Phil's Philosophy

Mind Meanderings of an Alchemist


On its most fundamental level, you cannot understand the decadence and corruption of society without understanding the pathology of the human mind. But it’s not just the diseased mind that needs to be scrutinized, the frail mind needs to be examined as well because the latter lacks the fortitude and immunity to resist the dominance and tyranny of the former.



The Toxic Legacy of Machiavelli’s The Prince


Criticism of Søren Kierkegaard’s Phrase: Once You Label Me, You Negate Me…


What is the Purpose of Demons?


Anatomy of Narcissism v1.0


Musings on the Purpose of Death


Introducing Three Degrees of Evil


Musings on Atheism, Religion and God


Would God Condone Attempts to Root Out Evil with the Sword?


Musings on Free Will – Letter to Prof. Alfred Mele


Meet Mr. Ego and Mr. Spirit


Autobiographical and psychoanalytical essay of Philip Jonkers — (1/3) familial background

“True guilt is guilt at the obligation one owes to oneself to be oneself. False guilt is guilt felt at not being what other people feel one ought to be or assume that one is.” R.D. Laing

Used and Abused and then some . . .

Nineteen-ninety-eight was the year in which I turned twenty-seven and it was not the year that I finally came to terms with the–on hind-sight–arguably rather obvious fact that I am something of a nerd. Indeed, the inception of this stunning particular feat of an ever maturing and progressing self-awareness would, at that point in time, still take many years to come. Indeed, such element of self-knowledge would even require an act of divine intervention, with God basically communicating to me that I would fit right in up there in heaven; the immediate implication being that nerds were to not exactly be in short supply in God’s little old domicile.

Nineteen-ninety-eight was however an altogether different kind of year for me, much different in fact, and not because of me–and who or what I would be–but rather because of someone close to me — well, someone who at least, in principle, was supposed to be close to me. The occasion of which I speak–a good two decades ago by now–was my mother telling me something substantial (in the sense of being memorable) about her own person arguably for the very first time ever in my life. At some time in late spring I think it was, I was about to partake in an annually-held country-side bicycle ride, something which for me had grown into a bit of a tradition back then. Early in the morning, my mother was driving me by car to the town where I was to start pedalling. If I recall correctly, she was receiving psychological counsel at the time (due to my parents being in the middle of a divorce, I think it was) and we were talking about this when she suddenly hit me with it. She told me right then and there that she was sexually abused as a pre-teen child.

But what I found especially remarkable about her entirely unexpected confessional act–even though I didn’t fully understand her behaviour at the time–was that she said this to me in such a way that it was as if she was thoroughly ashamed of it. She admitted to have been the victim of a sex crime and yet, at the same time, gave me the distinct impression to be utterly embarrassed about it, even in front of her first-born and only son — someone whom she, under normal healthy circumstances, should be able to trust (and do so completely). Judging from her reaction, however, trust was not something that I could detect in her. Indeed, it was clear to me that she profoundly resented telling me, since she was literally hopping in her car-seat while making her confession, as if she were uttering only self-damning sort of words, and as such appeared to have triggered inside of her a sudden jolt of fearful anxiety — causing her whole being to be knocked off of balance momentarily.

It was most remarkable that even though she had been a victim, her behaviour was consistent with someone who paradoxically felt guilty about her victimhood. She behaved in such a way that she feared being punished for unveiling what actually were nothing more than some of the particulars of her victimhood. Punishment would be the last thing she deserved, since only in a morally topsy-turvy world would someone possibly “deserve” punishment for having been abused. Think for example of how rape-victims may very well end up punished for their victimhood by being stoned-to-death–or forced to receive non-lethal corporeal punishment (lashes), or thrown in prison–if and when those victims were to have the compounding misfortune of living in certain, let’s say, more challenging regions of the world in terms of human rights — ones which are ruled by morally-dubious legal systems like Sharia Law.

So where did all this necessarily undeserved fear come from? Why was she afraid to be punished, when she had done no wrong herself?

My mother was abused by a local kid of seventeen years old — a guy we’re going to call Smeagol. At the time of incident, the perpetrator was the older brother of my mother’s friend, a girl of the same age as my mom’s. My mother was abused in the home of the family-unit of which the offender was part. By forcing himself on her and taking away her innocence, the perpetrator first committed a severe immoral action against my mother. Although the Perp did not actually penetrate my mother, by nevertheless molesting her, he did violate my mother’s body, did momentarily usurp my mother’s autonomous control over her own body and he did make a credible and substantial effort to steal her sexual innocence.

Failure of parental duty

But this was not all the immorality committed that day (and for a long time to come) — not by a long shot. First off, it needs to be acknowledged that the offender’s parents had had the natural obligation to assume responsibility over their children. Both parents, merely by virtue of being parents, were naturally duty-bound to bear responsibility for the actions of their children — even more so if and when their children were present in the very house that also fell under their wing of responsibility. In fact, in general and in all reasonable fairness, when it comes to relating to the social environment into which their children are embedded, the natural duty of any couple of parents was then, as it is now, and as it will always be, two-fold:

  • to act as effective protectors of their children from a potentially-hostile proximate social environment; and (equally important)
  • to act as effective protectors of the proximate social environment precisely from their potentially-hostile children.

Owing to the reality of their son’s abusive behaviour vis-a-vis my mother, the offender’s parents–by evidently failing in the second prong of their parental duty–deserve to be held accountable for thereby facilitating their son’s abusive Golden Rule-perturbing behaviour. Put differently, the parents failed to prevent their son from violating my mother and so the parents deserve blame for this; they deserve blame for failing to protect my mother from abusive behaviour coming from their very own son, perpetrated furthermore in their very own home.

Although you’d hope it would stop here, unfortunately this is not the case. Even more people deserve blame for my mother’s abuse, in particular due to its arguably even more harmful and debilitating aftermath.

When my mother returned home with Smeagol his sperm in the clothes covering her legs, her hapless parents responded in a most inept and unhealthy manner to the admittedly disconcerting sight. Instead of reacting with ample loving concern for their sexually-molested daughter, their fearful disgust must have gotten the better of them when they rather did the regrettable opposite — reacting with ample (implicit) shame. Instead of coming to terms–in a mature and constructive way–with what had happened to their daughter, they decided to do their best to brazenly ignore all that the abuse meant for my mother by resolving to bluntly cover up the whole matter lock, stock and barrel.

My grandparents had two children, a boy and a girl — my uncle and my mother, of which the boy was the oldest. Her brother was away, at school I think it was, when my mother knocked on the door of her parents’ house in a dishevelled and no doubt confused and upset state. While having a daughter who had just sustained abuse constituted bad enough a crisis as is, arguably even more tragic was that my grandparents decided to conspire together not to tell a thing to their very own son. To the best of my knowledge, my grandparents have never ever told their–mind youonly son what had happened to my mother — this, what to them must have been, unbearably shameful a thing. My grandparents died a long time ago (in the 1980s). My mother’s brother recently passed away. As far as I know, he never came to know what had happened to his kid-sister way back in the late fifties.

Courtesy of selfishly ignorant parents, plunged headlong into a life of superficiality, histrionics and shame-avoidance

“Van je familie moet je’t hebben” – cynical Dutch proverb

Since my mother–by her own admission–has never told her own brother a thing, my grandparents must have ordered her to never speak about the incident to her brother (and all other people as well, for that matter). This–in and of itself–constitutes a serious moral infraction because they effectively forced my mother to from here on out depart from her natural obligation to consistently represent the truth and to firmly live in truth (including especially, as to her own person). My grandparents forced my mother to betray her true self the minute she was instructed to lie to her own brother about herself, if not explicitly then by omission — by way of lying by omission. Specifically, my grandparents must have instructed my mother to, as of that moment, relate to her own brother in such a way that she was to never even go near broaching her little secret of shame — the sort of secret that were to be so unbearably dirty in the fear-laden eyes of her parents that it was to never ever be touched upon, not in front of anyone, not one single living soul.

My grandparents basically must have ordered my mother to adopt an inherently inhumane assumption of life, one which asserted that preventing their shared secret from coming out was a more valuable goal to strive after than seeking to preserve the mental (psycho-sexual and psycho-social) well-being of my mother; that guarding the secret, for-all-practical-purposes, was deemed so very important that it were to be more worthy than preserving and endorsing the true and spontaneously-uncensored self of my mother. Ultimately because of their unwillingness and or inability to handle the family-crisis which immediately ensued from my mother’s abuse, the parents tragically only went to add insult to injury when they evidently couldn’t help themselves from heaping their own form of abuse on their already abused child.

They did so in the form of forcing their little girl to adopt a new but artificial virtue, the sort of virtue–a decidedly dubious virtue–which aimed to promote an artificial version of their little chunk of the world, one that elevated to virtual godhood-status the practice of avoiding shame, all at the expense of being grounded in reality and promoting truth. In other words, courtesy of her reason-overruling and truth-denying parents, my mother was expected to propagate–to all whom cared to see and listen–superficially pleasing but not necessarily truthful accounts of events surrounding her own self and the family-unit of her parents, stories which were conveniently yet suspiciously emptied out from any and all significant traces of shame and blame.

In the immediate wake of the abuse, my grandparents basically must have ordered my mother to as-of-then (diligently) work to leave the impression to the outside world that she were to still be sexually innocent, perfectly unviolated; that she would not at all be–what is known by native English speakers in metaphoric language as–“damaged goods“. By necessity, whether done so explicitly or with mutual (albeit tacit) understanding, my grandparents likewise must have ordered not just their daughter but also one another to wilfully exclude any reference to said apparently poisonously-embarrassing incident from any-and-all of the verbal interactions they were henceforth going to have with all other people, including especially their automatically unfortunate laterally-victimised son.

Conspiracy of silence

As a result, while seeking to abnegate truth in favour of shame-avoidance, an element of inauthenticity could not be helped from creeping into the relationships between the parents themselves as well as the relationships of the parents with both of the children: with my mother (their accomplice in secrecy) and in particular with my uncle — whom, in order to be kept perfectly unwitting of the secret, came to be subjected to a perpetual form of deception, whether tacitly or explicitly expressed, coming from all three members of the conspiracy of silence which had just come about.

As a result of the ill-fated response of my mother’s parents to the abuse of their daughter, the atmosphere in the house only stood to attain a more unrealistic nature (touch), a pervasive and persistent yet arguably-subtle impression that something was off in and around the house, that things didn’t quite add up in the family-household. Let it emphatically be noted that the cause of making the atmosphere more artificial was not so much the actual abusive act but rather the inept way in which my grandparents went to handle it. As much as my mother may subsequently have hated her abuser, her hatred would have been more well-placed and deserving if it were directed unto her own parents (and to the likewise failing parents of the Perp, but more on this later). After all, my mom’s parents in effect were more concerned about preventing shame from being brought down upon the family in the aftermath of the abuse than they were about restoring and guaranteeing the well-being of their daughter. In a practical sense at least and although they probably did not experience such entirely consciously, their fear of shame (coming from what they must have prejudged was a judgemental and already condemnatory local community) proved–at least within the context of the abuse–to be stronger than their love for their daughter (as well as the son they chose to subject to ensuing persistent if implicit bamboozlement).

To recap, courtesy of her parents insisting to learn to avoid sustaining shame before anything else, my mother came to be instilled with a new but shady chief virtue, the virtue of guarding the secret and–by logical extension–the virtue of guarding secrets in general, especially the sort of secrets which belonged to–what to her would have come to be–the most taboo category of all, the one hush-hush off-limits kind of category which after all had kick-started into the highest possible gear of priority her externally-imposed, autonomy-overruling and inherently-artificial need for keeping secrets: the category of sex.

That is, courtesy of her morally-failing parents, my mother would now learn to be prone to experience relief if she were to be successful at attempts to keep her secret(s)–indeed–just that, secret. By the same token, she would also learn to tend to surrender to a state of worrypossibly profuse with neurotic reason-superseding fear–if her secret(s) were ever threatened with exposure. As such, my grandparents forced their daughter to forge an unhealthy emotional bonding with the task of guarding (initially only) one secret. But the same existential plight also applied to the parents themselves. They too moved themselves into the unfortunate position at which they, in principle, could also pat either themselves or each-other on the back if and when they would as-of-then also be successful at guarding the deemed all-important secret from coming out; and, in sharp contrast, be prone to spiral down into a state of frantic worry if and when they were to jeopardise failing to keep their precious yet dirty little secret safely under wraps.

Predator of Name

A plausible spin-off side-effect which the grandparents also could hardly have helped instil into my mother–consistent with the questionable wisdom contained in the phrase that misery loves company–was an understandable though regrettable psychological need for her to as-of-that-moment try and ferret out likewise dirty little secrets that would supposedly be guarded by other people — especially, of course, those kind of secrets which happened to also revolve around sex. And yet, all the while, she was to go about doing so entirely covertly, just so as to precisely be able to avoid potentially shameful confrontations with the targets of her sneaky nosiness. As such, to the extent that this observation is accurate, my grandparents instilled into my mother in effect an additional covertly predatory attitude — not a predator of persons of course (that would be the irrelevant domain of psychopaths and anti-socials), but instead a predator of reputation — a predator of name. I will return to this subject when I discuss gossip, a type of phenomenon which may be regarded as a direct manifestation of such secretly predatory sort of attitude.

As a consequence, everyone involved ended up a victim as a result of my grandparents their unhealthy and inauthenticity-promoting decision to–in the name of serving the automatically-dubious god of Shame-avoidance–hush up that which should not be hushed up, that which does not deserve to be covered up, because to do so would be tantamount to wilfully trying to steer people away from the absolute and perfect truth, expected to instead accept a counterfeit and misleading alternative narrative of reality — a sort of resolution which is inherently immoral because it promotes insanity in those who are (deliberately) kept away from the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth.

On the one general hand, those who are subjected to deception might eventually become wary of those suspected of deceiving them. On the other general hand, those doing the deceiving incur guilt with respect to those they seek to deceive and, as a result, will stand to grow more self-conscious (and not in a good way). That is, the deceivers will increase within themselves an artificial need to appear in certain favourable yet ultimately disingenuous ways to the outside world, especially to the people whom they subject to deception, just so as to not give themselves away. They will stand to consider it increasingly important to “Keep Up Appearances” and, at the same time (whether consciously or unconsciously), brace themselves–if threatened to be unmasked–for reproach coming from the folks they deceive.

For promoting in themselves and their daughter an artificial and unhealthy need to depart from the truth and to thereby promote in the minds of all encountered other people subjected to their deception (including especially their own son) a comparable departure from the objective truth, my grandparents went to commit a class of immoral actions of a psychic nature against everyone involved, including in particular themselves.

All for the benefit of shame-avoidance, at the behest of what in effect was a service to the god of Shame-avoidance (whether such god be real or imagined), by ordering their daughter and themselves to keep their daughter’s abuse a secret, the grandparents forced my mother and themselves to assume a practice of Secrecy-idolatry. After all, when it came to my mother’s true sexual status, the importance of keeping it a secret was raised to a virtual godhood status; keeping the secret a secret came to be somewhat of an all-important life-determining holy mission. The big secret, guarded as such, may be expanded into a rule and lie to live by. Specifically, the rule my mother was to adhere to at-all-cost reads something to the effect of, I am not to acknowledge, let alone discuss, my case of sexual abuse with anyone (outside of the conspiracy of which I am part); for each of my grandparents it was something along the lines of, I am not to acknowledge, let alone discuss, the sexual abuse case of my daughter with any outsider. The lie my mother was expected to promote might be phrased as, I am still as sexually innocent as I’ve ever been; for each of my grandparents it would be, My daughter is still as sexually innocent as ever.

By designating the secret to be a most important goal to strive after, more important than being truthful and sincere, it came to have the status of an idol for the three conspirators. Hence, each of the three conspirators may be said to have assumed a practice of Secrecy-idolatry, one which may be expanded into a practice of Rule-idolatry and a practice of Deception-idolatry, where the Rule-idolatry was based on the (blind and absolute) service to the mentioned rule and the Deception-idolatry on a (slavish and total) dedication to propagate the mentioned lie. Since it served the purpose of shame-avoidance, the devotion to Secrecy-idolatry by each of the conspirators may be thought of as serving the Shame-avoiding Self-idolatry practised by each of the grandparents (a practise of which its inception likely preceded my mother’s abuse and likewise was likely not an unpopular sort of practise shared by quite a few comparably-stoic and timid contemporary fellow peasants, acquainted or not).

