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Why I do not learn game

When I see a confident and relaxed man with his girl on the street, I just know it. I know there is something wrong with me. I know that this man has something I lack. It hurts. It makes me feel lost, inferior, fallen, alone.

This man has trust in himself.

I have been running from this feeling my whole life. I thought if I could just imitate that man, do whatever he does, act like he acts, move like he moves, speak like he speaks; if I could convince everybody that I am in fact that man, I could start believing it myself.

I wanted to believe that everybody is just faking it, because I was. I wanted the world to be a show, so that I could run from that deeply seated, but vague notion I call inner emptiness for lack of a better word. Run from my overwhelming shame for not being who I should be, shame for that leaking wound in my soul that surely was my own fault, a wound that was an abomination and an insult to they eyes of everybody I dared to show it to.

When a girl I desired told me that I was not confident enough to be attractive, I knew she was right. But I did not even have enough confidence to acknowledge this. I did not even have enough trust in my own judgment to acknowledge the obvious truth. Instead, I hated her. I still hate her. I hate all the people who pry open my soul and expose it to my eyes, to my eyes that want to look away in terror, look away from the monstrosity I carry inside myself, that steaming graveyard of emotions.

I wanted to believe everybody was like me. I wanted to believe that everybody was cruel for rejecting my masquerade. I did not want to see, oh, I desperately did not want to see. And much less did I want others to see. Whoever saw would surely ram her fists into my soul and squench it for its weakness. And if my soul would cry out in anguish, she would look at it with contempt and press even harder. And she would be right. Stop crying, baby. Stop fucking crying! Stop bleeding! Your wound disgusts me.

But who am I kidding? I was treating myself the same way I was afraid of being treated, the same way I had learned to treat myself.

I found other men who shared the same pain. More than that, I found other men who hated and despised their wounds as much as I despised mine. We despised our own and each other’s wounds and for a minute I felt at home when we were scheming together how to best hide our ugly wounds from the beautiful, feminine girls who deserved better.

We schemed about how we would push on and on, how crying was for babies, how to be real men. We analyzed the confident men and concluded that we just have to copy them. We just need the perfect instruction, the perfect plan, the perfect pick up line, the perfect posture, the perfect body.

No, I was never a player. I was not even a beginning pick up artist. I am nothing. I am someone who wanted to believe that all I need to do is push harder. Tomorrow, Tom Arrow. Tomorrow, I would find the strength to push that knife a little deeper into the wound until one day, I would no longer care about the pain.

When my outer ear was inflammated and my head in agony, I took my fist and beat my ear harder. Stop hurting, weakling, stop hurting. Take it like a man. Each slap shook my body and I winced like a dog; and sobbed; but my mind was cruel and merciless. When I collapsed and could not make myself do it again, I was deeply ashamed of my flimsiness.

Yes, I tried. I worked hard. I was successful. I was the best at school. I was smart, intelligent, a good writer, a decent guitarist for a while. I was a teacher and helped others; helping others was like helping myself; love thy next as thy self, love thy next in lieu of thy self. People liked me, the smiling Tom.

Each success filled me with bliss, with hope. Mind-numbing and euphoric hope that perhaps, I was imagining the wound after all.

But whenever the high of the success, the high of reaching the pinnacle, the high of my heroism and other’s approval cooled off, I was left in the same black coldness, freezing at the fringe of my mental existence, at the fringe of hell. Hell, which was surely awaiting the weaklings who stop pushing. So I kept pushing.

I sang about my pain. I sang about it to ridicule it. I laughed at it, to laugh it away. People said I was bitter and emotionless. I protested. No, I would not allow them to penetrate my defense, would not allow them to destroy my efforts. I was not bitter and emotionless, no, I was just making fun of those who were. I was making fun of myself. I was laughing at my own patheticness, mocking my own desperation.

But I found people who respected my false walls of greatness. Fuck emotions, we said. Emotions are for girls. Fuck women. Fuck them for telling us to open up, for telling us to be ourselves. Do you not see? We can not be our selves. Our selves are pathetic, deserving only of hell, pain and meaningless effort. Women would not love our selves. Women would teach us another lesson, kick that knife a little deeper for daring to try to remove it, in a naive effort to let it bleed and heal. Better to kick first. To get used to it.

