My mind has been slowing down lately. These chronic pains of mine have worsened. Increased significantly in severity. It is excruciatingly difficult to focus when ones entire body is in agony; burning with red-hot searing pain. Nerves going haywire; firing random signals of severe pain… a stinging, burning sensation that envelopes the entirety of my body. Joints, muscles, tendons… skin and bones and all.
It is peculiar… at times, at certain points of my body, I can not stand even the slightest of touch. So sensitive to pain. Gobbling painkillers does nothing but take the edge of the pain, as well as further slowing down my mind. The pain is still there, knocking at my central nervous system with all the subtlety of a 1980’s action flick. Preferably one starring Arnold Schwarzenegger.
It is an illness brought on by too much psychological stress stretched over too many years; etched into every fibre of my being. Given that all I can think about at the moment of typing is pain, I think a bit of a ramble on pain… on the fallout of psychological stress, perhaps, the inevitable collapse that happens when stretching oneself too far, spreading oneself too thin, reaching towards being good, kind and helpful towards all but oneself is in order.
I grew up with the message that men are bad and women are good tattooed on the inside of my eyelids; a fairytale presented me, myself and I as truth without a doubt – a truth that was not to be challenged lest one be met with shame, with wagging fingers, with ridicule and raw, ravaging resentment. There is no force more adept at bringing a blue-pilled man to his knees than shaming, be that shaming subtle or obvious, from a woman.
I have written about this previously, at great length and in much detail. And – to the surprise of absolutely no-one – have been met with anger, disbelief and accusations that I am simply lying.
I assume the truth is too terrible to comprehend; that the damage done to boys and young men by this type of rhetoric – the anti-male sentiments so prevalent, so dominant, so mainstream, so embedded in our cultures that we do not see it except through a great force of will – is too horrible of a thing to understand, to believe, to take into consideration or take the blame for that it is far easier to bury it under piss-and-shit accusations of lies and bullshit than it is to acknowledge what it has done, what it is doing.
If not being met with accusations of lying, it is accusations of me being weak and frail and not much of a man to be so marked, so influenced by this type of rhetoric…
As if boys and men are emotionally hollow; mere vessels of flesh and blood with no psychological processes, no emotional processes, under the skin that is able to be influenced or damaged or shaped or misshaped by what messages are delivered during their formative years. Or beyond their formative years, for that matter.
To the former, I can only reply that I don’t give a fuck whether some random person on the internet believes it or not, whether I am accused of lying or not. For, you see, the fact still remains. It will still be the truth, no matter what some random commenter on the internet claims.
To the latter, I can only reply that boys and men are also prone to psychological damage; that the psyche of boys and men are not some magically impenetrable fortress that can not be attacked and torn down. No matter how much supposed god-like strength and resilience are placed in the sculpted model of a man as he is seen by those who spit their hatred and contempt at all things masculine with impunity.
Refer to the damage done as weakness as much as you like; alpha-posturing from other men or shame from women makes little sense when the topic of ramblings are psychological damage done to young impressionable boys in their developmental years.
I really don’t care if someone considers me to be weak.
Men need to talk about their emotions and their issues and their problems, see. But not like that, not like this, not those issues nor those problems. Flaunting fragile masculinity, then. As opposed to toxic masculinity, which amongst other things are men not talking about their problems and issues and so-and-such. Almost makes me believe that the “rules” such as they are were created to make it so that a man can never win.
(Besides, wouldn’t dubbing men fragile and weak and what-not for talking about things like this be an expression of toxic masculinity if one is to go by the frantic flow of feminist expression and language? Oh well – let them bathe in male tears. They can drown in them for all I care.)
It says something about a culture, when teachers are free to stand in front of a group of children and tell them all that there is something lacking in the boys; that the girls are far better than the boys in every aspect. All this whilst meeting no resistance, no objections, nothing of the sort. Also: the girls need more help and support than the boys, even when the girls are better suited, more mature and way smarter than the boys.
I don’t care whether the dismal dismissal of my rogueish ramblings comes from other men or from women. It proves a point either way: there is little empathy, little understanding, little care, compassion and consideration for boys and for men. From both men and women.
The narrative for decades have been one that says that girls and women are the ones that are truly suffering, and so they are the only ones whose issues shall be looked at and taken into consideration.