Karma, reincarnation and Nirvana

A dose of metaphysics may be inferred from this issue. Since they were acting as facilitators of my mother’s artificial externally-imposed need to dupe the world around her during times of perceived shame-avoiding need, both grandparents partially deserve to karmically own-up to the consequences of the daughter they sought to corrupt. Even after shuffling off their mortal coils, their beings would still somehow deserve to share in the moral cost (through copy-inheritance) which my mother incurred and kept on incurring due to the behavioural corruption they were responsible of inflicting on her. Hence, in order to consistently follow through on this basic karmic principle, the grandparents–even when no longer retaining the carnal form they had when living and acting as parents of my mother–regardless of whatever way or shape they existed whenever my mother happened to commit such type of transgression (lying or lying by omission in order to safeguard secrets at all cost), whether they existed as spirits in suspended animation in between consecutive incarnations, or whether they existed in the form of already newly-embodied incarnations, they would still deserve to copy-inherit the moral cost that is due to the relevant failures of what once was their own biological child, the kind of inauthenticity-promoting failures they had made sure she would make by beforehand instructing her accordingly (and leaving her no choice but to comply).

In other words, in order for the grandparents to be in a position to repay the potentially progressive moral cost added to their particular records of immoral actions (Tallies of Immoral Action) for corrupting their daughter, they would–in principle–be able to do so, able to repay their karmic debt, if they were to return to this world in newly-incarnated form and, as such, be given the opportunity to work to compensate for the hurt they inflicted by way of doing good deeds. Hence, a consistent application of the karmic copy-inheritance principle which lies at the basis of the analytical framework employed here and in my future work, in combination of course with the presumption that God would also be a just sort of God, argues in favour of the existence of reincarnation. Hence, karma and reincarnation are fully compatible concepts (which is not surprising if you are a Buddhist or Hindu). In blunt general parlance, if you are unable to repay the moral cost which you incurred due to committing immoral actions in this life, you ought to be granted the possibility to do so in the next life. And when the balance is reached, when you have offset your bad deeds with good deeds, then maybe, just maybe, you would qualify for admittance into heaven at the end of what would then be your final life on this physical planet (in this physical universe) — maybe this would be the transcendental state of being which in Eastern traditions is known as Nirvana.

The cost of cover-up

By way of demanding submission to the dubious practice of shame-avoidance, my mother’s parents only set their daughter up for incurring a progressive future amount of moral cost — or, idolic cost. Specifically, there’s the idolic cost which belongs to lying (either explicitly or by omission) whenever my mother would now feel the artificial (neurotic) need to deceptively advertise to the outside world (including especially her brother) that she were to still be sexually innocent and unspoiled.

During such critical moments of subterfuge, she–and both other members of the conspiracy, if need be–would have seen themselves forced to lie (explicitly or by omission) in order to give the general impression to the outside world that the Bee family (the parental family of my mother) was just like any other garden-variety peasant kind of family: one which were to feature a perfectly unspoiled daughter in the process of being raised by parents who supposedly had never ever failed, not even once, in the proper care for their children. It has to be stated, however, that I consider such moments in which certain people were deemed worthy of deception to be relatively rare. I make the reasonable assumption that during those still quite old-fashioned (prudish) times people just didn’t talk much about sex; indeed, I’ll conveniently yet plausibly presume it was back then quite the taboo-subject, especially cases of sexual abuse.

If the parents of Smeagol would have apologised for their son and for their own failure as vigilant parents, if they clearly had admitted that their son had been in the wrong and that my mother was the victim, then all this detrimental aftermath might have been prevented. If necessary, my grandparents could then have told the people around them that their daughter had only been the victim. Instead, by covering up the whole thing while at the same time categorically refusing to let her even be the victim (for more than a few seconds), they chose to act as if my mother was effectively the guilty party.

Every time my mother was forced to conceal the fact that she had been the victim of abuse, she was forced to put up a front of misdirecting artificiality. That is, my mother wilfully had to present a false self to the outside world in the hopes of escaping detection of her true but implied-by-her-parents-to-be offensive personal nature. By assuming a mask of innocence (covering a self soiled by “guilt“), she was taught to steer clear from the allegedly oh-so-terribly dire fate of being recognised as the kind of child who supposedly already had had (sex-before-marriage sort of) illicit sexual experience, since that’s how her parents feared that (at least some of) their fellow villagers would come to view her: rather than a sexual-abuse victim, she were to be a naughty little aspiring tart who already was sexually active (mind you, at pre-teen age). To reveal the truth concerning her sexual history would therefore be nothing short of capital sin according to my grandparents; parents too much disturbed by circumstantial irrational fear to act as responsible parents towards–mind youboth of their children.

My grandmother–in an air of militancy–used to instruct my mother, “Don’t show them [=other people] your true feelings!” The implicit message which she sought to instil into her child was: If you flaunt your true colours, especially when your colours happen to not be that particularly bright at that particular time–i.e., if you let people know how you truly feel, especially when you’re not feeling that well–then people will shame you for it. If given half-a-chance, they will supposedly persecute you for the flaws and weaknesses which you supposedly prove to have by bringing them out in the open for everyone to see.

It was my grandmother who must have been rather adept at instilling fear into my mother for the people around them — for other members forming part of the community, their shared social environment. But the fear which my grandmother sought to inspire into her child, at the same time, must also have been a perfectly-secretive kind of fear because she, after all, had also taught my mother to not reveal her true feelings to the outside world. Moreover, by urging my mother to put up an appeasing yet deceptive false front to cover up her true and uncensored emotional state, my Grandma must have implanted into my mother secretive fear in combination with a martial spirit. By instructing her daughter on how to properly relate to the people around her by flaunting disingenuous emotions, she implicitly let my mother know that those people–those outsiders–cannot be trusted. Specifically, outsiders were to not be trustworthy to act in a for Mother beneficial way if and when they would happen to witness her true feelings, especially when those feelings were less than cheerful, the kind of feelings which Grandma implied were to make Mother look like a weak and therefore vulnerable prey. Hence, my grandmother taught her daughter to treat those other people, at least to some significant yet altogether secretive extent, as enemy combatants.

I have no way of knowing just how many times the members of the three-person conspiracy saw themselves forced to deceive outsiders of the conspiracy. However, there is of course one particular person who could hardly avoid being systematically subjected to ongoing deceit. Time and again, my grandparents did have the opportunity to spill the beans in front of my uncle, to come clean once and for all about the abuse befallen to his only kid-sister, and yet they categorically refused to do so; they wilfully chose to keep him out of the proverbial loop. By all three members of the conspiracy resorting to a perpetual group-effort to lie by omission with respect to Uncle, they consciously and deliberately did keep him away from the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth.

While of course young hormonal Smeagol indeed was to blame for molesting my mother, the destructive effect of his misdeed was magnified tremendously–and arguably paled in comparison–by my grandparents their pathological insistence to cover up and to keep covered up the whole matter (in front of every outsider), for–by doing so–they effectively only went to further punish my mother for something she should not be held responsible for, and deserved not to be held responsible for. But, by systematically depriving him from the truth and drawing him away from it, they punished my uncle as well. Indeed, arguably most of all, they likewise punished themselves, especially in their ability to have meaningful relationships with both of their children, the type of relationship that was build on truthfulness, honesty and trustworthiness and as such went deeper than an artificial surface of pretence and deceptive make-believe.

I suppose the most healthy manner with which my grandparents could have dealt with the abuse, was to have a sit-down with the family of the Perp and to have the Perp apologise to my mother as well as my grandparents; and to also have the parents of the Perp apologise to everyone involved, to my mother and my grandparents but also–paradoxically–to Perp themselves for having failed as sufficiently-vigilant parents. And, last but not least, my grandparents should have apologised to my mother for–in turn–having failed to act as sufficiently-effective vigilant parents themselves. Without such collective process of repentance and atonement, none of the people involved was afforded any peace of mind and the psychically detrimental effects could do little but go on unabated in their festering effect on the sanity of the hearts and minds of all the people who were either directly involved or who were dragged into it through no fault of their own. Basically, by being and remaining part of a vicious cycle, everyone involved (except Uncle) kept on accumulating a progressive load of karmic debt due to an evident collective failure to own up to personal responsibility in the ever-since-ongoing moral misadventure that had come to pass, one that required painfully-lacking savvy crisis management in order to prevent further excursions into subsequent moral nightmares.

In the nineteen-eighties, my mother worked in one of the only two small local drug-stores in the village we all lived in and it just so happened that Smeagol had a habit of buying his tobacco at that very same drug-store, and was often served by my mother. Remarkably, he apparently had never felt ashamed enough about himself to altogether avoid my mother by moving out of town or at least seek to avoid contact with her as much as possible. If he would have felt crippled by shame, he could have easily avoided interacting with my mother simply by walking literally only a few houses down the street and buy his tobacco from the only competing drug-store in town. And yet such alternative course of action seems not to have taken place, at least not on a consistent basis because my mother kept seeing his face in the store.

It thus seems as if he never felt ashamed enough to my mother to avoid her. Why did he never feel the need to manifest shame toward my mother? Or did he perhaps feel as though he had been entitled in his abuse all along? It’s as if he somehow felt that he had done no great deal of harm at all. He perhaps even saw himself as someone who had perpetrated no real moral infraction at all, and that my mother were to only have deserved what would then to him seem as no abuse at all. However, maybe it would be too much to say that he felt good and entitled about what he had done, but he seems to not have felt genuinely bad about his juvenile sexual escapade either. Alternatively, he may have downplayed what he had done. Indeed, it seems as if everyone involved proceeded to resolve acting, at least outwardly, as if the abuse simply had never taken place and, as such, repressed all the accompanying uncomfortable memories deep down into their respective individual unconsciousness.

Seeking to avoid shame by way of secretly heaping shame on others — practising the dark art of gossip

By responding to the abuse in the detrimental way with which they did, my grandparents chose to altogether ignore the emotional needs of their daughter. They simply refused to grant one of the two children of whom they were supposed to guard the safety and well-being, the liberty to express the kind of emotions which–given the rather grave nature of the crisis into which she was plunged–would have been entirely suitable and appropriate; and indeed perfectly wholesome, not just for my mother, but for all the people involved. Tragically, by their ill-fated choice to deny my mother humane consideration and to instead unceremoniously dump the whole painful matter into one big stinking sink of (unconscious) oblivion, in effect, my grandparents–by their selfish ignorance giving rise to parental failure–decided to blame the victim.

That is, by refusing to assist my mother with what–shamefully-enough, to most significant degree–was their own natural burden as parents, by blatantly neglecting to own up to what regardless was still their undeniable parental duty, they only went to punish their daughter even more. By their staunch insistence to maintain artificial silence with respect to the incident, it’s almost as if they had ruled among the two of them that their daughter had owed it only to herself to sustain what regardless was still an act of molestation; and that–as an immediate consequence of the abuse–my grandparents supposedly had found themselves having landed in an agonising position of sickening magnitude, draped from head-to-toe in heavy cloaks of caustic shame, callously flung–if you will–into a vicious and uncaring vat of tar and feathers. . . (i.e., instead of poor daughter [as it was supposed to be]: poor poor parents!)

And so the prime task for my mother’s parents were to then have been: stealthily climbing out of the proverbial vat with–if possible–not a single soul seeing them; and if successful, save their own plightful selves from the ostensibly petrifying terror of having to absorb all those nasty yet invisible daggers of shame which–I’m sure they (unconsciously) believed–would be flying their particular way at breakneck speeds, courtesy of a supposedly unforgiving community, once their true and supposedly soiled naked selves would otherwise be exposed to all those who had eyes to see and ears to hear.

It’s as though my grandparents were in a paralysing grip of fear, the dread that if the truth was to ever get out, or even so much as threaten to come out, the community would then–in perfectly incompassionate manner–proceed to condemn not the perpetrator but the victim. It was as if the poor peasant parents feared that their fellow villagers would sooner point the accusing finger at my mother for somehow having provoked the abuse, as if my mother supposedly had been the actual pervert instead of Smeagol; as if my mother would basically be an aspiring little whore who somehow must have seduced the young lad; as if the Bee family were having in their midst not a good and proper young lady but rather one of those filthy little tarts-in-the-making, the kind of naughty little girl who would only be bound to go on to become the next village slut. And by categorically ignoring and brushing aside my mother’s own emotional needs in response to the abuse, that’s exactly the unspoken message they sent to my mother: you have done something so terrible to yourself and–by implication, more importantly–to your parents, that we are going to cover up the whole matter, lock, stock and barrel — even your brother is to know not a single bloody thing. (that’s how bad it [supposedly] is!)

Borne out of a stunning overriding need for (shame-avoiding) self-abnegation, as if my mother was a mere object [to be freely pushed around] instead of a human being, by the resulting factually abusive way in which they went to treat their already abused daughter, forbidden to bring up to any single living soul what had happened to her, forbidden to freely display any kind of accompanying emotions she now instead was forced to repress, my grandparents could not help but to (implicitly) send the following morally-corrupt and twisted message to my mother: you are not an innocent victim, but rather, you yourself effectively are guilty of the abuse and moreover, even though we (implicitly) have designated you to be the guilty party, you nevertheless are to pretend to the outside world that you are still as perfectly innocent as you have ever been.

My grandparents basically (albeit implicitly) went to (rather rudely) shove down my mother’s throat a poisonous dose of what the late psychiatrist R.D. Laing referred to as, false guilt — she was made to feel guilty for an ostensible and inauthentic infraction, something she would not have felt guilty for if guided by her own true conscience (see for the definition of false guilt the quote at the start). That is, my mother had been sexually violated but, rather than allowing space for her true feelings, was made to feel guilty for it; guilty for losing her sexual innocence and guilty for having threatened to bring shame to the family. And, making the matter yet more aggravating, also was prohibited from ever owning up to such nevertheless undeserved guilt in front of other people — she was expected to perpetually radiate angelic innocence as well as maintaining a consistent selective silence in front of any outsider concerning the details surrounding her case of abuse. Since they–through their selfish ignorance–heaped artificial guilt on my mother and yet she, at the same time, had to persistently pretend to be innocence personified, my grandparents could do little to prevent forcing my mother to become an actress of sorts, one who was expected to put on a little act whenever an emergency sort of occasion presented itself requiring deception and or the dodging of shame, the sort of actress who was expected to from-here-on-out be prepared around-the-clock to give the sort of performances in which she was to flaunt a feigned (sexual) innocence, all to keep from ever coming out any particulars concerning her secret yet false guilt.

Another possible (purely speculative) consequence of my grandparents essentially treating my mother as if she had provoked the sexual abuse, is that–as strange and twisted as it may sound–they actually gained for themselves a selfish and egosyntonic need for my mother to turn out to become that little tart. However subtle and unconscious this effect may have been, so long as my mother would indeed turn out to grow into that sexually-precocious and promiscuous little tart they have judgmentally implied her to be, her parents could then gain some myopically-reassuring relief in the knowledge that they–after all–had acted “properly” by concealing the whole embarrassing abuse matter as thoroughly and completely as they had done. For if my mother were to not grow into a bit of a slut, if–heaven forbid–my mother were to grow into a proper lady, the parents would then be faced with the somewhat egodystonic need to question and revisit the justifiability of their cover-up. Hence, by the mere pathological way in which they dealt with her abuse, my grandparents actually encouraged–however subtly and unconsciously, through the mechanism of self-fulfilling prophecy–my mother to grow into a person unbecoming. And yet at the same time, as per her parents dictatorial directive, she was to not be open about it; she was expected to shroud in secrecy her sexual exploits, because sex and anything related to it had been branded taboo and therefore needed to be safely kept under a lid. . . always.

My grandparents only went to abuse their parental power when they forced my mother to part with an unpleasant and maybe even traumatic yet objectively-real sort of event; and, with it, forced their daughter to divorce from her nonetheless perfectly reasonable and healthy need to respond to her true emotional core of being after it had been left inflamed by all the distress and inner turmoil following the abuse. Instead, she was ordered to respect the overruling authority of her parents even when they did not deserve it, at least not to the irrational reality-denying extent they demanded from her and, by extension, the entire family. All-and-all, my grandparents basically forced my mother to become more inauthentic in the ways with which she related to herself and the social world around her; they forced her to embrace the artificial (neurotic) virtue which prescribed that–whenever it threatened to be cast over her, engulf herkeeping shame out would be the right thing to do — shame was designated the biggest enemy of all, one that needed to be defended against using any means of intervention necessary. . . and this is the domain of power!