Life is hard. Life is painful. Nobody owes you anything. Do not be a spoiled brat. Stop feeling entitled. Happiness does not exist. It does not matter what you want in life. Reality is harsh. You need to keep working. For your women. For your children. For your parents. For the fatherland. For the culture. For patriarchy. For anything but your meaningless self. You must be selfless. And that is what we wanted, to be selfless, because our self was too painful and the pain too shameful. Whatever made us forget our self was only welcome. Christ, free us from our miserable human existence.

Look at us. Us, the Sisyphi of superficial satisfaction and meaningless success. Pushing the stone up the hill, with the only reward to be allowed to push further.

A new chapter

And yet, I find myself now in this very peculiar situation. For the first time in my life, I accept help from a confident man, find myself opening up to him and letting him teach me to love and find myself. I feel nothing, but I hear my voice express the brittleness and sadness I so fear and despise. I feel nothing, but I notice that tears are running down my cheeks while I meditate.

Doubts, uncertainty, fear, distrust fill my mind. What will I do if he is only out to betray me? What if my pains and secrets will be used against me once more? What if somebody will call me gay for being so vulnerable to another man? For exposing my belly?

But every hard honest word I fight to express leaves a trace of warmth in my heart and a little part of the wound turns into a scar.

And I once more look at the confident men on the street and at the thoughtlessly sexual men seducing girls in the disco and I no longer can or want to deny. I finally want to break down. I finally want to give up. I finally want to stop this madness, this blind chase, this pushing towards nowhere. I finally want to cry and jerk around weirdly to release all that pain stored in all the parts of my body.

I must not give up, you say? I must keep going? I must not lose my illusions? Must not become disillusioned? I must trust and hope, trust and hope that one day, the illusions will become real, that the ghosts will grow flesh?

But I can not. I can not claim to want to see reality and yet keep denying my very real, crippling emotions.

How much hope does a man like me need to make his illusions real? How much blind faith to become one with his delusions? How much work to leave the self behind, until the false self becomes real and the real self false?

How many women do I have to fuck to feel like I deserve to be fucking them? How many IOIs until I can feel comfortable about my desire? How many women until I can convince myself I am better than that confident man on the street, that man who flows in innocent assertiveness, expressing each part of his self without fear? Not just without fear, but with casual and challenging boldness? How many muscles, how many posture exercises, how many books, how many ideologies, how many positive mindsets, how much painHow much until I am objectively better than him in every thinkable manner? How much until I can look down on that confident man and say: See, I showed you.

And I will say See, I showed you and he will shrug and wonder what it is all about. And I will feel the terror creep up once more. That mad, irrational terror. But I am a warrior, I do not succumb to terror. I will push it down with learned exercises and then I will fuck another girl to forget about it.

I will have all the money in the world, all the muscles in the world, all the knowledge, all the women. I will, by all definitions, be alpha. That knowledge will be like a drug to me, a real fantasy to plausibly deny my soul.

But what if I stop working? Then the terror comes back, heavier and more oppressive than ever before. I will want to kill myself from the pain, because it is that unbearable. But I will not kill myself, because I know Jesus wants me to suffer in hell if I do, wants to multiply that pain tenfold. So much for god’s love.

No, I am done with that. Being the best man in the world will change nothing about the pain, the humiliation and that horrible, horrible shame for it all.

Who can I hope to become? A man like Nick Krauser who spends hours analyzing simple text messages and telling men in an interview about the top 1% alpha males, but is not even able to comfortably look them into their eyes while saying that? A man who calls me a weird gamma, but likely would not have the balls to challenge my position in the social hierarchy if we met face to face? A man who thinks that social status is determined by female sexual attention?

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A man like Mystery who becomes suicidal after a mildly serious rejection? A man like Roosh who keeps questioning the purpose of life, while seeking comfort in evolutionary considerations and science? A man to seek the purpose of his life through logical arguments and norms rather than through listening to his soul?

A man who wants to prove his alphaness through his pussy pursuits? A confident man on paper?

What for? I will have fucked 200 girls. I will look like superman. And I will see that confident man on the street. No, that man will not even have a girl with him. That man will just be a bum. He may be weak, he may be poor, he may stink. Enough reasons for me to despise him and push away the ultimately undeniable truth: That he is relaxed and unafraid, while I am a burning wreck with failing motors pushing itself over the rails towards the train station of a false heaven.

