standing in the storm, surviving the trials of life by trudging ever forwards and not giving up, not giving in, but being strong in adversity is made out to be toxic behaviour.

Oh, mama, the path towards the future is paved with the frantic waving of anxiety; the celebration – not overcoming – of mental illness, a wallowing in fear and fever, in despair and weakness. Used to be we had to learn how to cope. Now we have to learn how not to cope. For if we cope, if we learn to cope and if we teach other people how to cope, the powerful will lose their power. For the powerful do thrive and grow on fear and fanaticism. There is much strength in female weakness. The sight of a woman in distress sends any man into protect-mode, running on overtime, and he will do whatever he can to save her from whatever imagined ill she is labouring beneath.

And the feminist hive-mind know this, even when they paint men as the enemy. They know that men will do whatever they can in order to ease the suffering of a woman. And they play and they prey upon this exact thing, upon this drive in men.

Too bad that so many of us are beginning to see this for what it is.

Too bad that more and more are waking up to this fact.

Even if it is slow-going.

Even if it takes forever.

Even if it will take an entire generation to undo the societal damage done by feminism, whose roar and screech and weaponized fear and weakness created a generation of perpetual victims incapable of looking at themselves, incapable of thinking inwards, incapable of doing anything but perpetuate the constant war, keeping the narrative going of men as the forces of evil and women as the forces of good.

We have always been at war with Eurasia.

War is peace.

Freedom is slavery.

Ignorance is strength.

The stability of feminism and their stranglehold on everything rely on keeping the status quo up and running; the view of men as eternal victimizers, strong and able and powerful, and women as perpetual victims, frail and weak and powerless.

There has to be a war between the genders. Otherwise, what is the point of feminism? Where should they then get their money, their power, their might, their influence? Where should they get their manipulative kicks and desires, if everyone woke up to this scam of theirs?

Just keep painting women as wonderful victims, then, and claim this to be strength.

Just keep painting men as horrible perpetrators, then, and claim this to be reasonable.

Just keep pushing for women to be treated better than men, then, claiming this to be equality.

Just keep telling the same old story; demonizing men and masculinity, sanctifying women and femininity, labelling it equal treatment.

Then wait.

Then look.

Then see what happens when your paper-castles crumble, your straw-men all fall down, and your gargantuan global industry comes crashing down around you to the sound of cheers and applause from those who finally woke up from their state-induced coma, driven, in no small way, by your propaganda.

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 – Moiret Allegiere, 25.05.2019

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Guest post: My Trip Through the Polypharmacy Blender

au contraire 3 lowres

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;

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https://moiretallegiere.wordpress.com/

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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

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She claims me to be filthy

Guilty A4 lowres

Ill: «Guilty», A4, Moiret Allegiere, 2018

 

She claims me to be filthy. Words like hers cut through flesh and bone and then follows through by grinding straight down to blood and stone. Struck blind by calligraphy-stillness, radiant concentration evaporates from her mouth, quivering monotheistically. Believe,she says, as she claims me to be filthy. Words rising from the gutter, reaching straight into the sun, fragrant dew settles cold-like and still on my forehead as I find myself labouring under the unaltered presumption of guilt. Crawling, creeping, yearning, the ooze of condemnation and damnation creeps in, closer now, closer still, towards the end. She says that I am filthy, clinging wildly to aerial telepathy; weird, unplugged daytime television psychopathy. Myriads of canned laughter and fragile upbeat hysteria, a cacophony of ravaging screeches. Her words are words, and so truth is spoken: hammer down, beat by beat, sledgehammer, cold whammer, straight to the slammer. Hoho. Bam. Bam. Muscles ache, mind melt, then break out into frantic spasms; odd feverish sacrificial rituals unfold behind my closed eyes. Assisted in her words and deeds by frenzied media outlets building up undefined ferocity in public eyes, bloodshot and close to catatonic. She claims me to be filthy.