Not least painful of all, since he too was consistently yet artificially kept out of the supposedly shameful loop of secrecy, they drove–because of it–an invisible wedge between their daughter and son.

As already stated before, it is a sad but necessary conclusion to draw that–compared to the apparently huge and all-important need to avoid the shame which might (or might not) come from their village neighbours–the actual well-being of my mother mattered less to them in practice. One obvious ego-based technique which serves to deflect shame away from your own person–or in a broader sense, your family–is to try and seduce other people to focus their (judgemental and disapproving) attention on the suggested shame-deserving “shady” affairs of other people (or families).

Gossip = judgement in absentia + reduction of people to gambling objects

The typical means to do that: gossipby way of promulgating (malicious) gossip.

By indirectly trying to heap shame on other people (because that’s the function of gossip), by seeking to take control of the focal point of the condemnatory and disapproving attention of the people willing to listen to your gossip–your gossip-audienceand to then steer it unto potentially anyone but expressly and deliberately not yourself (or those dear to you), you might just be able to gain for yourself a little bit of relief. The basic underlying idea being that if your efforts at misdirecting such negative attention away from your own person (or those dear to you) are successful–i.e., if you have managed to open up other people as targets for incoming albeit invisible daggers of caustic shame–you then might find some reprieve in the knowledge that–at least for the moment–you could forgo the prospect of suffering externally-imposed shame yourself. . .

In order to get an idea of the intrinsically immoral nature of gossip, picture a regular courtroom and in that courtroom is being held a trial presided over by a judge, complete with an observing group of people sitting in the benches — a courtroom public or audience. However, as the judge lays out the charges placed at the address of the defendant-at-hand and even goes so far as to issue a verdict, all-the-while that defendant is nowhere to be seen; and not only is the defendant painfully absent, they are not even granted any pertinent legal representation or defence counsel whatsoever. Hence, the defendant–in spite of casually being subjected to trial and even conviction–is just-the-same being denied any opportunity to defend himself or herself.

This simple metaphor gives an accurate idea as to what, in functional essence, gossip is all about.

Basically, while likewise in the company of an observing group of people, an audience, the gossiper likewise acts as a judge-of-sorts, one who–after all–is likewise engaged in charging and sentencing the person being gossiped about (the object of gossip) without that person, due to also being absent, ever having been granted a chance to defend himself or herself at the time of the “trial”: the gossip-counterpart of a regular legal trial. Even till the point at which the verdict is passed, the “defendant” is given no chance to answer for himself or herself — let alone be given the opportunity to mount a decent defence, including the possibility to level counter-charges for slander or even libel, sustained due to the gossip-trial.

Hence, gossip may be identified as an inherently immoral form of judgement in absentia.

And because the gossiper acts as a judge, a decider of life, a decider of who’s what and how bad such what would be, they can do little to prevent investing their ego into every gossipy verdict they go on to pass. That is, whenever the gossiper spouts their gossip, they automatically gain for themselves an egosyntonic need for the object of gossip–the absentee defendant–to actually also meet the picture painted of them through said gossip. For if that picture were to deviate from actual reality, if the gossip turns out to not quite fit the person in actuality, if the verdict happens to turn out having been a wee bit too harsh for the object of gossip, then all-of-a-sudden the credibility and justifiability of the gossiper-judge deserves to be put under a frowning loop and thus brought into jeopardy. Indeed, if the dear absentee defendant–heaven forbid–would even come out looking as though they simply did not (at all) deserve the verdict that was secretly passed over them, then the judge themselves automatically comes out looking as an erring judge, a defective judge — the sort of judge who himself or herself, ironically enough, would warrant judgement much sooner than the person they had gone to judge.

In gossip, human beings are reduced more than anything to gambling objects. By gossiping about someone, the gossiper basically proceeds to wager that this same someone would also in actuality be the person they are made out to be through the gossipy tall tales which the gossiper propagates of them. In summary, gossip may therefore be perceived as the dark art serving to reduce the people being gossiped about, i.e. the objects of gossip, to de facto gambling objects and to then proceed to judge those same people based on what states those gambling objects are presumed to be in, consistent with the stories which the gossiper spreads about them.

Case in point, in 2005 my sister helped me move to what now is my previous address. Later in the day, she came around to pick me up in order to have a drink down-town. On our way to the establishment of her choice, someone whom my sister evidently knew passed us by on bicycle. My sister was quick to point out to me that this person–whom I didn’t know–would be an alcoholic. By gossiping about the guy, my sister reduced him to a gambling object while also taking on the accompanying role of acting as his judge. And by judging the guy to be an alcoholic, she gained for herself an ego-based (egosyntonic) need for that guy to also be that alcoholic, lest–if he would not be one–my sister would come out looking as an incompetent sort of judge (of persons), someone who–ironically enough–herself would now deserve judgment, since–after all–she were to then have made an ill-justified sort of judgment based on an inauspicious sort of gamble, one that turned out to be at odds with reality.

In a concrete social sense, through exposing me to her gossip about the guy, my sister effectively made it more difficult for me to potentially interact with the guy in a Golden Rule compliant fashion, since I obviously would be inclined to have to lie by omission should it ever happen in the future that I were to meet the person and explain to him the precise circumstances as to how I became aware of his existence — just saying the truth and tell the poor bastard that my sister had introduced him as an alcoholic to me might just be a painful thing to do, for all involved.

My mother and gossip

Back to the abuse of my mom. I have no way of knowing, since I do not remember those times very well, just how much my grandparents were into the practice of gossip but since I know my mother to be a bit of an adept slash veteran, I would say that at least one of them must have been quite skilled in it. Indeed, chances are substantial–even more so since she served as a natural role-model for my mother–that it was my grandmother who functioned as my mother’s major source of inspiration to pick up on the practical nuts and bolts of the dubious art of gossip. I retrospectively suspect, on the other hand, that my grandfather must have been the least gossipy of the bunch — if for no other reason than that he had too lethargic and dispirited a constitution to be energetically engaged in much of anything. To put it bluntly, to the extent that my memory of him is correct and applicable, there was not a great deal of vibrant life in my stoic and taciturn maternal grandfather (although I do have to add the necessary caveat that I have only known him during his final years, and of course people in an old-age stage of life stand to enjoy ever less command of basic vitality).

Although my mother liked to gossip, it has to be taken into account that she happens to have grown up in a small village; and villagers–compared to city-dwellers–seem to be rather prone to gossip (especially about other villagers). And so even though my mother would then have been exposed to a relatively-elevated risk of developing a penchant for gossip, there’s no doubt in my mind that her abuse–and especially her parents’ mishandling of it–only worked to exacerbate her predatory tendency to seek fault in other people and to subsequently exploit them for their supposed flaws–whether real or imagined–by heaping shame on them, yet altogether doing so only in indirect fashion, when they would not be looking, when they were not around and as such couldn’t possibly even protest as to what was secretly being done against them.

My mother would not just gossip about other people from the village, she even had the temerity to gossip about people close to her, real close to her, including her very own husband as well as her brother and his wife. I remember one time many years ago when we–my mother, myself and my sister–were visiting the dentist. When the good doctor of teeth saw that the family was incomplete, my father was missing, he asked why that was. Without any noticeable contemplation, and to my retrospective annoyance, my mother boldly went to tell him that my dad supposedly would be too afraid to come to the dentist. I do not recall what my mother’s attitude toward my father was after she met him at home later that day, but it would be reasonable to expect that she generated a substantial measure of guilty-conscience-based tension from her end — she, after all, did try to undermine one of my father’s personal assets, his reputation, by offhandedly and dismissively judging him behind his back (the functional essence of gossip).

Imagine–in general–the kind of marital friction that may be expected to have emerged between my parents in response to one of them succumbing to the temptation to spread gossip about the other. At the time, I was never quite able to understand my father when he would (repeatedly) tell my mother to act “normal” during many a time when there would occur some kind of dispute between them (and believe me, there were enough going on between them). However, to the extent that my mother accrued guilt toward him by stabbing him in the proverbial back through spreading gossip about him, I have a feeling that–in that respect–I understand him better now.

To give you an idea of the kind of tension that existed between them, I vaguely remember an incident which happened when I was even younger. We, the entire family-unit of four, were sitting at the kitchen table having lunch. I don’t remember the exact circumstances but I do know that my parents were having another one of their many arguments — which, my mother used to try to euphemistically assure her children, supposedly were not real arguments at all but merely “discussions” (thus incidentally bespeaking the presence of an underlying reality-reinterpreting sort of attitude which–truth be told, in turn–was squarely consistent with her neurotic underlying need to deny the reality of any unpleasant thing that reeked of shame, specifically the personal displeasure of having to admit [to her children] of having a dysfunctional and unstable sort of marriage — one that was fraught with a good many spousal fights implying as much). I suppose that my father back then was having a rather rough time with something (or life, in general) because at some dispirited point, he casually though tentatively brought up the idea to kill himself. For whatever reason, my mother must have really been mad at my father because instead of extending the smallest measure of concern and compassion to my psychically-ailing father, she only went to challenge him more by declaring–in a, mind you, vicious sneer–that he were to not even have the guts to follow through with his macabre suggestion, the execution of which (now that I come to think of it further) may be counted as the ultimate act of self-shaming.

Imagine for a minute having to process such an utterly callous remark coming from your very own spouse. In addition, since she did this in front of me and my sister, there are also the children who somehow have to psychologically deal with what they were forced to witness. At another volatile occasion my father was trying ultimately in vain to stop smoking and was having–what to my mother must have appeared was–a bad mood because of it. In an equally callous sneer, my mother dryly went to urge my father to start smoking again and see to a mending of his mood. Even though she knew full well that smoking was bad, since she herself had given up the habit in 1987, she went to act as if my dad’s health effectively did not matter so much to her as the spousal ideal of my father presenting himself to my mother in the sort of becoming and pleasant mood that would suit Her Royal Highness.

It further deserves mention that at some other time in my youth, also during the eighties, it so happened that my dad suffered a burnout. After he recovered, it was now my mother’s turn to have one. My mother rationalised it at the time, saying that such would be a more-or-less common phenomenon among couples. That may be. But in my parents their particular case, it may alternatively be that my mother was secretly, to some unknown extent and perhaps only under certain yet unknown conducive circumstances, what may be called anti-sympathetically coupled with my father from her end. A most dramatic and obvious example of an anti-sympathetically coupled sort of relationship would be one in which there is a (guilt-projecting) sadist pairing up with a (guilt-absorbing) masochist, in which the former stereotypically thrives at the expense of the latter.

In a harmonious and healthy sort of relationship both parties would be sympathetically coupled from both ends. One partner’s happiness would then be positively coupled with that of the other partner and vice versa. Simply put, the happiness of one works to promote happiness in the other; if one would be happy, the other–by virtue of that fact–would have reason to be happy too; in turn, if one would be unhappy, the other would have reason to be unhappy too. When a couple would be anti-sympathetically coupled, however, this type of connection flips on its head. If one would be happy, the other much sooner would stand to be unhappy and vice versa, if one would be unhappy, the other would sooner be happy. The idea that, from my mother’s end, my parents were (to some extent) anti-sympathetically coupled together, would explain my mother casually wishing death upon her husband by basically challenging him to commit suicide and moreover even dryly degrading him in the process by callously implying him to be too much of a wimp to get it over and done with.

That she so coldly went to humiliate my father was bad enough, but she also did so in front of her children and as such gave very bad example. The same could be said when she couldn’t help herself from gossiping about my dad to the dentist. At both times, she implicitly signalled to her children that what she did was okay. Indeed, it may even be said that she passed her depreciatory verdict of her husband in front of us to precisely gain some kind of emotional support from us, as if we could simply be used to serve as her little support group while she took swings at my father — if so, it’s wrong for yet another reason. She had let us know that gossiping about those close to you would be just fine and when she put down my father so cruelly, she communicated to her children that is was also okay to forgo giving compassion to someone close if that someone were to be in a vulnerable sort of position actually begging for the application of compassion mediated by understanding — a situation into which I much later down the road also came to be in, and was also granted no compassion when I was suffering from what turned out to be demonic possession and its persistent ill effects on my health.

No angel myself

Keeping in mind that latter bit of information about my own person, I am not innocent myself either. I have once proclaimed, with what I at the time presumed was sufficient entitlement and just cause, to my father, also while we all were having lunch together (again some time during the eighties), that my father were to be scared of people. I too went to prejudge my father in an underestimating way. Of course, I now wish I hadn’t said so, or perhaps more accurate, I wish I hadn’t allowed myself to say such a thing because I now realise the profound and persistent effect which words (of critique) directed at a person can have — words are the atoms, if you will, of spells (and it is very easy to cast evil spells). By judging my father as a people-shy sort of person, I also actually created an ego-based (egosyntonic) need for my father to, in actual fact, meet the demeaning picture I painted of him and aired. I don’t believe I have ever told other people what I so carelessly blurted out about my father to my father and the rest of the family; I don’t think I ever went around gossiping about my father. Whenever I did talk about my father, I sometimes said that I had a bad relationship with my father. And yet I never wondered why this was so. I was still such a sleepwalker back then. In a more judgmental sense, a vaguely remember that I sometimes told the people I was with that my father served as my anti-example. I don’t think I ever elaborated on the subject though. I probably wouldn’t be able to come up with a lot of reasons as to why I had such a bad relationship with my father. I didn’t know my own self, let alone other people. And so my father was a virtual stranger to me, as I was a virtual stranger to myself. But more on this particular subject later.

When I was a graduate student, I shared a room at the university (of Groningen) with a guy of about my age called Tim. We got along just fine and he often helped me out with computer-related stuff — being something of a system administrator he also was. As usual, I do not remember the exact circumstances, but at some point he basically offered his friendship to me. I don’t know what came over me but I went to plainly reject his offer and told him quite unambiguously that I already had enough friends. I now remember that I sort of did the same thing to my first girlfriend when she broke off with me and instead offered friendship. I suppose that the kind of predicament I am currently in serves also the purpose of karmic payback for having rejected these two folks so blatantly in combination with me having judged my father as someone who would be shy of people. I no longer have any friends whatsoever, not active ones at any rate and although it would be an overstatement to say that I am shy of people, as it happens, right now my current situation leaves me with a minimum desire to interact socially and as such seems to serve to make me more sympathetic to people who have difficulty being social. As of now, I have enough on my hands dealing with my own person. Of course, it also doesn’t help any possible ambitions from my end to be social now that my teeth are dropping out like flies, especially the last few years have been bad, and am therefore left in an increasingly unlikely presentable state to the outside world.(1)

The Dead Can’t Dance Shame

Back to my mother. To give you another impression of the reckless disregard which she could have for members of the family, my parents divorced in 1999 or thereabouts and my father passed away in 2002 due to–in a direct causative sense–complications emerging from a case of throat cancer. And yet my mother proved to be perfectly capable to gossip–and gleefully so–about my father even after his death. I believe the year was 2006 when we met up in my sister’s apartment (maybe it was her birthday, though I’m not too sure). Without an apparent care in the world, my mother offhandedly went to declare out of the clear blue sky the entirely baseless speculation that my father were to have had an affair with, get this, the wife of her by-then estranged own brother. You see, after the divorce, my all-alone father seems to have gained for himself an amicable kind of contact with the wife of my uncle (who lived only a few houses further down the street from my father’s new address). However, instead of acknowledging the charity of the relationship between my aunt and my father, my mother heedlessly sought to peddle it as a sexual relationship. While my aunt around that very time was lying in hospital tragically dying of brain-cancer I believe it was, my mother seriously wondered whether her late ex-husband had had a sexual illicit liaison with her very own sister-in-law.

Now, in all fairness, it does need to be acknowledged that my uncle (and aunt) admittedly did act selfishly and coldly when he (they) refused to recognise the validity–from my mother’s end–of the grounds for my parents’ divorce and so they stubbornly and callously did refuse to reach out to my mother afterwards. It also needs to be taken into account that because of it, the Bee family drifted apart (even more so). I also must admit that I deeply resented my uncle and aunt for it at the time. Truth be told, in fact, I couldn’t stand them for what they had done. Indeed, I also joined in the judgement party at my sister’s place when my mother aired her gossip and I went to compare my aunt to Eva Braun, which on hindsight would not be such a childish low blow since Eva in reality was quite the doll, but that’s not how I meant it at the time of course. It goes to show you that I too was a troubled person, one who sometimes was too weak to prevent himself from getting carried away on other people’s free-flowing verbal waves of toxicity, but more on my person later.