What use are women when I can not be fully and unabashedly myself while interacting with them? What use is it to be masculine on the spreadsheet and move in a masculine way when I do not feel connected to the divine masculine? What use is fucking a girl when the theoretical concept of being deserving of sex is more important than the act itself, when my whole life and all my passions and all my love and all my personality are sacrificed to the pursuit of something I can not even fully enjoy? When the only time I feel like the hero of my own life is in the embrace of some stupid cunt?

No, I am not hating on PUAs. It is their path alright. They want that pain. I do not.

Which woman’s love can make me feel whole? Which man’s respect can make me feel whole? No, I am done searching for my identity in others. If I can not feel like a man without a woman’s adoration, I am not where I want or need to be.

And what about all those questions in my head? About all those questions I dare not ask out of shame and guilt? All those questions about existence? About religion? About spirituality?

No, Tom, you are overcomplicating. Stop being difficult. Just keep pushing. Just have faith. Just believe in Jesus. Emotions make no sense, they are just chemical bullshit. You just gotta accept the red pill, life is what it is. Stop asking questions, you are just distracting yourself from your pursuit of greatness. No, you must not talk to leftists, they will infest your mind with madness. Really? You say all this and call yourself a rational man? How can you live with such a headache? How can you call yourself rational while silencing and running away from questions, no matter how simple or misguided? What kind of wisdom can you achieve when you give in to your fear of being manipulated?

Naturals are a tiny genetic minority, there is nothing you can do about it. Everybody is faking it. Yes. The lie I so desperately needed to believe. That all truly confident men are just evil sociopaths and psychopaths. That confidence does not exist, that it is a figment of my imagination. That the best man is merely the best actor, the best follower of morals and rules, the best worker and fucking servant of other’s needs, the best superhero, chasing the next glorious fix of narcissistic supply. Confidence must not exist, for the place in me that this word speaks to, I did not want to feel that place, it hurt too much. And that pain was wrong, evil, vile, unacceptable, unlovable. It must not be felt, not acknowledged, not fed. It is the devil, there to be resisted and denied. If I was worthy, oh if only I was worthy, the pain would not be there. The pain was a proof of my depravity.

But tell me, what point is there in faking? What reward can justify it in the long term?


I am done pretending that there is nothing deeper to fix.

I am done generalizing my shortcomings.

I am done pretending not to be a loser.

It is okay to be a loser and to be pathetic. It is okay to need to heal. It is okay to want to not be running away, running towards nowhere. It is time to give my wound the respect it deserves.

It is okay that I am a loser.

And it is okay that those other men are losers, but I am done listening to losers. No matter how many times their dicks went down that stupid fucking hole.

No. It is not women. Not anymore. It is me.

I am tired of hating. It wears me down.

And this life is about nobody but me. None of those lost men will take responsibility for their bad advice when I will lie in my bed, old, dying, full of regret, terrified of revisiting those memories, still running, endlessly running in mad zest. None of those heroic ideals will console my soul when my body breaks down in age, ugliness and weakness and I am still restlessly wondering whether I lived the life of a real man.

I am done clinging together with other men in selfless solidarity, clinging together in a desperate bond to mutually disguise and deny our shameful weaknesses, to frantically tell each other to just get over it, grow some balls and pray to Jesus, man. I am done seeking out men who want to bully me into being a good slave for our masters, a sexy stud for the sick women who brought us into this life and a good obedient son to live up to the expectations of our emotionally stunted fathers. Your father did not love you? Stop whining! Yet I acknowledge that this is exactly what I wanted. Living up to the demands of sad losers. Reenacting my childhood trauma. It made me a sad loser myself. How others treat you is how you learn to treat yourself.

No, my self-improvement will not be just another heroic and blind attempt to forget the pain. I will not be another deluded patriot and patriarch trying to please the equally deluded and restless spirits of his ancestors. I will not be another emotionally stunted male, not another pathetic father who feels ashamed of the core of his existence: His emotions and his spirituality. Not another man who can do nothing to ease his pain but fight his ideological enemies and get his dick wet. Not another man who can only express his love by beating his boys into the same stupid slavery he so mindlessly pursues or by becoming the pleasing victim of the vampiric females in his life. Not another useless bully who has to punish the emotions of weakness in others that he himself can not express.