So that when talking about boys and men, when showing care, consideration and compassion towards boys and men one is accused of hating women… of taking the spotlight away from women and the issues of women. Unless, of course, the issues of boys and men are seen through the lopsided lens of feminism which, as we all damned well know, places the blame squarely on men. This is done by referring to the omnipotent, omnipresent, invisible and indefinable patriarchy; an illuminati-like entity that is whatever it is needed to be at the moment it is brought up as an argument and a “gotcha”. “Oh no, we don’t blame men, we blame the patriarchy.” And all things negative are given names that have something to do with men or with masculinity, even when women are guilty of it… It is remarkable how lacking in gender-neutrality the terminology of those who supposedly push for gender-neutral language is.
One would not be wrong in thinking that merely showing empathy has become a zero-sum game; as though compassion and consideration is a zero-sum game where the one must be hoisted up to stand atop the shoulders of the other. For ever and ever and to make up for supposed past grievances and past wrongs, experienced not by the one and never perpetrated by the other. Collectivizing blame is a game as old as sin. And it never brought anything good to the table but further resentment and perpetual war. But, hey, it’s only about equality, dontcha know?
The other don’t matter – there is absolutely no possible way to show care, compassion, consideration and empathy towards both, according to the one.
We must end violence against women. Even when men are by far the group who most experience violence… instead of ending violence against all, we focus on women. Men’s experience of violence, whether that be domestic violence or random acts of violence or whatever is presented as not being as serious as that of women’s experience.
It is so damned strange, given that men are the majority victims of violence that the focus is on women’s experience of violence. Particularly strange is it, when women are supposedly an oppressed group of people, to see that women are the group given preferential treatment in law, with all manner of special governmental programs to help them and only them. Or, as is the case with the Mexican Malt Malaise that is currently sweeping the world with it’s peculiar pandemic: more men die, women most affected.
Or, as is the case with men dying younger than women: we must care about the widows left behind when the men die, instead of caring about the men that die too young, instead of trying to figure out the reasons and perhaps and perchance remedy it.
And this is all according to the UN, whose stance on human rights is that women’s rights deserve their own category separate from human rights; thus elevating women above your everyday, ordinary human being. Rather peculiar and remarkable, but who cares – it is only about equality, and in order for the genders to be treated equally, the one must be treated far better than the other. In upside-down land, it all makes sense. And thus they saw the light; the sun rising on the horizon of la-la-land.
I once received a very angry email from a very triggered and offended feminist (no surprises there), accusing me of making a gendered competition out of empathy. Furthermore; boys and men do not experience less empathy in society, she said. Which is odd, considering that me showing empathy and compassion towards boys and men was enough to send her into a frenzy and accuse me of hating women and wanting to chain my wife to the kitchen, to birth children and cook dinner and do nothing but that. Though, of course, she began the entire diatribe by stating, quite clearly, that I was obviously only writing what I write in order to be provocative and so nothing I would have said in response would have mattered. Nice.
It’s so fucking rich; feminism accusing someone of making some gender-based competition out of something when that is all they bloody do. If something is not funnelled direct into some cause for women and girls; if a bone is thrown in the direction of boys and men, the feminist platoons are at the ready, bingo-wings flailing wildly in the wind, trembling bottom lips dripping spittle and resentment, flared nostrils indicating emotional upheaval, danger-dyed hair standing on end, steam billowing from their ears, yelling about how this is taking away from women and this is a step back for women’s equality and what have you and what not. All the while shouting one down, screaming, roaring, refusing one to speak by claiming that they are being denied their right to speak. Feminism surely is a harsh mistress; and its middle name is not rationality, its maiden name not reasonable nor dialogue.
Had I known during my formative years, or during my teens, or even during my early twenties what I now know… had I been told but once during my early years that I am not an evil oppressor; that I am not a violent brute, consumed by thoughts of rape and sex and violence… that I am not some immature and egotistical being whose sole focus in the world is sex and violence and oppression and what-the-fuck-else… my trajectory through life – to this point in my life – would have been quite different.
If the message beat into my developing psyche regarding my psyche, my person… my very identity as a man, in fact, had been a positive – or even a neutral one – there is no doubt in my mind that I would not be sitting here now, debilitating pain coursing through my body, concentration lacking and painkillers always at the ready.
Instead, I was refused my identity as a man – I was refused my core being; a healthy identity as a man.
Men were defective and had to be fixed; mended in some way or other… to be always at the ready to help, aid, give of their time to lift girls and women up… to not take too much room, to not take too much time, to not think of themselves or put themselves first in their own lives. For that would be selfish.
Happy wife, happy life.
If momma ain’t happy, ain’t nobody happy.
And so forth and so on. And this is as old as time itself, I think, different guises and different names and different forms and shapes, but the core concept remains the same: women are precious and must be protected. Men are disposable.