Back to my mom. It further needs to be understood that by way of my mother spreading such kind of embarrassing gossip, unless she would have come clean about it in front of him, she made it a whole lot more difficult for herself to even begin reconciling with her brother to any substantial degree. It was as if she already beforehand had considered this to be a well-nigh impossibility and on the basis of this presumed dyed-in-the-wool sort of schism existing between herself and her brother, went to grant herself permission to propagate her toxic gossip to begin with. It was as if my mother, by floating her gossipy drivel, acted on the self-defeating prejudice that there would be no hope to ever again be able to have any meaningful kind of relationship with her own brother, even after his wife had lost the battle with cancer. It was as if she felt that she had already burned her bridges as far as her potential to reunite with her brother was concerned, and that her gossipy act going at the particular expense of her own brother’s wife carried with it strong retaliatory overtones. Indeed, viewed through such particular lens, it appears as if my mother–by trying to soil the memories we all had of both my aunt and my father–was acting in vengeance; something which, again, is perfectly consistent with the martial spirit imbued into her by her own mother.

Tragically, my uncle passed away in 2016 I believe it was and what I found remarkable–to the extent that I’m able to remotely gauge my mother’s emotional disposition–was her apparent early recovery from her brother’s death. Fairly soon after her brother had died, a mere few days after the funeral in fact, she asserted on Facebook that she was already feeling much better. She attributed what I found to be a surprisingly speedy recovery to all the loving support which she claims were extended to her from various people around her. However, it would seem to me that the death of a person who would have been real close to you–like a brother or sister–is normally not something you get over already within a timespan of a mere few days.

And while being able to indulge in human support certainly would be helpful to that end, I also do believe that she’s not telling the whole truth, that she in fact was lying by omission — a trait of hers which may be expected to be a bit of a speciality no later than the time of abuse when her parents drilled into her a sheer terror for shame, i.e., the shame which were to come her way if she would do the unspeakable and reveal the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the damnable Bubonic Plague hells-bells sort of nefarious truth.

In order to try to understand my mother’s peculiar attitude, we first must acknowledge that this deeply-ingrained pathological requirement for her to perpetually maintain artificial silence while radiating angelic innocence, presented fundamental delimiting problems for my mother in the ways with which she could relate to her brother (and other people, in general).

The bother with loving her brother

Let’s go back to the time immediately following the abuse. On the one optimistic hand, in order to be able to have a normal and meaningfully-intimate kind of relationship with her brother, she would have to be able to be frank and open with him. But this obviously presented a problem to my mother since she, on the other pessimistic hand, had been jostled down an abyss of secrecy — courtesy of her parents. If she would have wanted a sisterly kind of substantial connection with her brother, she–at the same time–would have seen herself forced to keep him at a safe-enough distance, at a for her comfortable arm’s length, lest he would manage to do the unspeakable and–God forbid–stumble upon that which was considered by the conspiring rest of the family to be the unbearably-shameful truth about his sister. Hence, my mother–thanks in part to her parents–may be expected to have developed a certain measure of fear for and shame towards her own brother, albeit fear and shame that is also artificial and undue.

As I look back on the kind of relationship between my mother and her brother, I do not recall ever having seen them being particularly close — not the kind of closeness you would expect from a brother and sister having a normal sibling relationship. Sure, they were nice to each-other, but–on hindsight–it also strikes me as a superficial kind of politeness which could very well have obfuscated an interrelatedness steeped in some measure of unarticulated mutual uneasiness. Paradoxically-enough, as already alluded to above, rather than offer warm support to his sister, the divorce of my parents only furthered the separation of my mother and her brother — which strikes me as odd if they would have really loved each-other like brother and sister, where the brother would naturally stick up for the sister and vice versa. My uncle basically was unwilling to accept the grounds for the divorce and refused to lend any kind of support to my mother afterwards, indeed, sooner even choosing the side of my father — thus leaving the impression that my uncle, indeed, used the reality of the divorce as an ostensibly valid excuse to judge his sister unfavourably and to then see himself justified in his subsequent distancing away from her.

If you go around carrying the kind of shame which you from an early age onward were taught to hide, come-hell-or-high-water, from the sort of person who naturally would have a rather significant meaning in your life, if you constantly have to cope with the uncomfortable feeling that this person might shame you upon finding out the “highly-embarrassing” truth concerning your person, and if these dreadful feelings interfere with any feelings of love you might also have for that person, thenbesides grief–would you not experience a kind of relief when said person would pass away? After all, on such an occasion, when the potential significant shamer simply ceases to exist, all-of-a-sudden the taxing fear for that person which you may have had to toil around with you for all those years would then no longer have any relevance — no pertinence whatsoever ever again. That is, when such an emotionally-significant person stops existing, then–by necessity and by automatic consequence–any kind of fear you might have had for whatever kind of unpleasant words or painful gestures potentially levelled at you by that person, would at once also stop existing together with that person. In other words, if you have always been afraid to be shamed one way or another by that person–whether such shame would be justified or not–then that basic old painful portion of fear would now simply expire with the expiration of that person.

I do not pretend to know the contents of my mother’s heart, but I do know that the nevertheless limited virtue of seeking to avoid personal shame stands to feature prominently in it, and so the knowledge that she would no longer have to fear being shamed by a now departed formerly-significant person, might compensate to unknown degree the sorrow which she naturally also were to have experienced for losing her brother. I do not know which weighed heavier to her though, sustaining grief for losing her nonetheless estranged brother versus indulging in the relief brought about by the cancellation of the fear of being shamed by him.

When I come to think of it, I strongly do believe that no-one in the Bee family was very capable at handling shame; the dread which the parents seem to have had for shame must have been seamlessly inherited by both of their children, as my mother’s brother–retrospectively–also appears to not have been quite able to bear shame that well himself. Then again, the idea that my uncle also never were to have learned how to handle personal shame should not be surprising if he would have had to learn it from his parents. After all, how on earth could you possibly teach your children dealing with some unpleasant thing–and a highly unpleasant thing at that–if you have never learned how to deal with it yourself?

As sad as a hypothesis it may be to draw, since dead people cannot shame, my mother may be expected to be partial to a certain level of interest in people around her dying. To the extent that this indeed is the case, her parents may be considered as catalysts to that effect since, after all, they instilled in her a neurotic fear for shame and an equally neurotic need to as-of-then avoid sustaining it. Her possible necrophilic affinity, her favourability for death, would explain why my mother has had a liking for dwelling in the obituary sections of newspapers, something which I’m tempted to interpret were her efforts to ferret out little fixes of relief whenever she would learn that she no longer had to fear shame coming from so-and-so or such-and-such now that they had simply ceased to exist; or, alternatively, it may also have come down to a little bit of (sadistic) Schadenfreude aimed at the people who would then had to process the loss of a loved one. But, I have to admit that this is all rather tentative speculation on my part and I hesitate to attach a whole lot of validity to it right off the bat — I’m certainly in no position to judge my mother for it (the arena, after all, of gossip).

Any underlying love for death, however, would also explain my mother’s penchant for dead flowers instead of living plants. Also her favourability of this–what by now is a–dated television show called Keeping Up Appearances may be understandable. That is, my mother would then be capable of enjoying becoming aware, intimately aware, of another person failing (in a comical way) to dodge shame levelled at their person. Quite possibly my mother derived for herself an opportunity to indulge in a little bit of (sadistic) Schadenfreude to get to see another person squirm in their efforts to avoid the shame brought about by exposure (getting caught with their pants down). My mum might have been led to believe (at some level of consciousness) that she were able to do a much better general job at avoiding shame than that silly and clumsy main character of the show did.

Her perhaps largely unconscious need or expectancy for people around her to wither away and die, would also explain the Freudian slip she once seems to have had in my presence a few years ago. I do not remember the details but I do know that she casually let me know that she thought I would come to die sooner than she would. I was occasionally doing recreational drugs back in those times and it could very well be that she had swallowed hook, line and sinker the at once demeaning stereotype of people doing drugs being so incredibly pathetic that they are at a stupendously disadvantageous self-sabotaging handicap when it comes to being able to prevent themselves from landing squarely in the gutter, heroin syringes sticking into putrefying veins and everything; only bound to end up suffering an agonisingly premature death. When I corrected her, she did recognise her own folly without whimpering though. Nevertheless, her offhanded yet dubious declaration did not escape my notice and was apparently of sufficient significance for me to be able to remember it ever since.

My mother’s tendency to belittle, however casually executed, not just relatively unknown people around her but also even her own son became evident when a few years ago–during a visit–she had the audacity to out-of-the-blue offer me some cheap second-hand clothes, left-overs from the hotel she worked in, even though in actuality I already possessed so many clothes that when I moved house a few years later, I beforehand surrendered to the local salvation army two large garbage bags full of clothes, all good quality, some pieces not even worn at all. My mother knew, or should have known, that my wardrobe was already remarkably well-stocked when she brought along said bunch of humiliating hand-me-downs. Also, when I did show her my quite bursting clothing cabinet, she was amazed at how tidy everything was, as if she had expected an outright mess, something which would be fully consistent with the demeaning and belittling picture she implied to have in mind of me. On another occasion, when she did help me move house in the summer of 2014 and saw my new bike, it hadn’t even occurred to her that it could possibly be mine (which it was). Seemingly, in her eyes, I was poor, unemployed (on welfare), probably addicted to drugs, burned-out and already on his way out, and so could not possibly afford new and seemingly expensive stuff. I would not be surprised if my mother would have had such a low opinion of me that she would be inclined to think that I had bought that bike with money from selling drugs, which is only more bullshit since I quit selling drugs when I moved to the US in 2001 and besides the bike wasn’t even that expensive. More on this in my upcoming psychoanalysis.

All these little anecdotes go to show just how much she liked to have in mind a rather devaluing picture of me, as if somehow I would be below her in value. Of course, if you are someone like my mother in the sense of having a habit of gossiping about people–or, in general, a habit of judging them disadvantageously behind their backs–then you naturally create for yourself an actual need to devalue those people in your mind. After all, if you would value them as your equals–something which would nevertheless be consistent with the Golden Rule–you automatically stand to have trouble disrespecting them by judging them behind their backs, or–even more brutal and offensive–kicking them when they’re down. The gossiper inside of her–the objectifying and covertly predatory judge of people–simply needs the people she gossips about to also be the pathetic little creatures that she makes them out to be through the secret judgements she passes of them; if such wouldn’t happen then, as already pointed out, the validity of her devaluing gossipy stories would be drawn in question and subsequently might leave her having trouble getting enough sleep at night because of it . . . as she would then sooner deserve to be judged herself.

Autobiographical and psychoanalytical essay of Philip Jonkers — (3/3) personal history

“We always need to hear both sides of the story.” Phil Collins

Impossible Positions into which I was hurtled through no fault of my own

In the past I have ended up, through the actions of other people and through no fault of my own, in what I–at the time–considered to be impossible positions, the kind of positions I found myself unable to deal with and which because of it–due to my habit of resorting to my preferred ego-defence mechanism, repression–no doubt only resulted in an exacerbation of my chronic health condition. Since I had clearly been the victim as such, I consider myself to be fully vindicated to expose them . . . right here, right now.

When I moved to Leeuwarden in 2005, I still went out occasionally and–on some of such occasions–also took recreational drugs (other than cannabis). I used to be a raver back then and the period of which I speak would be its latter stage. I remember one such experience when I went to a small local rave and met up with a few people I knew. I also remember that after the rave, we all ended up in a house somewhere here in Leeuwarden (it’s probably well-nigh impossible for an English native speaker to properly pronounce the name right, so why don’t you try calling it Leovardia? — which is its Latin name). The ritual of listening to music and doing drugs until well into the next day was not too unusual a thing for me to do at that particular stage in my life (albeit long since concluded, as I am living a purely solitary life since about six years, wholly devoted as I am to recovery of health, as well as doing alchemy).

At a certain point in the course of the morning, I found myself sitting alone with the girlfriend of one of those guys I knew — henceforth called Woman I. At the moment of the incident, the boyfriend happened to be sitting in the back of the house talking with what probably was the tenant or owner of the house. Although I don’t remember the details very well (the retrieval capacity of my memory still leaves something to be desired), I nevertheless do remember that Woman I was sitting with her back to where her boyfriend was sitting. Instead of facing him, she was facing me. And I also recall that Woman I, whom I knew a lot less than her boyfriend (whom I also barely knew, by the way), without any provocation from my end, while having a look of conspiratorial anticipation on her face, started winking at me, repeatedly.

I immediately knew what it meant. But rather than confirming and responding, I chose to disregard her surreptitiously seductive efforts altogether. While refraining from openly expressing how I felt about the matter, I really did not appreciate the dubiously-flattering and sneaky sort of gesture at all (regardless of how favourably intended it would be from her nonetheless selfish end). One reason being that I, in general, don’t like to interfere with other people’s (romantic) relationships. As I have stated before, I don’t like to steal girlfriends to begin with. Moreover, in particular, I am just not attracted to the type of girl who flirts with other guys behind the back of her current boyfriend. After all, how could you ever even trust her if and when she were to end up becoming your girlfriend? But even if I would be the type of guy who would have no qualms about that sort of thing, I felt no romantic attraction to her anyway.

In spite of my uneasiness about this suddenly emerging issue, instead of openly confronting Woman I with her secretly beguiling behaviour (which would have been bound to make quite the peace-disturbing scene), I just chose to ignore her automatically unwelcome kind of attention toward my person, hoping that she would knock it off eventually — which she did too, by the way. However, due to as of then having to deal with an embarrassing sort of secret between me and Woman I, it had become impossible for me to as-of-that-moment have any semblance of normal friendship with the secretly-already-cheated boyfriend. This covertly aggravating event into which I was casually flung would constitute impossible position number one.

When I moved to Leovardia in 2005, I would also occasionally visit a guy I have known since we both were kids growing up in the by-now frequently aforementioned pleasant little peasant village (1980s). He also happened to be living in Leeuwarden, together with what would go on to become–a few years down the road–his wife (as of now referred to as Woman II). As with the previous incident, I also don’t remember the exact details but I do remember that on a certain fateful evening, I was about to head over to their place for a previously agreed-upon visit; and either Woman II was calling me on the phone or I called her, I don’t remember which. When we spoke, I began to have the distinct impression that something was seriously wrong with her, that she had suffered some type of accident on her bicycle or that some other alarming thing had happened to her and that furthermore the predicament in which she found herself also involved her boyfriend — this old childhood friend of mine. Even though my general capacity to experience genuine feelings was compromised due to my chronic condition, I can’t deny that this call did leave me with a funny feeling after we hung up. Anyway, when I arrived at their house and confronted her with the strange phone-call we had maybe only half-an-hour prior, she shocked me by denying the whole thing had ever even happened. She went to gaslight me by boldly denying the (substance of the) call, as if nothing out of the ordinary had ever occurred. Her boyfriend was also at the house when I rang their doorbell and I was under the impression that she was holding back the truth because of his presence.

After that incident, also my relationship with those two folks went downhill and before long stopped seeing them completely. After this misadventure had taken place, I just couldn’t deal with being lied to that squarely in my face, not least because it seemed that there was so much more at stake as she went to blatantly betray the trust of not just me but also her own boyfriend while precisely being in the presence of her boyfriend. She, after all, also lied to her future husband when she dryly went to declare to not having had–what I found to be–this strange phone-call with me (as well as, of course, the mysterious reason for the call). In effect, she came across to me as someone who was too afraid to be honest with also in particular her own partner. And so her fear for him, at that particular yet not insignificant moment at least, would then prove stronger than her love for him. Although it is of course none of my business to judge the quality of the relationship between them (or between any two other people, for that matter), and I have no sure way of knowing to what extent I correctly interpreted the event, to me at the time it seemed clear as day–however–that their relationship lacked sincerity and trust from her end at least; that, as a consequence, it lacked an industrial-strength kind of mutual trust between them. Even though a remote alarm bell was going off inside of me, out of what I suppose was nevertheless repressed shock, I decided not to pressure her. Once again, I failed to express my grievance at the time.

Due to my resulting raised suspicion, it required no effort on my part–even more so since I was feeling, by default, rather miserable during that stage in my life anyway–to altogether neglect congratulating the two at their wedding party, happening only a little bit further down the line. As with the incident with my sister in 2008, should someone suspect as much, my failure to congratulate them had nothing to do with any potentially attributable feelings of envy (which I just didn’t have). The reality-refuting gaslighting event initiated by Woman II, and into which I unceremoniously found myself getting sucked without any solicitation whatsoever from my end, constitutes impossible position number two.