I empathize with those men, yes, I do. It is okay to be pathetic. I am no better. But I am done glorifying the pathetic. I am done searching rational explanations for why it is right to be pathetic, done searching for reasons why I do not want to be like those confident men. I am done trading weakness as strength.

I will break the cycle. I want peace in my mind. I want self-love and happiness. I want to rest in myself, no matter how pathetic my life. I want to look another man in the eye, no matter how much stronger or better, without questioning my right to existence. I want to look a woman in her eyes and fearlessly express whatever I feel, be it dominance, desire or weakness. I want to be doing only what my own soul tells me to do, at all times.

And I am approaching that point. The more I break down my delusions that kept me afloat the pain, the more I learn that there is nothing to fear. The more I deliberately fail and refuse to satisfy the expectations of others, the more I reclaim a part of my soul.

When I arrive at my goal, I will be neither a slave to fathers, nor mothers, nor real men, nor bitches. I will smile at you and it will not be a forced smile.

This is why I do not learn game.

And if you say that this is not possible, you have nothing for me.

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  • As I recall, you are German, and seeing as I was a missionary in Germany, I am going to be more frank than typically. I may even mention Jesus.

    There is a saying: iron sharpeneth iron, and so a man the countenance of his friend. Game is a tool to achieve intimacy, and we are only helping each other in that regard. That’s it. It is not the end goal. We all come from very different backgrounds, but certain fundamentals about masculinity bring together this community, and we can help each other with further dialectic. It is up to us individually to decide how to use the tool of game and to fashion the weapon for ourselves.

    Game does not solve the quandry of life’s imperfections. As you consider how and wherefore, we need to solve the problem of justice. You could throw your hands in the air and declare Jesus saved you, and just ignore life’s problems. Or you could become a social justice warrior and press for utopia through mutual agreement and universal salvation. Or you could earnestly seek out the motivating primacies of truth and find redemption. We are all going to die. We are all wildly imperfect. How do we reconcile this?

    For years, I too looked jealously upon men who had beautiful women on their arms. I likewise came to the conclusion that I need to stop comparing myself to others and confront what I actually am. Get rid of the fantasies. To truly do this, we also need to get rid of mainstream Christianity’s idea of turning the other cheek. The Golden Rule is not about being a passive pussy, but rather it is about disregarding completely expectations and comparisons with others. You are going to behave how you want to, regardless of anyone else.

    Our imperfections make us slaves as we compare ourselves to others and hopelessly look for a path to get there. Freedom is knowing who you are. Boldly confront the good and bad about yourself, and then explore the character of God. What is God like? We fixate on the truth we can see, and if we open the shutters of our small room, we would find a huge world of spirituality outside. Faith is the excercise of exploring the character of God and bringing our own character there. This is patriarchy. It makes you a leader, a man who acts and is not acted upon. The discipline of constant prayer and repentence, not because of what a preacher or your mother says you ought to be but what you inwardly through enlightenment have determined is true, will change your character and fulfill your patriarchy.

    Life is a game. Stop fixating on your losing score like a Brazilian footballer. Search for truth scientifically and rationally as Abraham did. Accept your place in this lone and dreary world, and seek these two things: your character and the character of God. Reject presumptions and search in unconventional places. Search the wise words of ancient patriarchs, for they hold classic clues for this effort. It sounds like in a way you are heading down the path of “throw your hands in the air and declare yourself saved.” But you can’t just ignore your position. You need to find your redemption.

    • You speak interesting words.

      I desire intimacy, but the last weeks of meditations have shown me clearly that it is not the girls who do not want intimacy with me. It is truly me who can not allow it due to past traumas. I had sex with a girl once in my life. Know what happened? My body did not allow me to feel my dick. That is it. I was literally not even aware whether I was inside her or not. What point is in that kind of intimacy? What point is there in intimacy where I have to hide large parts of myself from her? That is not intimate, that is the same game of deception up close.

      I have talked to a number of players who were successful. All of them eventually told me it did not truly satisfy them to have many girls. One even openly stated that it was a compensation for fear of intimacy.

