There was this fat black bitch in a therapeutic living community I was residing at for some time. She had this tick … whenever she saw somebody in a uniform, she went haywire. She literally was getting into fights with cops and ticket inspectors. She knew all the local ticket inspectors by name. And the boss of those ticket inspectors – I think she called him Nicolini – he was like her nemesis, evil arch angel. She could ramble about what a basterd he was all day. It was like listening to some epic mythological saga.
Well, anyhow, one day it turned out that when she was a kid, her daddy was a police officer somewhere in Africa or something like that. Her house was under surveillance by lots of men with uniforms. And those men raped her best girl friend.
I found it a little silly back then, but the world being funny as it is, turns out I suffer from a similar affliction. I also developed kind of a strong hatred for police officers and people who think they have authority over me. At first, it was just unreflected rage. I did not know where it came from. But I’ve had time to introspect since and it turns out, when some cop barks at me, it triggers emotions in me of myself having been raped.
Of course, the cop is not the person who raped me. But the mind does not care. It is a defense mechanism. And if you think of it, it is a somewhat valid one.
When somebody traumatizes you, your mind creates this image of an “oppressor”. It may be some emotion that this person displayed while harming you. It may be something about his looks. Basically, the brain just goes haywire associating and trying to find a pattern. Why? To avoid it from happening again.
Continue reading “How everybody is your rapist – and how not. Or: Beating the devil”
Liberals usually claim that homosexuality is inborn. Religious people and manospherians usually claim that homosexuality is a mental illness. Both commit the same fallacy, an appeal to nature based on personal bias. Both assumptions, when declared doctrine, are potentially harmful.
If we declare that homosexuality is inborn, we take all hope away from those who truly suffer from emotional disturbances and developmental setbacks. They are left in a desperate situation and when trying to reconcile the conflicting voices in their heads, they feel forced to support the voice that urges them into homosexuality, inflicting strong pain on themselves from even thinking about it.
On the other hand, I think it is plausible to make room for the assumption that some people are truly homosexual at their core and suffer gravely from having to repress that. Telling them that homosexuality is a mental illness hurts them just as much as those who experience the dilemma from the other perspective.
To make a little analogy, there may be a man who truly enjoys photography and art. And there may be another man who truly enjoys hard work and carrying around big bricks at the building site. Now let’s assume that each of them thinks that his profession is the only true and natural thing to do for a real man. They get children. The artist’s kid would secretly love nothing more than to be a hard worker. The hard worker’s kid would love nothing more secretly than to be an artist. Let us assume that both shame their kids for not doing what they think is the right way. Both kids suffer for having to be something they do not truly wish to be, feeling guilty towards their parents for not truly wanting to be their narcissistic mirror image. And yet, the fact that the kids suffer from having to live a life that does not fit them does not mean that this life would not perfectly fit somebody else.
Continue reading “The pseudo-intellectualism of contemporary discussions about homosexuality”
Paul got a letter from his daughter. He hesitated to read it. He put it away for a long time until he brought up the courage to open it. It said:
I had this voice in my head all my life. A voice that was telling me that I am a miserable piece of shit. That I don’t deserve love, don’t deserve pleasure, don’t deserve a fulfilling sex life.
Once the voice appeared in my dreams. It was the devil. A horrifying black cloud of terror. In that dream, I tried to fight him. Was it a him? Or was it an it? I tried to fight it, but my limbs were frozen. I could not move, as much as I tried. It ridiculed me and said You are mine. I whimpered and kept repeating to myself, No, no, no, oh please, god, no! Reality was disintegrating.
I woke up shaken and out of my mind. I pushed it all away, it could not be. I forced myself to forget about it.
Continue reading “A letter from his daughter”