There is, by the way, an interesting parallel between Woman II and my own mother. It so happened that Woman II was also abused as a child, but not sexually. If my memory serves me well, passed on to me way back by her future husband (this childhood friend of mine), her own brute of a father–in order to punish her for some necessarily insufficient and unjustified reason–had gone ahead and broken at least one of her legs when she was a little girl. One of the things I remember about her is that she, just like my mother, liked to gossip, including–most remarkably–about people who were supposed to be close to her, very close, also just like my mother. Presumably due to having parents who did not fare too well in the compassion department (at times of crises), the common denominator between my mother and Woman II seems to be a painful incapability of handling personal shame. She and my mother both seem to never have adequately learned how to handle experiencing what, with ample admitted justification, may be regarded as the most unpleasant–indeed, potentially traumatic–of all possible emotions (psychic states).

While never having properly learned how to handle being on the receiving end of shame, they both could find in gossip an on the surface suitable way to dissipate the toxic symptoms which are due to being victims of caustic and unsoothed shame themselves. That is, both my mother and Woman II appear to have found in gossip their choice escape valve for the perpetual irritation issuing forth from within their own shame-inflamed psyches. In other words, by way of secretly heaping shame on other people, including especially yet paradoxically people close to them, Woman II and my mother sought to mitigate the stresses generated from within their own festering psyches. Heaping shame on others through gossip may be viewed as an egosyntonic (ego-pleasing) means for the gossiper to seduce the people exposed to their gossip into believing that the gossiper themselves could not possibly deserve to be targets of shame. Gossip thus interpreted boils down to being an exercise of misdirection of attention away from the gossiper themselves — specifically: attention of a shaming kind. Unfortunately, however, as I already argued extensively before, being the practice it is of seeking to gain some kind of rise at the expense of others automatically serves to underscore the unmistakable predatory or idolatrous nature of gossip (in which the objects of gossip, the people being gossiped about, effectively serve as choice scapegoats to be symbolically sacrificed [in name] on the abstract altars devoted to practices of Shame-avoiding Self-idolatry centred around the gossipers).

After having lost contact with this couple and after haven’t seen them at all for quite a few years, I happened to run into them at a local supermarket some three years ago in 2014 (and have since never seen them ever again in that particular supermarket). I first encountered Woman II. However–on hindsight–I came to have the impression that she sought to dodge me because she averted her eyes away from me and looked down. When I stopped and exchanged a few words with her husband whom I ran into shortly thereafter, a minute later, she did come around and showed herself. Remarkably, one of the first things she managed to tell me (if not the first), was that she couldn’t detect any darkness in me any more, something which was seemingly a nice gesture, since by then it was five years ago that I had been set free from my demons (more on this down below).

And while it’s certainly true that my view of life had since significantly improved along the direction of light and while it was also true that I was not shining particularly brightly back when we parted our ways some seven years prior, I do find it amazing that she nevertheless had the nerve to talk about my darkness while consistently failing to bring up her own. After all, the practice of judging people behind their backs–the defining characteristic of gossip–is such a cowardly backstabbing kind of practice (especially when people close to the gossiper are victimised) that it cannot possibly be called something anywhere near light (morally noble); not to mention her capacity to squarely lie not just to me but to her own boyfriend-going-on-to-become-husband. On hindsight, it seems as if she once again was trying to cover up her own behind by way of misdirecting attention away from her own not quite angelic self.

And so here she was judging me not even indirectly through gossip but directly right out in the open, right down here in the supermarket — even though, truth be told, to her credit, her verdict of me this time was a relatively positive one. Unfortunately, I was not yet as conscious and assertively responsive at the time and together with the unrelenting miserable and pain-ridden state from which I still suffered back then, I failed to point out to her what I now find to be the obvious: that she would, most of all, be acting respectful toward her own person (and, indirectly, to everyone she affects through social interaction) if she were to study her own psychic darkness (before all else). Indeed, if she were to read what I am writing about her now, I think she’d be well off having a good look in the mirror before ever again judging other people, especially if those people would not be around at the time during which she were to express her de facto verdicts of them and that her victims would therefore automatically be in impossible positions to defend themselves from her charges, her–mind yousecret charges.

Excuse my preachiness, but at all times should it be remembered that everyone has an ego, and–owing to the intrinsic ignorance and fallibility embodied by the ego–everyone therefore casts a psychic shadow, including even those who like to attribute such shady personal aspects exclusively to other people (serving as their choice scapegoats) and who, as suchconveniently, in an egosyntonic sort of sense–might save themselves from what admittedly is the decidedly egodystonic burden of having to acknowledge the presence of their own lessthanperfect side of self.

Speaking of spiritual darkness.

During late summer of 2009, I travelled to the US on invitation by what then was a new American friend, a very spiritual woman of about my age named Moziah — whom I already have mentioned before. She is the person who, entirely free of charge mind you, over the course of the three weeks that I spent with her and her family, went to oversee on an earthly plane the spiritual procedures serving to deliver me from the six demons that had firmly ensconced themselves inside of my being, holding my psyche hostage, were waging war on me and as such were draining my vital (Chi) forces (and probably did so to progressively successful extent ever since I suffered from my double unrecognised childhood trauma). When I came back to Holland, even though I had just had the most meaningful experience of my life, my mother and sister–right after I exposed myself in a vulnerable written account of the events surrounding my deliverance–only gave me an unsettlingly cold and aloof reception, something which was hard to bear since I–on hindsight–was feeling rather (emotionally) fragile due to all the spiritual upheaval I had experienced and was still going through (by way of what then were still ongoing nightly demonic attacks [albeit of lesser intensity], something called demonic oppression, as opposed to demonic possession).

After my brief deliverance mission to the US, I happened to bump into yet another couple here in Leovardia — a guy and girl whom I also have known since I was a teenager (we all grew up in the same cute provincial little town). After a brief and seemingly friendly chat (also taking place at the sort of site where pretty much all of my life’s notable social interaction is happening nowadays: any of the supermarkets in my locality), they invited me over for dinner — to be had a few days later. I readily accepted out of good unsuspecting faith. When I arrived at their place at the agreed-upon time, they first off hadn’t prepared dinner yet. Even though such act of neglect could on hindsight already be counted as a little red flag going up, it mattered not nearly as much as what followed next. While they knew full-well that only days before I had returned from a most profound spiritotherapeutic journey to the US, the woman host–henceforth called Woman III–nonetheless managed to give me a hard time when she staunchly refused to even be open to the existence of demons.

Imagine that for a moment. Here I am–having just gone through the most significant spiritual event of my life up until that point in time–being asked to sit down and share a meal with the kind of people who not just showed to have no interest in what I had just gone through but who, indeed, refused to even acknowledge the nature of the type of predicament which I had been in for all those years I had suffered perpetual torment of what turned out to be a spiritual nature. Is that how you treat a guest? What kind of host invites someone over, only to treat them in a completely unsympathetic and insensitive way?

By the way, if anyone reading this essay ever has the luminous idea to invite someone over and it just so happens that this very same person has just been delivered from their demons, then please for the love of God, do not go around acting like an uncaring DICK or an incompassionate CUNT, but put your best foot forward and act a GOOD host by having at least the COMMON DECENCY and PROPER COURTESY to be open to the sort of spiritual predicament they must have been in and moreover, have SUFFERED from; since, at all times, should it be remembered that a possessed person, unless–I suppose–they purposefully chose to become possessed, is first and foremost a VICTIM because of it.

Again, as I alluded to a few paragraphs prior, there’s a parallel with my mother. My mother and sister also gave me a similar kind of treatment following shortly after my return from the US. When I met them at my sister’s place, they both also showed aversion toward the whole topic of demons and the experiences I had had in the US (which is all-the-more ironic since my mother also goes around calling herself Christian). Both my mother and Woman III deliberately refused to show any interest in what I had experienced and they both effectively treated me as some kind of (humanoid) object, who may be invited over but once there, is expected to do little more than sit down, shut up and listen to the “fascinating” things the women have to say — as if my own individuality, my own experiences and my own voice effectively did not matter to them, as if I had no will of my own, as if I simply mattered not a great deal more than a passively participating mere spectator, one more audience member, their audience.

As for Woman III in particular, I sensed foul play right away. I immediately began to suspect that Woman III was not being honest and forthcoming with me; that she refused to lay all the cards on the table; that she–in fact–was manipulating me; that she was holding back in front of her husband (another interesting parallel, this time with Woman II). I also began to suspect that she was demonically possessed herself, as it would only be perfectly fair to expect that demons could very well have a general disliking of the fruitful works–which I personally embodied at the time–of their chief arch-enemy: Jesus Christ — the supreme master caster of demons from human hosts. And I had no reservations to tell her such speculative and insinuating sort of insight right in her face because I was rather open about such matters at the time and I felt as if I was being victimised by her.

One specific reason as to why I suspected her to be possessed is that, as it happens, demons only stand to profit when people deny their general existence. After all, as long as the owners of the bodies they would be possessing stubbornly refuse to even acknowledge the existence of those sinister types of spirits, demons could then–in principle–just go ahead and do whatever the hell they want to do (within reasonable limits); while at the same time never even having to worry about being detected by what would thus be their ignorant (sleepy) hosts. After all, should they be detected following prior general acknowledgment of their existence, such typically ill-willed types of nevertheless invisible and intangible beings would then face the for them highly unattractive prospect of subsequent ejection from the bodies they inhabit, a spiritual eviction process known in the Protestant world as deliverance, versus exorcism among Catholics.

Hence, demons may be expected to naturally have a profound principled interest to–putting it bluntly–keep in the dark as many of us as possible, their very existence (as spiritual, if you will, squatters) in our world depends on it. Remember above all else the adage: The greatest trick the devil ever pulled was to convince the world that he didn’t exist, that he wasn’t real.

Even though I have always kept this to myself, you also have to understand that for years I have had the distinct impression that Woman III had a habit of chasing my proverbial tail. Pretty much for as long as I can remember, she liked to give me the idea of having an interest in me of a romantic (or sexual) nature. Time and again, to my nonetheless unexpressed slight annoyance at any given time of occurrence, she would query me about the status of my love-life. However, I never was interested in her, at least not in a relationship-kind of way. Granted, I do have to admit that on one particular single occasion–while inebriated, lonely, possessed, horny and a whole lot more reckless and immature than I hopefully am at the present time–I almost did let myself be seduced by her when we all were going out, participants of the nightlife of Leovardia, visiting among other destinations some local yet arguably somewhat fateful bar.(6)

I cannot afford to guess as to why she treated me in the cool and incompassionate way she did, but it ultimately did cause me to also lose any trust I previously may have had in her. This anecdote recounted here, constitutes impossible position number three, and it took me quite a few years before I was able to process all that it meant to me. You have to understand that my unhealthy tendency at the time to faithfully repress conscious awareness of undesirable impressions of life, caused me to fail processing the moral ramifications of the predicaments into which I landed, whether I ended up in such difficult situations through fault of my own or not. Especially when I began to suffer from persistent pain and the dispiriting literally immiserating attitude which it inspired into me, coinciding with my conscience still rather well knocked out of commission, I was automatically deterred from setting out and trying to home in on the precise underlying nature of what to me were impossible challenges to cope with.

Notwithstanding the trouble I had accepting it at the time, my (atheistic) Physics professor was right when he once expressed the observation to me that I suffered from some kind of internal blockage. Indeed, as it later turned out, it concerned a psychic blockage which sometimes weighed down on me like a heavy yoke, and which–I now strongly believe–was catalysed into being by the collection of demons which at the time were still housed inside of me; one of which had the revealing and self-explanatory name of Heaviness. For the duration of the time that I was possessed, I was being attacked and drained from within, instead of without.

In October of 2013, I received a Facebook message from a guy–henceforth called Dr. Snuggles–whom I have known throughout much of my conscious life, and whom for some thirty years straight I have considered a friend. While completely bypassing my own autonomy, the guy had the audacity to announce to me that he–together with his girlfriend, who happened to be Woman III–was going to pick me up what then was a few months hence, in order to take me to a Depeche Mode concert. The message shocked me, not in the least bit because I was feeling miserable and in a state of relentless but oscillating pain back then (as usual) and I was therefore in no mood to do (much of) anything, including especially investing time and energy into being social; to put up that fucking smile, as if all would be fucking well — all the fucking time. But his message particularly hit me because about a year earlier, I had let him know explicitly to wanting to be left alone as much as possible. Instead of honouring my wish, he blatantly went to disregard it by putting me on the spot and for-all-practical-purposes treating me as an object, a by implication infantile sort of object even, whose wishes and personal will somehow did not deserve to be taken seriously, rather like those other people I mentioned earlier had gone about treating me (including my very own mother and sister).

In addition, years earlier when we both had too much to drink and stumbled out of a local bar late at night (in that same vintage little village we all grew up in), a cheeky Dr. Snuggles had tried to kiss me. Apparently, me puking in response was not strong-enough of a deterring signal to the good Dr. when years later he showed to still have a similar kind of attitude, not a boundary-violating attitude per se but a related autonomy-denying sort of attitude, still bloody obnoxious (when ill-timed).

It recently dawned on me that this wasn’t the first occasion at which he tried to kiss me — a few years earlier he had tried to do the same. I did not like it then and I did not like it now. I can also remember an incident which occurred a few years before this latter-mentioned preceding kissing incident. Dr Snuggles, myself and another friend (who happened to be the partner of Woman II) were all visiting yet another friend. I don’t remember the exact circumstances, but it all ended with this other friend (not the host) and Dr Snuggles tearing up my trousers. When I left late at night in necessarily only my underwear, I was hoping the entire time to be saved the embarrassment of encountering any other living soul in the street. I think nobody saw me when I arrived home and praised myself lucky for it. I guess we all were giddy at the time and I let it slide because, well, you have to make an effort to tolerate the tomfoolery of your friends. But all these small boundary-violating incidents did add up, and it did not leave me inspired with a whole lot of trust for those responsible when at least one of them did not know when to stop. Of course, it would be absurd to speak of molestation, and there is just no way I would ever allow myself to be subjected to such extreme form of boundary-violating behaviour, but it does make me question as to the motives of perpetrator(s) — especially so when some of these incidents took place around the time when I became privy of my own mother’s abuse.

Back to the second kissing incident, at first–fully consistent with my general tendency to repress personal unpleasantness–I let it slide because, well, as I said, you have to make an effort to be tolerant of the shenanigans of your friends; and I could very well have forgotten about it, had it not been for another friend–who happened to witness the whole embarrassing thing play out–bringing up the matter at another occasion shortly afterwards. There’s a saying in Dutch which seems perfectly applicable to Dr Snuggles in the way he went to relate to me: een plaat voor de kop hebben, which transliterates into something like having a vision-obstructing board in front of one’s face and as such be unable to, first off, observe what you are doing, or allow yourself to be doing, and to also–by necessity–be unable to gauge the reactions you draw through your committed folly.

Years ago, when I was possessed (before my 38th), I sometimes did things and said things that I now retrospectively regret and do not identify with. I sometimes said things in the past of which I now wonder why on earth I ever said them. One of the things I have said, or more accurately stated, which I allowed myself to say, or yet more accurately, which I allowed to be said through me, happened when I was with Dr Snuggles and I was about 22 years old I guess. I honestly do not remember the context but I made a flattering remark about Dr Snuggles his arse. It’s all very embarrassing, as already evident by having repressed the event into my unconsciousness, and it took me a long time to accept what I allowed myself to have said since it is not something I would normally say or identify with, and certainly not now that I no longer have demons that might tempt me to say such silly yet embarrassing sort of things.

It could very well be that Dr Snuggles went to cavalierly interpret my remark as circumstantial evidence of what would then be my latent homosexual nature. This would also explain his seemingly spontaneous initiative during one summer night after having gone out, to have us both grab a mattress and together sleep on the beach. I was entirely unsuspecting at the time and he did not try anything then, but it might explain his subsequent attempts to kiss me and this other boundary-violating incident, actions that surprised me at the time of execution and never have felt at ease with. In the past, I may have made several remarks to other people which may have led them to believe I had any same-sex sort of interest. But it’s just not true. I have never had tendencies of a homosexual or perhaps bisexual nature. I suspect that my demons were playing tricks on everyone involved, myself and those who were exposed to what was spoken through me at those occasions.