      Once I have healed and am able to let go of my past scars, I will explore the world of women. But as you propose, it will not be about doing the right thing or desperately needing it, but simply the result of me following the call of my soul.

      Yes, the journey you propose is a good one. It is mine, too. But I am coming to learn to follow my soul purely and trust it that it will lead me to the knowledge I desire and need. If that will lead me to embracing Christian ideals, it will be so purely out of intuition and natural flow rather than obedience and logical conclucions. Frankly, I think that this may happen, as my spiritual journey leads me closer and closer to a sense of universal and unconditional love – of my self primarily, then by analogy of others.

  • Magmaheart

    Game is a toolbox, maybe not the best one. It seems it doesn’t fit you. But. It’s very useful to some guys. Otherwise what your mention is possible, and we are in the same boat doing it ; self-love and happiness. The great idea is that you have to find your path, to forge it. Thus you cannot compare with anyone.

    • I fully agree. As I wrote above, I do not hate on PUAs. It is their path and the experience they need.

      And your point about having the own path is really the big fucking lesson in it. It seems that all most people do is analyze what others did before them and then try to forge a perfectly average personality out of it that they slavishly obey. That is not life. This world does not need another copy of Victor Pride. It needs me.

      • Magmaheart

        Yeah your voice is kinda unique. Don’t found something similar yet. Cultivating one’s essence wherever it’s going is powerful and very coherent with a purposeful life. Can’t wait to see your future writings which are morphing when you’re walk your path ;) No copy is indeed needed. We needed more unique people. That’s what makes life experiences so wonderful.

        • Indeed, my friend. The more I wake up, the more I appreciate the fact that truly no two people are alike.

          • Magmaheart

            Often you hear : it’s so nice to encounter some original person. But how many are taken the path. People who take their path, are very rare and have big big value

          • Everybody is unique, in the end. Some just do not fully live that. A year ago, I read Mike Cernovich where he said that the world wants to hear all that makes you special. I did not believe anybody could possibly care about my pathetic life, but I wanted to write about it nonetheless. Now, I am starting to appreciate how great a feeling it is to stand behind who you are.

          • Magmaheart

            Pathetic to whom ? Society unreachable standards, riches standards ? Then a lot of people are pathetic. But if you define your own standards, your life is not pathetic. Your blogs seems to have some appeal, so you’re clearly not pathetic as you may think. Yes appreciating oneself is great

          • Thanks. When I say pathetic, I do not necessarily mean it in an extremely negative way. It is simply my own assessment that in some areas of life, I have been pretty pathetic. Of course, there was a reason for that, which makes me interesting – as anybody.

            As I see it, society has no standards, because society does not exist. There is just many individuals. Fuck what they think.

          • Magmaheart

            Ah yes by your own assessment that in some areas of life, you can say it’s pathetic. But never ever to present yourself. Society doesn’t exist indeed .. I always defined it as a chimera : An imaginary monster made up of grotesquely disparate parts. Society is only a assembly of societal memes nothing more, you can ignore it, if it doesn’t serve you. Going your own way aligns with the soul

          • Chimera fits it nicely, but even then it is not real.

          • Magmaheart

            The question of the real / reality shakes many head (of philosophers). But it’s in accurate representation ever evolving.

  • Smokingjacket

    “And I am approaching that point. The more I break down my delusions that kept me afloat the pain, the more I learn that there is nothing to fear. The more I deliberately fail and refuse to satisfy the expectations of others, the more I reclaim a part of my soul” Who cares if you fail? There’s nothing to fear in failure once you don’t give a shit about what others think, and you don’t anyway? So, all you have to do it make the leap surely?

    • Yes, good points. I do not care intellectually. I know my goal is to not care at all. Emotionally, there are still large annoying parts in me that do care what others think. Theoretically, failing should not be necessary to explore those emotions. Then again, failure is what has brought me to a point where I consider those explorations a necessity.

      • Smokingjacket

        Failing is no big deal. It’s only a deal if you want to be a superficial success in this world and you’re much too intelligent and worthy a soul to be concerned with such mundane goals.

        • A compliment I can accept these days, thanks. Not long ago, I was very much concerned with just that.

