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. 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,, 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 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 mefor 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 pain? How 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?
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 myin 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.
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 . 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.