For the record, as I’ve also said before, I’m not a homophobe. In fact, I don’t mind if friends dabble in homosexuality. Oh heck, I don’t even mind if some have the need to go around acting flaming gay. People should do as they please — that’s called freedom and I believe in it as much as anyone else, if not more. It’s just that they should not expect me to join in. In my previous lives, especially the life I’ve lived right before my present one, I admittedly seem to have had my fair share of homosexual experiences. But in this life, when it comes to sex and romantic endeavours, I’m into women. Call me old-fashioned. Call me crazy. See if I care.

As a general piece of advise, people who are currently possessed but who don’t know that of themselves right now, would best take heed of anything that comes out of their future mouth but with which they (immediately or afterwards) fail to identify with. It’s my experience that demons try to exploit moments of personal weakness, moments when your guard is down, and this generally either comes down to your own detriment or the detriment of others (Golden Rule perturbing). Doing or saying things that, on scrutiny, you really can’t identify with, may very well count as circumstantial evidence of possession. An extreme example of such behaviour would be someone suffering from what is known as Tourette’s Syndrome, blurting out typical curse words at typically inopportune times, whose symptoms I strongly suspect are generated from certain more talkative sort of demonic spirits housed within.

A few years ago, the partner of another old friend sent me a PM on Facebook and asked quite plainly if I would happen to have felt as if she had formed an obstacle between myself and this friend, implying to say that if true, I would have chosen to discontinue seeing this particular friend because of what then had come to be her sudden and for me obstructive sort of presence in his life. It was simply not true, however, I chose to live a life of solitude not because of anyone else but me. I told her that if she would be feeling guilty because of it, she needn’t be. At the time, I thought that I had done her favour by speaking so plainly and truthfully, but then not long after, to my surprise, she actually went to unfriend me. It struck me as a pretty demented stunt, all the more because I would have expected my friend to have stuck up for me — which he didn’t do apparently.

I now believe that she either failed or refused to understand me, and that by logical extension this friend–whom I had tacitly entrusted to represent me as a friend–likewise misunderstood me; and because of it both failed to treat me with respect, which is a more alarming matter. As such, there seems to have been quite a bit of confusion as to my person — but hopefully the contents of this essay will succeed to clear up any misunderstandings that might be circulating out there as to my person.

Anyway, back to late 2013. After two weeks had gone by, when the shock had settled down somewhat, I sent Dr. Snuggles a message in which I let him know I was not interested in said entertainment future undertaking and that, furthermore, I did not appreciate being told what to do. If he were to have gone on to show up willy-nilly as planned and I would have felt then the way I felt at the time when I received his “invitation”, I might just have been unable to prevent myself from reacting in ways we would all come to regret later on. Whenever I was in the state of pain and misery I happened to frequently (if not to say typically) be in, I wanted to be left alone as much as possible. It’s that simple, really. I was routinely at the end of my wits and people had better stay clear from me during those times.

He then went to correct himself and turned it into an invitation as would be proper, but the damage was already done. I was still pretty pissed off. I was so upset in fact that for the coming year-and-a-half whenever his name popped into my mind, I would involuntarily associate the epithet — “fucking idiot” — with his person. I know it was wrong for me to have done so, in a technical moral sort of sense, since it obviously did not square with the Golden Rule, but I was just too mad to control myself, especially after having been treated as an object by the others mentioned and by him as well. Sick and tired I was already of being humiliated by effectively being treated less than human, or at least like a little boy needing to be taken by the hand.

Dr. Snuggles also evidently liked to double as an unsolicited Internet doctor of sorts by having (had) the habit to periodically send me links to websites about Candidiasis (every month or so). Obviously, he was first-and-foremost engaged in helping himself by sending what to me were ultimately irrelevant and increasingly unappreciated type of links (since I turned out to not have candidiasis, for starters). Whatever happened anyway to the basic courtesy of first asking whether at-any-rate unqualified medical help would even be welcomed by any prospecting patient? Never ever has he even asked me if I would even be wanting to receive medical help, from–mind you–an untrained non-professional. If someone wants to play doctor, fine, but let (at the very least) people come to you based on their own volition instead of casually presuming that they would automatically be jumping for joy to receive your dilettantish and perfectly-unsolicited ministrations of an arbitrarily-remote medical flavour. In addition, it is rather condescending on his part to a priori treat me as the pitiful kind of person who would simply be too incompetent to by himself gain the medical help he supposedly needs for himself.

The last link he sent me was particularly offensive and humiliating as it was suggestive in what to me was a demeaning way. It concerned a link to some website or book, I can’t remember the details, on the topic of hygiene of bowels — as if my condition would be due to lack of cleanliness. It carried with it the vague suggestion that I was engaging in unhygienic activity involving my bowels, which to me (although I theoretically might be wrong) could only mean that he was referring to not just me engaging in anal sex but being on the receiving end of anal sex. It’s all so embarrassing because he was insinuating in not so subtle ways that I let myself first off be cast into a sexual sort of role which normally is reserved for the female (thus depriving me of recognition for my natural masculinity); and that furthermore I were to be careless and reckless (unhygienic) about such sexual type of contact (thus depriving me of recognition for my mature autonomy). Specifically, he seemed to (punitively) suggest that I stooped so low as to submit myself to other men, by letting myself get fucked in the arse by them.

Newsflash! The only person who touches my anus is me, myself and I and that is only to wipe it with toilet-paper, entirely clean & hygienic teepee, after having taken a dump. End of story.

Can you imagine that I once considered this guy to be my best friend? I now retrospectively think that this joker never quite understood me, or that he at least in crucial ways misunderstood me. This also reminds me of a visit, or set of visits, which I made to the local hospital also with the aim of tending to my persistent (if not perennial) condition. The doctor interviewing me at one point had the likewise embarrassing temerity to ask me squarely if I was a practising homosexual. It was probably standard protocol for physicians to ask their patients when they come around complaining about their arses or bowels, but it caught me off-guard just the same and I let him know with some cynicism that I wasn’t. On the plus side, at least this guy had the sensibility to ask me, instead of dryly presuming as much.

When I confronted Dr. Snuggles late 2015 with putting me on the spot the way he did in 2013, he insinuated that he deserved no blame at all since he hadn’t actually come around to pick me up and force me to join him together with his girlfriend to attend said concert. While it’s true that he hadn’t actually showed up at my place, he did order me to do his bidding; he did tell me what to do at some particular future date — and that simply is wrong. Rather than beforehand asking me if it would have suited me to join him (sort of like what “normal” people would do), rather than treating me as a human being instead of a de facto object, he did seek to override my autonomy as if I was some kind of incompetent child who needed to be taken by the hand and shown around by a grown-up. And so that made me angry and yes he is to blame for passing an immoral order to me, whether he realises it or not.

When I wrote him during a later exchange that I still wanted to be left alone (something which I already had written to him a year before), he then had the gall to promptly unfriend me on Facebook and thereby left me with the distinct impression that indeed he was most of all interested in helping himself as to his attempts to supposedly help me; and so when it turned out that his efforts to help himself helping me were fruitless, the disappointment or aggravation he seems to have felt must have proven too great for him to bear and so, perhaps in a fit of retaliatory frustration (to whatever extent fuelled by shame and guilt from his own end), severed our friendship altogether.

I can’t stress enough to not appreciate being treated as an object, being told what to do — not by anyone, but especially not by someone who himself regardless, has an extensive dubious history of knowing what the fuck he is doing. Indeed, if it were up to Dr. Snuggles, by the way, I would have been exploring the arcane territory of Morphogenetic Fields by now. Some two years ago by now (2015), he also told me–mind you, told me, instead of advising me–to basically ditch my research into idolatry and swap it for Rupert Sheldrake’s line of business. Without seeking to make any kind of value-judgement on Sheldrake’s research (no offence at all to Sheldrake), luckily for me, I did not, do not and will not ever acknowledge the dictatorship of Herr Dr. Snuggles when it, in general, concerns command over my own person and, in particular, when it comes to the academic level of research I happen to be interested in. Somehow, Dr. Snuggles evidently acted on the presumption that while not even having any academic research experience himself (not even holding a degree in anything), he would nevertheless–in spite of his painfully lacking qualifications and credentials–be perfectly capable to serve in the capacity of my research counsel, mind you, dictatorial research counsel.

It is important to stress that he ordered me to change my research field because what if I happened to choose–as I did–not wanting to do as he told me? Would that then effectively transform me into a disobedient bad little boy in his eyes? — someone who would be “intolerably” obstinate by not being susceptible to (his) implied “mature god-fathering-sort-of reason”? See, that’s the problem with ordering a person instead of asking them (nicely). The lack of humility in Dr.Snuggles shows the actuality of him having invested his ego into the matter. By telling me what I should do, it automatically became a matter of personal pride to Dr. Snuggles.

A year earlier, someday in the latter period of 2012, without prior notification, my sister also had shown up at my place; yet did so likewise at a for me most inopportune moment since I–you guessed it–was also feeling miserable and in pain around-the-clock, as I usually did during that period of my life (whether there were any actual people in my immediate environment, or not). Rather than (as I would have insisted upon) contacting me beforehand to ask if it would suit me that she were to drop by, she basically neglected what I only would have found basic yet vital common courtesy. She instead showed up willy-nilly at my doorstep entirely unexpectedly and unannounced. I had been suffering from my chronic ailment for almost two decades by then, but it apparently and peculiarly never quite seemed to have fully dawned on her sleepwalking self that–ever since my early twenties–I had slid down in a progressive state of relentless and unabated suffering (the sort of suffering which, after all, caused me to ultimately be unable to function as an academic researcher).

With friends and family like that, is it then any small wonder as to why I ended up such a solitary person?

Some of my own screw-ups, or at least culpable involvement in screw-ups of others

Even though I have been the victim of other’s people selfish ignorance, I myself am not perfectly innocent either. I have made mistakes as well, so allow me to clear up a few matters.

On my birthday in 2014, I was wished a happy birthday on my Facebook wall by Woman III. I politely acknowledged the gesture even though in the back of my mind I was a bit wary. When I reciprocated on her own birthday two months later, rather than acknowledging my birthday wish, within a few days she came to my wall and liked some entirely unrelated post. Due to her failing to acknowledge my birthday-wish-carrying comment on her wall–while nevertheless leaving me with a strong feeling of her being aware of it–I again felt manipulated. And yet I did not act for a few months and instead effectively let the matter brew (or fester) in my mind. When I eventually did go to her wall to check out if she perhaps had a habit, as some people do, to not respond to placed birthday wishes at all, I noticed that she had liked the wishes of nearly all other people, except you know who.

I immediately felt sorry for myself, and in a fit of vindictive self-pity decided to delete both my birthday wish on her wall as well as hers on my wall. I now realise that it was a childish thing for me to do. But I apparently was very sensitive at the time, and which I now gather might have been due to my newly recommissioned conscience, coming equipped with extra-sensitive feelers sticking out into the social yet abstract world around me. I felt as if I was the victim of her manipulativeness — something which I also must have felt when she and her husband of the time invited me over, almost five years before, and had the nerve to disrespect me–their invited guest–by refusing to even be open to the nature of the spiritual experience I then had just had (see above).

Fast forward a few months later. A few days before the birthday of her boyfriend–Dr. Snuggles–came up, she invited me to like her art-page on Facebook. I again was instantly suspicious of her motive, but, nonetheless, checked out her page, considered it looking decent enough and decided to click like, even though I was less charmed by the person behind the page. In addition, I was still pretty mad at my supposed soon-to-be-former friend–Dr Snuggles–for putting me on the spot and for implying to be yet again on the verge of violating my boundaries and treating me like an object; and so I consciously chose to not wish him happy birthday.

Furthermore, I was intensively reading books at that time and one of the books I was planning to read was mentioned in “Linda Lovelace” her autobiographical book called Ordeal. I had finished Ordeal about a year earlier, and had the other book of which I speak already in my possession for about half a year or so, well before this whole new dramatic episode with Woman III started. However, at the time when Woman III asked me to like her art-page, in a fit of vindictiveness, I decided to start reading that particular book a little bit ahead of time, a bit sooner than I had planned. I knew, or expected, that if I would add the book on my list featured on my Facebook wall, I would likely manage to elicit a reaction from her. This became only even more apparent when I actually did start reading and noticed that its author and Woman III shared the same surname (this extra-spicy little piece of information was initially not known to me). The resemblance between the two women struck me therefore as being even more striking, which caused me to chuckle inside a little (excuse the little wink to Marquis de Sade, there). Again, I concede that my motive was tainted by a little bit maliciousness on my part, but I felt at the time–even though it should not be misunderstood for a justification, as two wrongs don’t make a right–that I was only giving her a taste of her own medicine. Besides, I was going to read that book shortly anyway and so if she strongly reacted to it then, she would likely have done so regardless if I were to have started reading it at a time of my fully-independent choosing (something which I otherwise do with all of my other books).

In spite of the petty thing that it was, regardless of my dedicated mental campaign to downplay its significance, I have spent many anxious hours reviewing its moral nature ever since — courtesy of that same recommissioned conscience of mine.

Then in 2015, when my birthday again came up, I happened to receive a PM from Woman III in which she expressed her desire to–no less than–come on over and pay me a visit at what by then was my new residence. I was perfectly surprised at receiving her request. Needless to say, I declined. I was (then as I am now) in no mood. At this stage in my life, since a few years, not least because of finding it too demanding and too burdensome to be dealing with other people, I want to interact with a bare minimum of other living souls (I do live like a solitary monk, after all). Even if I would have felt perfectly fine at the time (which I still didn’t), I would not have wanted her over. For one, I did not like her that way but even if I did, I would still have refused her since I find the place where I’m currently living simply too noisy to receive guests — and I did tell her as much in a return PM. You see, I live in an apartment complex, with people living below, above and beside me and where the walls and floors are obscenely thin. My place is so noisy–in fact–that, instead of in my bedroom, before the building was subjected to a major refurbishing overhaul late 2018, I used to sleep in my kitchen since that is the most quiet place of my apartment and I needed (then as I still do now) complete silence in order to be able to sleep decently.

More specifically, I live on the second floor. There are two apartments directly above me, one below; there’s one adjacent to me and two diagonally next to me. The lady who lives on the top floor above me has this wake-up radio that used to start blaring at 6am sharpish (this was back in 2017). I found out that it did not just disturb me, but also the person living below me and the person or people living next to me as well. My immediate upstairs neighbours since 2017 are a family of immigrants from Eritrea, a young couple and two young children (the youngest of whom, a newborn, has since passed away though). It took two years, a lot of aggravation, a lot of running up the stairs to knock on their door to complain, and finally an explicit intervention (with the aid of an interpreter, no less) from the neighbourhood building manager to get them to become sufficiently less noisy, to sufficiently adapt to the prevailing behaviour-curtailing general conditions of living (no more running around and about by any present kids, most importantly). It’s quite funny (in suspicious way though), since the immigrant father, who the first year came living here by himself, knew that the building was noisy as he admitted as much when he talked to me, on one of the first occasions we met, through a friend of his acting as interpreter. Anyway, also greatly facilitating my peace of mind, since about a year-and-a-half, during the day, I’m wearing wireless headphones with noise-cancellation and, as such, am quite capable of saving myself the aggravation of having to be exposed to unmitigated neighbourly chatter and other possible (verbal) loudness (coming from above and below). That’s, in a nutshell, how noisy this apartment complex is.

We would therefore have to have met down-town.

When I asked her as to why she wanted to visit me, in spite of blatantly failing to have taken the trouble to acknowledge my birthday wish on her wall that year before, she managed to tell me that this is what she would simply like to do with people she felt good about or with whom she claimed to be on a good footing. She implied therefore her intended visit to be no more than a common courtesy on her part — a perfectly innocent sort of expression of some kind of social call type of hobby. Of course, that may be the simple and unadulterated truth. In all fairness though, colour me suspicious all day and night if you must, but I already found that hard to believe from the get-go and, sure enough, when the next day I happened to read her new status update in my home-feed on Facebook, I suddenly became a whole lot more wary of her motive to visit me.

She basically declared–right then and there, on Facebook–a termination of the relationship with her boyfriend, Herr Dr. Snuggles. Of course, I know nothing for sure but, at the time, I again felt as though she had dumped the guy to do me some kind of favour (if this is true, it’s now her turn to wink at Marquis de Sade). It felt to me at the time as if she had terminated her relationship upon finding out that I supposedly would be romantically interested in her due to my admittedly selfish and ill-fated decision to, months earlier, erase my birthday wish from her wall, hers from my wall and so might entirely inadvertently have given off the nevertheless plainly mistaken impression to her that I were to be jealous of–what then was still her boyfriendDr. Snuggles. The painful truth of the matter, however, as already stated, is that I was vindictive and pitied myself over a mere petty reason. Christ Almighty, I have never even been jealous of Dr. Snuggles. Indeed, I’ve never been jealous of any other of her previous (play)mates too, for that matter. And even had I been as much, how on earth would jealousy ever be a sound and fertile ground to kindle into being any kind of (romantic) relationship?