She claims me to be guilty. Never have I ever heard words with such incredible power. Unbelievable, downright inconceivable in their unchallenged might! Her malignant madness made manifest through her manic, mischievous magicians words, would see all and one bow down and accept her unfounded words as absolute truth. No doubt. No need to pause and consider. No doubt. Wondrous world, how sweet thou art. How innocent and flowerlike, how like a willow whipped by the wind. How her delicate petals have whilted. Should I compare thee to a… long fingernails like claws dug deep into my brain, escaping yet the clutches of paranoid delusion, but only just. Grasping, no, clinging to a juvenile past of forgotten fancies, flushed down the drain and drawn exhaustively from the dying of the light. A ferocious claim of bygone guilt dragged up from the deep recesses of time immemorial. A past galloping, passing by, bygone days, forgotten eras of the here-and-now where here-and-now mattered and clumsy teen angst passed as charmed offense, given, not taken. Memories fail, come time. She claims me to be guilty.

Frightened and whipped mercilessly in the town square for all to see, I float away on the certainty of my innocence. Strange discourse, strange words, stranger sentences still grip my throat, squeezing, squeezing, choking. I have become unknown, undecided, unwanted, leper-like and shunned. Smell of print and tabloid-press, absurd unproven claims demand the headlines, claim the discourse, claim the papers printed on demand to feed the raging manic mobs, the hate, the smug selfrighteousness of society gripped by moral outrage, clinging to aerial telepathy, the psychic insights told it so: «He is guilty». There, in the spotlights: my name and face plastered on every wall in a wide world where there are only ever walls, to bash ones head against. Ready for judgements harsh, unthinking, unblinking. She claims me to be guilty. And so we feed the wolves, throw my name to the beasts and see them tear it limb from limb in bloodsports historical and histrionic. Enter the arena, enter the gladiators. We who are about to die, salute you… No trial, no verdict. Guilty by guilt assumed and by gender made. Guilty by nothing but her transcendent magicians words and squirmy, snakelike form, presented in drooling tear-like manners; woe is me. Goddamn, goddamn, where did it all go? Strung up in trees and lynched by frenzied pitchfork wielding maniacs unable to complete basic sentences due to their bloodlust-roars interrupting their anxious mental processes. «YOU UNCULTURED SWINE!» Anger feeds the hordes, anger selfrighteous and dubious at best. Enter barbarian hordes at mid-level societes forlorn and lost in the fight to do perceived right, to fulfill the need for perceived justice. Forgetting, in the heat of the fragmented moment of untettered lunacy, the undeniable rights of the accused. To be kept anonymous, to be considered innocent until proven otherwise. To be awarded basic humanity, a shred of common decency. Frightened now, so frightened. Be subservient. Be calm. Be focused. Don`t lose your cool. Don`t lose your… anything. Stay calm, collected, concentrated. Anything can be used against you, will be used against you, will become a knife to slit your throat with. Your own anger is immaterial when measured against the furious anger of the unquestioning and unquestioned hordes. You have no right to be angry, get upset, show emotion of any kind. Emotion is their right, not yours. Float away on hollow prayers and drowning wishes, spreadeagled and crucified long before truth and justice done and potential sentence served. And yet, and yet, I am innocent. I claim. I know. Might as well piss my words into the wishy-washy wind of the abysmal void. The court of public opinion deemed it so: guilty. Looming over me, shadows and blood, dust and bones. `cause the presses told it so, presented it so. No anonymity, no safetynet, no nothing. They claim me to be guilty.

They claim me to be guilty. Hungry wolves unleashed. Fangs glinting in the light of this eternal wolves moon. Howling outside my doors, the choir infernal towards damnation calls. Hoofprints in the snow. Drooling madness and calls for punishment, calls for my head, detained, then smashed, then destroyed. Trample, trample, skull and bones, death and destruction, assassination of character, of personhood and humanity. I have become none, have become noone, have become persona non grata ungratified. Still on the wind: laughtracks galore. Canned laughter turning to spinechilling howls. An entire world told what to think by biased presentations, even now clinging to aerial telepathy. Over and over. On and on. Do not presume, for one moment, that you will be allowed anonymity. Do not assume, for one moment, that you will be considered innocent until proven otherwise. The blood seeps into the ground, the wolves lap it up, then pray for more, more, even more. And here we go, rollercoaster rides, the signalling come, the virtue done, holier than thou and clean, on earth as it is in heaven. So clean, so clean as to be elevated to sainthood and later godhood. They know me to be guilty long before a trial, long before a sentence, long before I get to present my case. Barricade the doors, shut the windows, close the curtains, dim all lights, disappear, do not appear, do not call out for them to hear. They will not listen. They will not see. They refuse. You will not speak. They refuse. The world is faulty calamity, weird whines and howls. In the heat of the moment, at the pitch of the note, we forgot due process, the presumption of innocence, the right to not be locked in the laughing stock and pelted with rotten fruit. At the turning of the page, we forgot to think and so we skipped three pages, or more, glued together by drool and righteous dribble. Jumping straight to the conclusion, no further evidence needed, your honour. Filthy, guilty. And yet, there we go and here we are: there is no sense of right no more, merely justice legionaire, plentiful, hysterical. My name is broken, ruined, raptured, ravaged, long before any reason came out to play in gardens green and lush. My bones are fractured, eyes gouged out and tongue ripped out of my mouth by thongs burning with the flame of maladjusted societal upheaval. She claims. And so it must be true. No bouncing back, no coming back. Life is ended, done and dusted. `cause she claims me to be filthy, and they claim me to be guilty. The courts of public opinion, driven by the whips of their ascended god-emperor mediamasters, decadent and above criticism, have deemed me guilty and thusly raped my name with barbwire-dildos cut from treelike cacti.