          • Smokingjacket

            Well, don’t be concerned with it. You’re doing fine, and fuck those who say otherwise. You’ve a more interesting mind than a million drones doing it by the numbers out there. Anyway, you’ll probably end up a suburban dad with baggage and babies in a few years time!

          • Thanks. What do you mean by baggage?

          • Smokingjacket

            Our essential self.

          • Our demons?

          • Smokingjacket

            Perhaps. Know the demon and you’ll know oneself.

          • I asked my spiritual mentor if he is the devil. He said: ‘Well, of course. And much more.’

          • Smokingjacket

            Interesting answer your mentor gave. Jung described this process, perhaps around your age (or a but older) as his confrontation with the unconscious. How few of us actually do this, and perhaps with good reason, but, the insight and strength it can give us, nothing or nobody else can provide. It’s unique to that soul alone.

          • Indeed. The rest of the people have to find contentment in only reading that which is experienced by those who choose to wake up in their lifetime. Actually, that is one reason why I – since the start of my meditations – am writing down less and less about my meditations. With each passing day, I do not feel less like capturing the greatness of my insights in words and more like capturing it in my own soul.

          • Smokingjacket

            Words fail to capture our most important experiences I sometimes think. Why should we always communicate those feelings anyway.

          • Yes, as far as it is possible. You know, during my latest meditations, I have had a couply of minor but still important insights that simply can not be put into words. They are too subtle and hard to articulate. But even if I did articulate them, there would be no point to it, as it would be akin to writing a book about how each muscle of your body feels in various situations.

            So I think the best gift to provide through words is not the gift of transporting absolute truth, but rather to transport the methods and means by which to find truth for yourself and experience it fully.

            I think a lot of humanity makes this basic mistake. A guru meditates 5 years and then writes a book about his insights. Then students read that stuff and after one week, they feel incredibly smart – without understanding any part of it. And that is then the source of uniformity and zealotry and ideological wars.

  • BlueEyedDevil

    Wow. This is really some heavy stuff… giving us much to think about. As far as your being a “loser,” it appears to me you have your head screwed on straighter than a lot of guys I know.
    Like most of us, you have failed at some things in life, and been quite successful in others. And your extreme candor about your life, weaknesses, issues, etc., in all your writings is impressive. Few guys would or could do this.
    I hear ya about game and alphaness (sp?) not being for everyone, or even necessary for happiness. Tons of other good points in this article.
    And yes… your life IS about you. Not others or what they think.

    • Thanks man. It is not easy for me to be talking or writing about this stuff. There are many doubts in my head. But in my honest moments, this is how I truly feel these days.

      Game is cool, but not if game becomes a mask of who I am, an attempt to run away. I will go after women when my soul tells me that I am ready for it. I will do it the way my soul tells me to do it. Not earlier, not any other way. Do you think that some Brasilian machos spend hours reading online articles about how to seduce women? No fucking way!

      • BlueEyedDevil

        Ideally, once we are adults, everything should be done based on when our soul tells us it’s right. Not just limited to chasing women. Those who do things based on what others tell them to do, or based on what is “cool,” or what they see on TV or read in a book, are mindless zombies. We gotta listen to our soul, and the little voice in our head.
        Here is one of my favorite quotes. It applies to me, and increasingly I think/hope it applies to you:

        “Many people don’t like me because I’m different. I don’t like them because they’re all the same.”

        • Yes, I share this opinion.

          It is a nice quote and I empathize with it. But if we are honest, nobody is the same. Yes, many have bought into the lie that there is a sameness to be pursued. But each of us is unique in the end. Look at people, even at the sheep; no two are alike. They are merely too blind to see it.

  • Hey Tom

    The difference between you and those other men is, you’re a bit more fucked up than they are. You’ll need more work to get over the insecurities.

    I used to be barking mad and your blog is an echo of my mind as a younger man.

    Your strategy for solving your problems seems vague. The only way you can change anything is to do something. If your strategy doesn’t involve some specific verbs then you’re going in the wrong direction.

    Here are some things to consider:

    – Counseling. No shit. I think you’d be a good candidate. I did some cognitive behavioral therapy for a few months, many years ago, and it helped me to moderate intrusive thoughts not unlike the ones you’re having. It might also help you to understand your bizarre family dynamic. Avoid psychoanalysts though, they’re quacks.