Her behaviour might–however–be understandable if she already had the hots for me, so to speak, and so would be left fishing for affirmations to that effect, ones that would be coming from what then would be my reciprocally-interested person. But this was never the case from my end. The idea that she was more interested in me than I in her, would also explain the impression I began to have that she was stalking me on Facebook for, I dunno, the next half a year or so hence, because her name constantly kept popping up in my poke-recommendations list. She even once explicitly reacted to one of my comments on some public post of a Facebook page I was following; commenting after mine that she agreed with me and I was left with the impression that she did so in at attempt to draw me nearer by signalling kinship with me due to having the same opinion on the subject at hand, which–if I recall correctly–was about the ill societal effects of porn.

Fast-forward to somewhere near the end of 2016 when Woman III posted a picture on Facebook of what presumably was her own person, one in which an apparent torso was flaunted, the kind which was remarkably bloated and quite possibly therefore featured a pregnant belly. And sure as can be, a few months down the line she changed her avatar on Facebook to a picture of herself in which she posed together with a nameless baby, presumably her own though. Also somewhere in 2016, she sent me an invitation to like a page about a business run by the parents of Dr. Snuggles. I again felt as if she was trying to tell me something in a manipulative way. Nonetheless, I decided to put my best foot forward, and do everyone a favour by liking also that particular page (the validity of that favour will hopefully become increasingly apparent in the future). On the accompanying profile picture of that page she can be seen smiling happily together with a likewise happily-smiling Dr. Snuggles and likewise jolly-looking parents. Hence, upon becoming privy of all this information, I gather it’s fairly safe to say that she was back with Dr Snuggles; indeed, that they seemed happily so to the point at which they even managed to produce a child together. I can only hope, however, that they are able to respect each-other as well as their own selves by refraining from being manipulative also toward each-other; that their relationship would be based on mutual openness and frankness; and that they are therefore able to prevent from treating each-other as de facto objects.

Should there be any lingering doubts in her mind as to my feelings for her, she should know once-and-for-all that the nature of the interest I once briefly showed in her person back in 2003 (down in that local bar mentioned earlier), was not based on love at all but was the result of nothing more than a fit of crude carnal lust; that’s it and that’s all. She was not and never has been on my mind in the sense of being on my list of preferred romantic potential mates. If she was thinking otherwise, she could very well have been projecting on me the feelings which she herself would then have had for me, since I never had anywhere near romantically-oriented sort of butterfly kind of feelings for her in return.

About right after I obtained my PhD degree in physics (September 2000), I let myself getting suckered into–if you can believe it–one of those idiotic pyramid games — Ponzi schemes, I believe they are called by English-speaking people. Of course they dressed up their little hustle real nice (even explicitly advertising that this was not one of those “silly pyramid schemes” at all) and so to naive suckers like me at the time, it did not seem at all something that obviously regardless was quite clearly too good to be true. Indeed, me falling prey to such a stupid kind of swindle goes to show just how vulnerable I was at that stage in my life. My general feelings of misery in combination with the perpetual state of distracted sleepwalking that went with it, were so debilitating that I was unable to prevent myself from ending up a victim of a simple yet superficially-attractive scheme of financial exploitation. When I let myself so easily be seduced by the unrealistically rosy prospect of making easy money in a short period of time, it should come as little surprising to anyone with two functioning brain cells that I wasn’t really thinking clearly at all about the moral ramifications of any of the major decisions I made back then. This excursion into reckless folly set me back about 3000 guilders (~1200 euros) I think it was. But most of all, it left me with a lot of embarrassment, the type of awareness–as was typical–which I of course found to be in dire need of necessarily-toxic (pathological) repression.

I even tried to drag a relatively good friend (also someone from that same little village I grew up in) into all of this crazy silliness, something which I did regret. Our friendship went downhill from that moment onward and yet, in spite of what now seems bright as day, I somehow managed to keep myself quite oblivious to this unfortunate development of relational deterioration. For most of the time around that period of my life, as already repeatedly referred to before, I was rather living in a daze too much to really even be capable of consciously registering much of what I was doing and what was going on in my life, especially the sort of things that went wrong — and the awareness of which I sought to reflexively and dutifully repress due towhat I (unconsciously) must have found wasits untenably egodystonic nature.

There’s an interesting additional anecdote involving the person who lured me into this bullshit money-depriving sort of artifice. Eleven years after he–let’s call him Pi–successfully did draw me into this common confidence trick, he had the nerve on Facebook–during a time when I was still not doing too great (understatement)–to tell me to act more lovingly (whatever the fuck that may have meant) and yet immediately afterwards also demonstrated to have the stunning temerity to defriend me — and as such at once went to prove his own backward hypocritical attitude towards me. After all, defriending a person could hardly itself qualify as an act of love — indeed, much sooner striking me as an act of fear, an act of hostility rather than amicability.

That’s the beauty of social media like Facebook, isn’t it? It’s all so concrete and unambiguously plain. Whereas in the past, things like enmity and amity could be arbitrarily murky and doubtful, ever since the advent of social media one may be left with a lot less uncertainty as to what’s what and who’s who when it comes to the spheres of social interaction and relation. People who send you friend request, give you definitive evidence of wanting to have a friendly relationship with you; whereas people who once did befriend you but who now defriend you, much sooner deserve to be regarded as your newfound enemies. Let me elaborate. When someone defriends you (on a publicly-accessible social network), they would now naturally be motivated to try and defend their concrete act of hostility toward your person. If they hadn’t done so already, they may be expected to henceforth set out and look for reasons in support of their verifiably dismissive act in regards to your person.

After all, they had deemed and judged you unfit for friendship, did so in a rather public way and because of it may be expected to be motivated to start shopping for “credible” and “sound” reasons as to why they chose to reject you. The worse you end up looking, the better for them it would be, as it only stands to progressively validate their friendship-severing act. As such, since they would naturally want you to be in the worst possible way (imaginable) [someone who–in the most dramatic cases–were to deserve the label of a downright despicable and demonic sort of sorry excuse for a human being], it would thus appear to be so much more appropriate and justifiable to have concretely severed that perhaps once amicable sort of contact. To the extent that they cherish such an attitude, someone who has defriended you, has gone on to redefine themselves from erstwhile friend to now sooner newfound enemy.

Back to the story at hand. Let’s first go back to July 2008, when I had left for a three-day excursion to Nice. While there, some Dutch person had called me on my cell-phone, and yet didn’t tell me his name and I couldn’t make out whom I was talking to and whom refused to give me his name. It could very well be that this guy was Pi though, if for no other reason than that it involved a lot of typical banter, which normally I could have handled just fine but at the time I didn’t. Before long, not appreciating the conversation, and given the tense sort of circumstances surrounding my visit, I decided to hang-up without saying goodbye. Not too long ago, Pi confessed that he had defriended me back in 2011 because he supposedly didn’t like the by implication foreign people I was interacting with at the time. But that’s already a bit odd since he obviously couldn’t say to even know them. Just like my mother had chosen to reject Moziah based on self-serving prejudice, Pi must have acted on a similar bigoted mindset.

On hindsight, I now am inclined to think that he might also have based his inopportune patronising observation of my person while reflecting on the nature of the material I was delving into at the time. For quite a few years now, I have immersed myself into a study of the darker side of humanity. Perhaps he mistook my fascination for Serial Killers, Psychopaths, Narcissists and the like as signs that I was looking to become like them. But, if true, such is patently absurd. My study of human darkness is not done in the slightest bit out of a personal desire for emulation. My fascination for the dark aspects of the human psyche is borne out of a profound interest to understand it; and by understanding it, seeking to ultimately better those who are afflicted by it and to thereby work toward making the world increasingly lighter and brighter (although I did not, at the time, see such motive as clear-cut as I do now). Turning darkness into light–indeed, if possible, ever brighter light–is, after all, the work befitting of an alchemist, which is precisely what I am, albeit not one who has received formal training to that effect but is purely intuitively taught and inspired instead.

Early in 2011, I had come to the realisation that if I was going to be able to understand the world (something which I had casually set myself the task of doing some years earlier), I would ultimately have to devote myself to a study of the human psyche; since the world around us, is (as it has always been) built by human beings; our world is very much a product, an epiphenomenon if you will, of the general human psyche. And so all that is going wrong in the world today, should be traceable back to particular failures of that same human psyche. Building a better world, a truly better world, must therefore naturally follow from efforts to heal the ailing human psyche.

In other words, understanding the world requires understanding the human psyche.(7)

To be perfectly frank, if I should now hazard a guess as to why Pi had the nerve to order me what to do (there’s that word again) and to then even having the bigger nerve to drop me like a hot Facebook potato afterwards, I would suggest that maybe, just maybe, the guy deep down inside felt a tad bit guilty for, years earlier, having drawn me into what turned out to be such a painful financial fiasco (for me and for all the other poor souls he managed to bedazzle into recruitment; for what it’s worth, I never did manage to recruit anyone, which was to my karmic relative benefit). Fortunately, I gather that Pi is now into Reiki and so I like to hope that he has since become more truly spiritual, more loving, and less hypocritical because–at least, that’s how it seemed to me–his level of spiritual development was still leaving something to be desired when he pulled his shady defriending-stunt on me back in 2011.

Another one of my flaws was that–due to being too weak to admit what basically, at the time, would be the occasional unbearably egodystonic truth–I have lied sometimes in the past. I vaguely remember an incident which happened over sixteen years ago by now (perhaps somewhere around May of 2001). Together with some friends, I was attending a rave in Amsterdam and I almost got myself arrested by the police because at one point, in a fit of entirely unsuspecting abandon, in the middle of the dance-floor, I happened to be rather carelessly and openly fooling around with a brought-along little baggy containing various XTC pills (maybe some 20 pills) along with other non-illicit pills (“herbals”). All of a sudden, I noticed security personnel running up to me and surrounding me. One of them asked me to follow them and I readily complied with no resistance (and no handcuffs were involved for that matter). I was led aside to a police stand that, to my prior complete unawareness, happened to be right there at the rave.

When I was questioned by the police on-site, I managed to present the officer handling my case with a seemingly plausible yet entirely fictitious cover story. Even though I was slightly intoxicated on cannabis as well as what are called smart drugs or “herbals” (not on XTC), I instantly did manage to pull out of thin air some bullshit story in order to dodge as much culpability as would be humanly possible. The pills, which I nonchalantly was all-but flaunting around, supposedly were for my own consumption — which was a load of horseshit. In reality, I had brought them along for the sole purpose of selling them to whomever would to be interested in buying them since I did not intend to use any myself. I had, in general, given up taking XTC by then. The novelty had worn off and instead I only used LSD and coke around that time. I further embarrassed myself when I proceeded to almost plead with the officer to not press charges, as I was on the verge of emigrating to the US and work as a postdoc researcher at UC Berkeley (in the area of vision, in the field of neuroscience). I spared no effort in conjuring up a credible fairy tale story because I just didn’t want to jeopardise ruining my plans for abroad if I were to get my crazy sleepwalking arse arrested; and–adding insult to injury–quite possibly end up having my resume stained with any instantly immiserating (implied) references to having somewhat of a criminal record.

Even though I did not go around lying all the time and at-any-rate took no explicit particular pride in it whenever I did do so, during that period of time in my life (greatly facilitated, I suppose, by my general lack of emotional connectedness with other people), lying did come rather easy to me — anyone care for a dose of Machiavelli? Fortunately, the police was so gracious as to take mercy on me and neglected to charge me with anything and although–needless to say–they did confiscate my stash, they nevertheless also did allow me to return to the rave good-and-well without any further hiccups and delays. Even though I am quite convinced–from a moral standpoint–that selling recreational drugs should not be legally penalised to begin with and that furthermore the government, in general, simply does not deserve to have the right to determine what the people they are supposed to protect and serve do with or put into their own bodies (all on the reasonable condition that those people, while exercising their natural right to profess their personal autonomy, do not end up–owing to their state of intoxication–becoming any credible danger to their surroundings), I am–regardless of my principled resistance to drug-prohibiting legislation–nevertheless grateful toward the Amsterdam police for having gone easy on me and for letting me go without throwing any proverbial monkey wrenches into my future plans, for letting me off the metaphoric hook so relatively easily.

When further down the road, I–in fact–had moved to California as planned and had been living in Berkeley for the larger part of a year already, I succeeded to once again run into the Law. I had just been on a date with a girl I had met on the Internet a few days before (through some dating site I believe it was, one I then had just signed up with). She was living near Sacramento and–initially entirely unbeknownst to me–in a trailer park as it happened. On meeting her and after exchanging pleasantries, we decided to go out for dinner and watch a movie together, which turned out to be–what would much later in my life go on to become the rather significant movie called–Punch Drunk Love. It’s the latter part of 2002 now. When we sat down in the cinema of her choosing (by necessity, since I obviously didn’t know any), other than the memory of a passionately shouting Philip Seymour Hoffman near the end ordering the protagonist to SHUT THE FUCK UP (and repeatedly so), I unfortunately failed to pick up much of the gist of the movie, a sad but rather typical and recurring state of personal affairs which was mainly due to being constantly distracted by my perennial miserable condition (I would years later, only last year in fact (2016), make up for that lack of practical cinematographically-oriented cognitive proficiency–however–when I would subject the movie to (my first attempt at) a thorough alchemical analysis).

After the movie, we headed to her trailer and it was there that I had the dubious and entirely unforeseen pleasure of meeting her very own mother together with, what turned out to be, my date’s little son of a few years old. After only–as you may guess–a relatively brief and uneventful stay, with nothing of a romantic nature having even been able to come to pass between us, around midnight I decided to take my leave and head back to what was then my home-town, good old Berkeley (and no, in case you’re wondering, I was not political at all back then). While some may be inclined to regard her mother what is colloquially referred to as a cock-blocker, in all fairness I do have to admit that sex was not on my mind, but not for any noble sort reason, rather I was simply not in the mood due to–you guessed it–my particular condition (the story of my life — my, for all practical purposes, very own and remarkably durable ball and chain, in actual sad fact).

After goodbyes, while travelling on the road in what I believe was my juiced-up car, I was witness to a peculiar and rather novel phenomenon. Even though I was comfortably propelling myself forward at the official speed-limit of 65 mph, I couldn’t help but noticing other cars speeding and passing me by all the freaking time. All this abundance of vehicular velocity must have had a contagious influence on me because, at some point, I decided to try and keep up as best I could with all those cars constantly zipping me by. Before long, I too was driving well beyond the legally-allowed speed limit. You see, since about half-a-year at the time, I was the owner of a decent second-hand 1995 Ford Taurus sporting a 4.2 litre engine and for a while already had been dying to find out just how fast this old rig of mine could go. I was on the brink of leaving for Europe again anyway and so I figured: it was now or never.

Unfortunately, it just so happened that, as I was happily speeding along with the cars which nevertheless by-and-large still did schuss me by mainly over at the (far-left) fast lane, I noticed that one particular car–instead of going pass-me-by like the others invariably did–began to deliberately chase crazy old moi, maybe even tailgating me, and did so persistently (like a bad habit). Since I was by far not the fastest and therefore not at all the most self-incriminating vehicle on the block, and even though I must have found it rather remarkable that this here special vehicle would be tailing silly old me, I tried to pay no mind to it just the same. After a while, however, a few minutes down the road, its flash-lights suddenly went on and the car lit up like a Christmas tree (From Hell). I immediately realised that I–in so many wordswas fucked because it was readily obvious to me that only police cars could do such a thing. When the colourfully brightened car indeed began to communicate the typical yet compelling-to-the-point-of-overriding desire for me to pull over to the side, I only responded with perfect compliance. After–I don’t know–ten, fifteen minutes of standing still, after presumably having electronically established the ownership details of my car using its present standard-equipped Internet-connected onboard computer, the driver doubling as police officer disembarked his vehicle, walked over to my set of wheels, came to a standstill next to my window and signalled a typically predictable willingness to vocally communicate.