Bedridden. Anxious. Shaking. I think I`ve lost weight. Haven`t slept for eighteen months. Colder than hell. The walls are closing in. Her words still ring through loudspeakers, maniac presence, crazy eyes and doctored voice. Still there, in waking, still there in sleeping. The circle is closing in. There is no escape. There is nothing left. She claims me to be guilty, fatigued, drained of colour and drained of love and life and love for life. My name still howled at the coming of the harvest moon. Drag me to the altar, drive the knife into my heart. No matter to go, no where to go, now where to go? This endless loop, a M.C. Escher drawing of a hangmans noose. The wild and weird and wacky adventures of evidence unseen. Somehow hidden, somehow forgotten, somehow not considered. I cling to warm memories, the ebb and tide of time and life. Lost. Just another lost boy. Old lost boy. Aerial telepathy. Seeing mouths move, hearing noises, weird guttural groans in lew of words. Understanding nothing. Babble, rabble, dust and cobwebs. Babble, rabble, claims and snakes. Arms and legs shackled. Stuck to the floor – Words flow, words shine, words trickle down and trickle up. Holy hell; what a circus, what a grandiose display of power unmoved, untouched, unquenchable, unchallenged! What a gigantic farce. And still, she claims me to be filthy, guilty. They claim me to be guilty, filthy. Crime. Punishment. Meet our demands. Bring us our sacrifice. All meaning is lost in the vortex. Longing for justice, but what kind? Mob justice. No other kind.

Here we go. Courts in session. One, two, three, four. Come at me. Coming at me. Skull smashed. Coming at me still. Eyes droopy, gaze unfocused. Bags under my eyes. Aged seventeen years in a week. Wasting away. Skin gone pale, translucent even. I`ve turned into a shadow and a shade, a whisper on the wind. Have become unseen, unheard, invisible. Evidence presented, evidence without question. No doubt. No guilt. Beyond the wildest shadow of a doubt: there is no guilt. There is no truth to this, that I am filthy, nor that I am guilty. There is nothing further to be said, nothing more that needs to be said. Free to go. They deem me to be clean, they deem me to be innocent. Cleared of any and all charges. Leave this room. Hammer down. Hammer down. Echoing, reverbarating through my body, shining through my bones and aching muscles. Uplifted. Elevated. Ascended. Clean, clean and so free, free! Laughter forms, but turns to weeping. Cold body, hands, arms, feet, legs, cold and numb. Feeling elated. Grand. I am cleared. My name is cleared. I claim her to be filthy. I claim her to be guilty. Justice shall be served.

They claim me to be guilty still. They nail themselves to the selfsame aerial telepathy, unaccepting of the unaltered truth. Once a victim; once a sacrifice. This never changes. Life is over still, even when I am cleared and the slate whiped clean. There is no doubt, no doubt at all. My evidence to the contrary of her claims where perfect, flawless, diamond-like and vibrant. She lied. She lies still. In the back of my head, a mass of filth, cancerous and gibbering, spreads. As it does through the pack, a pack of wild wolves still howling for blood beneath the harvest moon. They claim me to be guilty still, and I will never be completely clean. She claims me to be filthy still, and remains never to be guilty herself. Justice will never be served in the grim and stonefaced apocalypse of life no longer lived. They claim me to be guilty. They have all but killed me.