Here I sit, ripping a page from the feminist handbook; the “lived experience”, supposedly so important, so fantastic, that all else must fall to the wayside and be forgotten, neglected and destroyed as a result of it. At least if the lived experience is that of a feminist woman who spout the typical feminist things one has come to expect.
One wonders how far the importance of the “lived experience” goes when the lived experience is that of a man, or of a woman who do not wear the feminist mantle of victimhood. Not too far, one assumes. Not too far at all. Men live lives of unhampered and unhindered privilege, after all. And non-feminist women are merely brainwashed victims of the patriarchy; poor maidens in distress who must be saved from the patriarchy and from their own internalized misogyny. Blah-di-blah and gobble-de-gook.
That is what we are told. And so it must be true, and so we must tone down, step back, crawl away and do all in our power to help the girls and the women in our lives. To help, to give, to sacrifice to the point of self-annihilation. A man with a broken leg don’t matter as long as there is a woman with a broken nail in close proximity. Boys kidnapped for years upon yeas or burnt alive or whatever by Boko Haram don’t matter, don’t generate outrage. The moment some 200 girls were kidnapped, however, the entire world went up in arms. There’s no end to the outpouring of empathy and sympathy and calls to help and save and #BringBackOurGirls and whatever not. Most peculiar, considering that the lives of both innocent boys and girls are precious and should be protected; that one would assume both would be considered equally valuable in a world where gender-equality is oh-so-important. Oh well, I have it from very trustworthy sources that boys and men do not experience less empathy in our societies, so I guess this don’t matter.
Don’t worry. It may sound like it, but: I refuse to carry the mantle of victimhood. Being a victim is not part of my identity.
Strength, however, is.
Strength in adversity.
Victimhood is not a healthy identity; having a major part of ones identity be that of a perpetual victim is all well and good if one wishes to remove responsibility and have others do for one, at the expense of themselves. “You owe me for past grievance”.
A strange “luxury” which men are not afforded, despite our severe privilege. Or, well, because of our severe privilege, one assumes. No matter; the mental gymnastics are a difficult thing to master. When one becomes a master of it, 2+2 becomes 7 and feminism is only about equality.
I can not help but write about my experiences when the mood strikes me. I can not help but write truth about agony whilst writhing in agony, as it were.
There is a difference – a clear distinction – between being victimized in life and remaining a victim through life; speaking about and acknowledging the one does not necessitate the other. Having been a victim of something does not mean that one has to remain a victim of that thing for ever and ever. Quite the contrary. It means that one has to get over it. To pick oneself up by the scruff of ones neck and kick oneself in the arse enough times to make the message clear.
In short: get over it.
It is something men can, have to, must do by themselves. For the empathy-gap is clear. And so is the lack of support, be that on an individual level or at a societal or cultural level. Strength, confidence and belief in oneself becomes a necessity.
In the end, there is nothing else, there is no-one else.
Yet; when the damage is done… when the damage is so severe as to render one in chronic pain, it is difficult to not feel resentment… to not taste the bitter-sweet fruit of anger at the tip of ones tongue. Or having it stuck in the back of ones throat. It does something to one when one is told, at a young age, that one is responsible for the wrongdoings of all men by virtue of being born a boy.
To experience that the burdens of all the wrongs of men – whether real or imagined – are placed on ones shoulders, yet the acknowledgements of all the good of men are not… to observe that the good done by good men throughout the ages are skewed, twisted, turned and presented as being done by men, not women, for reasons of the men pushing the women away and forcing them to not do, thus cancelling and nullifying the good done by men… it does something to one.
Having ones sexuality demonized and smeared as something violent and forceful and domineering; as being two rubbed and parted ruby lips away from rape at any given moment when going through puberty and first experiencing the awakenings, the first twinges and pangs, of ones sexuality is terrible. There is a grave injustice there, hidden in the flabby folds of our school system; in academia, in pedagogy; in our governments and in our social structures… in our very cultures, in fact.
The powers that be ought to not be; those that gave the power to the forces who decided that men are what is wrong with the world ought to be shamed and shunned and relocated to pig farms in order to do some proper, helpful and constructive work for once. #RelocateBureacrats anyone? #FeedBureacratsToSewerRats, perhaps?
For years, I was living under the illusion that I had to prove that I was a good man. As opposed to those that were not; the vast majority of men, in fact.
And so I did, and I helped and I offered and I sacrificed, thinking and caring very little for myself in the process. Each and every time I did something for myself and myself only, I felt a pang of guilt – a sensation that this was something I should not do, followed by a very guilty conscience.