    – Exercise. The world makes more sense when you are physically tired. It’s not about buffing up, it’s about clearing your head.

    – Eat properly. If you eat shit you feel like shit.

    – Meditation.

    – A change of scenery. You’re not working, so what’s stopping you?

    Also, you might want to consider spending less time online. I know a blog helps to vent (I do the same) but the kind of people who hang out on ROK etc. are often fucked up themselves and have little to offer. You may conclude that I fit into that category.

    I was at rock bottom for many years. Now I’m okay almost all the time. The crazy shit in my life amuses me and I write about it for the entertainment of others.

    • Hey Nikolai.

      I agree. They are not as rock bottom as I am, thus they still have the energy to do that stuff in ways I consider to be unhealthy in the long run.

      My verb is meditation. I met a guy in Peru who is guiding me in my meditations and this greatly helps. Maybe you have heard of the Kundalini awakening; it is what I aim at at this moment. I am becoming something of a hippie.

      The men on ROK are largely the men I am referring to in this article. The more I heal, the less I find myself able to tolerate many of them, so you are absolutely right in that regard. Much of the reason why I was hanging around online so much was because I wanted a sense of approval and belonging and – the things I mentioned in this article.

      Say what you want, but secretly, I wanted to reach rock bottom for a long time. Now I am there. It feels good. Peaceful. Just the right setting and time to start putting all the broken pieces back together.

      Glad to hear it worked out nicely for you.

      Thanks for your comment and for your linkings in your blog.

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  • Tom,

    You possess a level of self-awareness only few I know have arrived at. This is what is going to take you higher than so many of those you previously admired/envied. With this said, I would like to give you a hug. Intimate contact, even among straight, strong men, is one of the most relieving actions we can partake in as humans. It would be my pleasure to give you some relief from the pain you have so beautifully articulated. This should go without saying, but I do not desire this out of pity, but out of a respect I have developed for you over the last few months.

    Keep going. While Nik makes a good point about your problem solving strategies being vague, they are yours, and therefore the best strategy for you to follow. The awareness you have developed has amplified your own conscious insight of your intuition, and this is helping you tremendously.

    I knew a while back you were going to make significant progress, and now it is revealing itself. The only thing I will say about all of this is a remark you made:

    “But what if I stop working?”

    Then life stops. Sure you keep breathing, and being conscious, but you die on the inside. You are either growing, or dying. This is something I keep in mind always. With every action I take. Every friendship I develop. Every place I go. Every thought I have. I know I must continue to work if I want to maintain the level of confidence and happiness I have.

    Thank you for baring your soul,

    • Damn, Andrew. A great gesture and compliment, thank you. As I know myself, I have great fear of intimate contact and likely could not enjoy it – at this time. I am certain that I will grow enough in the coming months to be able to accept that gift and maybe even return it.

      The remark about working is meant in regards to working against my soul, against that which really helps. Working against my gut feeling, as I have been doing it my whole life. That is the definition of work I know. Work that has to be done – work that my gut tells me to do – usually feels effortless, good, right, and thus easy to follow through with. But working against one’s soul leaves one with no energy at all to do so. That is why that advice never worked for me. I was internally totally and utterly exhausted without even being aware of it.

      Thank you for this comment, my friend.

      • Ahhh, that remark makes a lot of sense. But yeah, the pleasure is all mine Tom. I was incredibly moved by your piece. In this day and age with all the fluffy, fake bullshit I see all over the place it is refreshing to see some real shit.

        • Thanks. It was one of those moments where your soul just tells you to write it down. You are not even aware why you are writing the way you are, you just do it. And suddenly you have before yourself this amazing and moving piece of soul and know that you could not replicate it if you wanted to.

          Something divine (?) wanted me to write this thing and put all the right words into my mind. Zero effort and impossible to really feel ownership over it. I wonder if the great artists of the past have watched their hands move over the canvases in the same fashion.


    This is just beautiful. Almost brought me to tears. Thank you for writing this.

    • Thanks! I remember having been in quite the “flow” while writing this.

  • Anonymous

    Women aren’t the prize. As we get older, we get better. Just focus on improving yourself & the women will follow.