It sounds absolutely ridiculous and absurd, but that is the point I had been brought to… the peak of gynocentric madness, so to speak – the pinnacle of self-sacrifice. To sacrifice my self on the altar of gynocentrism, in the hallowed halls of feminism, until I was all but annihilated.
After all; I was inherently bad from being born a man, and so I must do penance and above all else help women.
Not that this did much but render me a doormat, as one would expect.
So that, at art-school where I met my wife who is just as introverted as myself, the teachers there banded together and preposterously claimed that I forced her into social isolation, thus ostracising me and effectively making me a social outcast. For my terrible oppressive nature as a man caused the introversion of my wife, according to the flaring nostrils and ideological blindness of the educators who could not fathom that a woman could chose for herself her levels of social interaction. Women are too weak, frail and so-and-such to do that, according to those who claim women to be strong and independent. There is a strange disconnect there; a peculiar double-speak way too clear and obvious to be ignored.
That’s what being a “good man” gives you: more resentment, more hatred, shame and ridicule.
And I shut up and I took the punches and that is what I was supposed to do because one should not speak against the holy tenets of feminism, nor against the sacred vulva and its followers. Being a man, I had to self-flagellate. Until the skin was ripped from my back and I was drowning in my own blood. He for she, after all. I was still not a good man, though, given that I was a man and so beset and infested with original sin. The original sin will never leave, no matter the severity of ones self-flagellation. This has been a pattern at every school I have ever attended; some worse than others, others more covert than some. Whether covert or overt, whether severe or not-so-severe, feminism has been present and has been presented as truth; political indoctrination in schools supposedly free of political or ideological bias. Political indoctrination is alive and well. Thriving, in fact. It appears to be so successful as to be invisible. When one -ism is presented as truth… when schools present a certain belief-system as fact, whatever else should one name it but indoctrination?
The beast is everywhere. It is the dominant ideology of our day and age; a roaring dragon and a terrible tyrant, spreading its bingo-wings and breathing fire at the world, claiming that the fire comes from a place of compassion – that it will, in fact, keep us warm. Those that are burnt to a crisp either don’t matter or don’t exist; the corpses that can not be concealed just an unfortunate by-product perhaps, or relics from a former era that could not adapt to the heat and the flames… reactionary morons who reacted to the fire instead of seeking shelter within it… or the flames were not from the real dragon; nor were they the real fire.
And this, amongst other things, is why I can not shut up about it.
The damage done to me by the rhetoric so lovingly spat, spewed and spun by feral feminist ideologues caused an inevitable collapse of my psychological well-being, of my sanity and of my self. And six years of poor psycho-therapy, of misdiagnosis and over-medicated slumber followed… psycho-pharmaceuticals to dull the pain and numb the mind. For the true reasons of my despair, my depression, my anxiety and anger, my insomnia and “insanity” were a topic not to be touched; the depths were not to be plunged, the hull not to be breached. Even in therapy, where the focus was supposed to be my path to recovery – my path to healing, so to speak – saying anything negative about feminism was strictly verboten. It is absolutely remarkable. It got waved away and the drugs prescribed instead. Mental health services are not there for guys, that’s for damned sure.
And so, after six years of drugged slumber; of stagnation and being completely lost – rudderless and hopeless – I said “Fuck it”, and quit it all.
Anyone who has not been caught in the grip of overmedication, who has not had their life stopped dead in its tracks from psycho-pharmaceuticals can not properly understand the power of these drugs. It is absolutely terrifying how powerful they are. And being given a cocktail of them… a good handful to gulp down every day… does nothing but halt ones development, ones evolution, ones life. Each day becomes the same as the next day… for years and years and years. Each and every day as forgettable as the last and as the next. It is a bullet fired directly into the brain of ones life, ending it there and freezing everything as it was then.
Fuck it, I’m good.
This has become my mantra for the past five years; a reminder to myself that there is no need for me to prove my worth. Not as a man, nor as a good man. Not to myself, nor to anyone else. I don’t need to prove something which I know to be true.
Fuck it, I’m good. And fuck it, so is just about every man.
As a man, one has to find strength in oneself. One has to find a way to rely on oneself. One has to be strong in adversity, to find strength in adversity, to get through it and come out the other side.
As men, we all too often stand alone in the storm. As red-pilled men, this becomes even more true, even more real.
This may sound negative, cynical, depressing even. And this may be true. I mean, I don’t believe that it is inherently negative, cynical or depressing. Rather, I believe it to be a measure of strength, a token of men’s ability to thrive and to survive even in the most damning of days, even in the most catastrophic of calamities. A man has to look out for himself and take care of himself. Because no-one else will.
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- Moiret Allegiere, 18.04.2020
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