When I rolled my window down, while being perfectly calm and ready to answer for myself, the officer politely asked me if I knew how fast I had been going. I lied cold-as-ice when I told him I was under the seemingly reasonably-innocent impression that I was pushing (a fairly mellow) 85 mph (or thereabouts) — when I secretly knew full well I was trotting along at a much less innocuous 105 mph. I further explained to him that I was on the cusp of leaving for Holland (which was true) and implied that there might be a wee bit of a problem with me paying at a future time any presently-incurred fines. Also this officer must have shown mercy on my speeding arse when he gave me a ticket worth only $200 (which I think was consistent with the fictitious relatively lame speed I declared) — the amount of which I was told to pay after my return to Holland. Luckily for me, this police officer must have shown even further clemency because the ticket never did arrive at the address I must have submitted to him (no fake address, probably my mom’s).

I now feel silly for having lied to the officer, not in the least bit because he seemed like a nice guy (not at all like some of the out-of-control Rambo-wannabe officers you now may occasionally see on special Facebook pages devoted to featuring the regrettable phenomenon of Police Brutality). But even if his attitude toward me had been less congenial, I still was wrong for trying to deceive him. I should just have been perfectly honest with him and explained the above scenario to him, which–while also not being quite noble–was the simple and unadulterated truth. And so I likewise am grateful to this fine officer of the California Highway Patrol–and or whoever was responsible–for being so kind to neglect sending my ticket to Holland (200 bucks still is 200 bucks).

Speaking of Holland.

I know I also lied another critical time here in Holland. I remember one time when we, myself and few local friends, had attended some outdoors DJ event not too far from where I live. This is the year of 2005 now. Let’s call one of those friends, Girl A — who happened to be the owner of the car transporting us to and fro. On our way back from the gig, Girl A asked me to call another girl (Girl B) with the aim of buying drugs (speed) from her. Somehow seeing no harm in me doing so, I agreed without blinking or thinking and called up Girl B. When she answered, I did what was asked of me and plainly lied to her when I casually told her that the drugs I sought to buy were for my own consumption, when they actually were for Girl A.

You see, according to Girl A, she and Girl B at the time didn’t get along and so to Girl A it was out-of-the-question to call Girl B herself. However, Girl A did want to get high and so she asked me–gullible, stupid me–to give Girl B a call and try to obtain from her the drugs using the aforementioned little artifice. And so I did, I lied on Girl A’s behalf. Unfortunately for everyone involved (or perhaps fortunately in a karmic sense), the deception didn’t even pay off since I never did manage to procure the dope from Girl B. Afterwards, I must have felt bad for lying to Girl B and for succumbing to try and deceive so easily the sort of person I knew rather well even (more evidence that I was still somewhat of an ignorant sleepwalker in crucial ways back then).

Even though I didn’t experience it completely consciously back then, the guilt which I incurred due to my attempt to hoodwink Girl B made me distance myself from her, regrettably enough. I should never have allowed myself to be used, especially not for the purpose of deceit, and even more so when this deceived person was someone with whom I happened to otherwise still be on rather friendly terms. I likewise no longer have contact with Girl A for that matter and I suppose this little stunt that I allowed myself to be involved in made it easier for me to part ways also with her.

Speaking of drugs.

And last but not least, as I already insinuated before, some twenty years ago by now, I have sold illegal recreational drugs for a total period of about four years. After having tried it a couple of times, in May of 1997, all on my own, without anyone else coercing me or otherwise inspiring me, I received the luminous idea to not just use but sell XTC. I reckoned it would be convenient initially for myself and a few friends — getting high-quality gear for a relatively low price. I first only sold to friends. But then of course, after a short while, along came second-generation friends, so-called “friends of friends”. Although on a few occasions having sold pills at raves and festivals, I mostly sold them from my room in Groningen to people visiting me (mostly raver friends like me, some students also like me). After some two years in the sideline XTC business, I added speed and LSD into the mix; but I think I only sold amphetamines for about a year or so. Unlike speed, I have taken quite a bit of acid for personal consumption; the same went for XTC, even though–after a few years of relatively frequent usage, after the novelty had worn off–I began to use it less-and-less, and altogether quit taking it eventually. I took my last half-pill in early 2005, but hadn’t taken ecstasy for several years by then already. My XTC “heyday” must have been from late 1997 to 1999.

Although I have since matured so much that I now transcend the mere idea of selling (pharmaceutical) drugs, let me emphatically state that I have always acted, and liberally so, on what to me was a firm unalterable conviction (albeit perhaps not entirely consciously and arguably even less conscientiously entertained): the idea that selling drugs is not immoral per se — especially if it concerns high-quality stuff containing little to no pollutants, the kind of gear that either was produced by professional chemists or beforehand had been tested by other lab professionals (e.g., at the Jellinek Kliniek in Amsterdam, the preferred testing site for the stuff I bought with the aim of distribution); and so the prospecting buyer would therefore know exactly what they were buying. If in addition there’s no coercion involved and both the buyer and seller leave the drug-buying transaction in a state of mutual satisfaction, which was always the case with me, it is even less of a moral infraction (and would seem to remain an issue between both parties involved versus God, while no third human party is left with any inherent right to interfere — as per the Golden Rule).

All those people who so daringly go on to claim that selling illegal drugs is immoral because doing drugs is harmful to the body (or mind), in order to be consistent, should with equally-passionate determination likewise reject the public sale of alcohol and tobacco since both of these socially-accepted sort of drugs (because that‘s what they still are, regardless) are much more damaging to the health of the user than any of the illegal recreational drugs out there (apart from this horrible drug, a synthetic opioid popular in Russia, known by the street-name of krokodil).

Karmically speaking, however, in all truthful fairness, selling mind-altering substances (whether legal or illegal) is admittedly a double-edged sword. By selling dope or alcohol or any other substance which may have an intoxicating effect on the user, you as vendor have an obvious facilitating role in all the fun, enjoyment (or numbing of pain, for that matter) that the user will experience due to the altered psychoactive state which you help bring about. This you might call: positive Karma. However, on the other hand, you also facilitate any sort of hangovers that afterwards may arise; or any long-term ill effects on the health of the user, although such is hard to track and quantify since typically-speaking there are a great deal of other causal factors involved which have adverse effects on (general) health — poor food, lack of exercise, poor local air quality, stress-levels, low socio-economic status, adversarial events in personal history, etcetera. In addition, you as vendor also have a facilitating role in generating any sort of accidents that the user may experience due to the intoxicated state you enable them to be in. All this would constitute negative Karma. In order to maximize positive Karma and minimize negative Karma, it is therefore important that the vendor of whatever sort of (narcotic) substance, resolves to act as responsible and careful (conscientiously) as is humanly possible within their trade.

Another thing which cannot help but make selling illicit drugs immoral is that a dealer has to adopt a necessarily misleading outward appearance concerning their personal legal status, i.e., the dealer–in order to successfully practice his or her trade–is obligated to radiate to the outside world being the type of person who–ideally–would not at all even be (the slightest bit) involved in selling illegal substances. To this end, a drug-dealer should–at any given moment–be ready and willing to lie about their actually very real role in the drug-trade. Hence, they at all times need to be ready and willing to deceive people around them all for the purpose of not giving themselves away, something they in particular need to do–as happened to me a few times–if the reach of the law has to be evaded. The dispenser of illegal substances must, after all, be prepared to lie to any confronting (and potentially menacing) police officers. Furthermore, dealers have to be ready and willing to outwit and mislead all those friends and family members who themselves would not be involved in the use or trade of illegal drugs — all for the sake of preventing them from being drawn into complicity of illegal action (and be turned into de facto accomplices).

In short, distributors of illegal substances see themselves forced to adopt sufficiently clever disguises in order to mask their illicit activities, lest ending up getting caught and–heaven forbid–ending up deprived of freedom by landing in jail. And lying is of course–in principle–immoral as its express purpose is to draw the person, or persons, being lied to away from the (objective and whole) truth, away from perfect sanity. After all, when there is an estrangement from truth and reality, the person suffering as much is progressively less able to maintain sanity of heart and mind (as the case with my mother expounded earlier exemplifies) as perfect sanity of heart and mind does require perfect grounding in truth, living in perfect truth.

Then again, to be perfectly fair, a drug-dealer would not see themselves forced to lie about their illicit type of business if drugs had never been made illegal to begin with. In combination with the natural and inalienable right to profess autonomous control over one’s own body, an immediate implication is that if a government outlaws the trade and use of the kind of substances which never deserved to be made illegal to begin with, then that same government is and should be held responsible for systematically facilitating all those sorts of immoral actions which together serve to ensure that such type of trade–regardless of its illegal status–may exist and even flourish, albeit necessarily in an underground or “black market” kind of capacity.

Specifically, by prohibiting (certain kinds of) drugs, a government doing so facilitates and promotes the practice of lying as practised by the whole class of people who obstinately do want to either use or sell those (prohibited certain kinds of) drugs. Drug-users and drug-dealers see themselves therefore having no choice but to try and deceive all those people whom they feel should be kept in the proverbial dark, especially representatives of the law. And so every time a drug-dealer (or drug-user) sees themselves forced to lie in order to manage dodging the reach of what actually is an inhumane and immoral type of law, it is also that same government which deserves to share in the accompanying moral cost (karmic cost) which the drug-dealer (or user) incurs because of it. The well-nigh unavoidable reality that such a government thereby promotes the moral corruption of people who trade (or use) illicit substances, is the indirect consequence of said excessively-authoritarian (nanny-state kind of) government in the capacity of enforcing the sort of liberty-usurping laws which should never even have been enacted in the first place.

I will return to the plethora of moral aspects surrounding drug-dealing when, some time in the future, I will submit my already partially-completed analysis of the important movie called: Alpha Dog (2006).

As for the personal question as to whether I have any regrets concerning the drugs I have dealt myself. Sure, I have some. As I wrote before, I would never even have touched drugs if I hadn’t been in the state of suffering that I was in and had been in for already a few years continuously when I began to seek refuge in them. I now believe that I was taking drugs, and then not much later also starting selling them, because I was feeling terribly frustrated and angry at myself, mad at my body for failing me so badly and that I was almost instinctively looking for ways to sedate myself, trying to insulate myself from the pain that in the end would just not go away. In other words, I was reckless, careless and most of all, I was in pain, chronic pain; and drugs–through promising escapism and by facilitating dissociation–offered some help to deal with the frustrations of having bear relentless personal torment. With the level of awareness I now have of myself and the world around me, however, I would not go and sell (pharmaceutical) drugs again. And if I were to, which I won’t, I would only sell to people who at least are old enough to know what they are doing — since I, at the time, had quite a few clients / friends who were years younger than I was.

But, regardless, I think people need to be careful before passing judgement on me. There are–after all–other substances around, though legal, that (statistically) do a lot more damage (to the health of the user) than the drugs I sold. What if, for example, my mother’s molester, who went on to buy his tobacco from the very drug-store at which my mother worked, were to have contracted lung-cancer and died from it? Surely it would be banal to hold my mother responsible for his demise, and yet she would have had at least some facilitating role to play in supplying the man–her customer–with a known carcinogen, a significant catalyst for bringing about what is a notoriously-deadly type of disease. To what extent were my mother to deserve being held responsible for the man’s suffering, something which would then have had a fatal conclusion? By the same token, how much would the owners of the drug-store, any other possible retail vendors supplying the man with tobacco and also the producers as well as the whole-sale distributors of the man’s used brand of tobacco, deserve to be held responsible?

Likewise, when I returned from the UK in the fall of 2003, I briefly lived with my mother and it just so happened that one fateful winter night, an intoxicated local alcoholic ended up accidentally drowning himself in the canal right about next to my mother’s house. Late at night, early in the morning, he must have staggered out of a local pub, and haphazardly had come to venture into a freezing cold canal as he was trying to relieve himself by taking a piss. Surely it would be irrational and unfair to hold the pub-owner and his bar-tenders responsible for the death of this poor fellow, and yet by selling him his alcoholic beverages, they did at least have some facilitating role in providing one of their clients what would turn out to be a fatally-intoxicated state of being. By the same token, all those people involved in supplying the pub with alcoholic beverages, collectively also have had at least some facilitating role in bringing about this man’s demise.

And the same would apply to me too: If there would have been any clients of mine who–through reckless misadventure–ended up hurting themselves or others, to what extent would I deserve to be held responsible for such regrettable turn of affairs? I too would have had at least some facilitating and therefore causative role in such potential tragedies. And likewise, the same argument extends to all the people involved in supplying me with the drugs which I went to sell, as well as those who made the stuff.

Surely these are interesting but also difficult moral questions to ponder, at least difficult in the sense of quantifying such problems in terms of raw numbers.

Shame-avoiding Self-idolatry — My professed form of Self-idolatry

The kind of Self-idolatry which I–of course entirely unconsciously–practised until only a few years ago, revolves entirely around the deemed all-important need to avoid shame at-all-cost and may therefore aptly be called, Shame-avoiding Self-idolatry (ShaSe-idolatry). The devout practitioner of ShaSe-idolatry will do whatever they can in order to avoid having to bear what they, by their behaviour alone, imply to believe is the most unbearable of all intangible and invisible yokes known to man (and woman), and as such may be said to idolise (=attribute an inordinate wildly-inflated amount of importance to) the broad goal of avoiding incurring any measure of shame that might be levelled at their person. The prototypical ShaSe-idolater somehow has never learned to be able to altogether deal with personal shame and as such, by lacking proper coping skills, chooses to not just casually tiptoe around the general eventuality of being on the receiving end of shame; but they even prefers to consistently avoid the invisible awful stuff as if it were the Bubonic plague. . . because, quite simply, to the committed purist ShaSe-idolater: shame equals to not just poison but lethal poison.

Even though ShaSe-idolatry is related to Narcissism, it’s not quite the same kind of affliction; not by far. It’s not even like comparing apples and oranges; more like comparing things as morphologically discrepant as gorillas versus pygmies. Whereas the Narcissist indeed has in common with the ShaSe-idolater to frantically be wanting to avoid shame whenever it comes their way (or threatens to come their way), the Narcissist–unlike the ShaSe-idolater–simultaneously at least as fanatically seeks sustenance in comforting praise — or, as some in the dedicated research community prefer to call it: Narcissistic Supply. The garden-variety Narcissist is arbitrarily-severely addicted to praise and actively seeks it out much like an addict chasing after their next fix; they like nothing better than to, if given half-a-chance, wallow in endlessly deep and outrageously wide pools of naturally and eternally soothing egosyntonic (=ego-pleasing) praise — lusciously flattering and luxuriously overwhelming streams of unbridled near-divine sort of praise. Narcissism may therefore be called Praise-seeking-andShame-avoiding Self-idolatry — or PrasenShaSe-idolatry, if you will.

Since both forms of Self-idolatry require the practitioner to be devoted to the dubious art of consistently avoiding shame, Shame-avoiding Self-idolatry may be conceived of as a (distant) relative of Narcissism. Unlike the Narcissist, however, the purist ShaSe-idolater is free from the neurotic additional need to ferret out externally-supplied doses of adoration, adulation and ample amounts of alternative forms of agreeable attention. To the ShaSe-idolater it is sufficient (thank you very much!) to “merely” be able to avoid shame (albeit with a 100% success-rate, all the bloody time, if not too much trouble).

The Narcissist would quintessentially–in the purest and most intense degrees of manifestation of their idolatry–like nothing better than that the whole wide world would see him or her as an eternally-praiseworthy virtual god on earth. Although the archetypal ShaSe-idolater is too modest to be like the Narcissist in that particular respect, they do feature a touch of false divinity just the same. Not seeking the same quasi-divine level of recognition that the Narcissist typically yearns for, since the ShaSe-idolater does his or her utmost best to refuse or neglect owning up to personal shame and guilt, they automatically, if implicitly, do present themselves to the outside world as being the kind of person who never ever were to make any errors or mistakes (worthy of blame). By never owning up to personal guilt or shame, they effectively therefore do radiate to the people around them as if they were perfectly flawless and faultless (as I pretty much used to do myself); and so the ShaSe-idolater does go around appearing as if they–for-all-practical-purposes–are also gods nonetheless. Hence, ShaSe-idolatry does deserve to be regarded as a genuine–if subtle and less imposing–form of Self-idolatry.

If you want to get a fairly compelling and accurate impression as to what Shame-avoiding Self-idolatry is all about (and at the same time be able to convince yourself that the ShaSe-idolater is not a Narcissist by a long shot), then go watch this very educational movie called Punch Drunk Love (2002), starring Adam Sandler. The main character of the movie–Barry Egan (played by Sandler)–clearly is not a Narcissist; he does not go around bragging about himself and he does not go around feverishly seeking recognition and validation for his own person. Rather than being what graphically and deridingly is called an attention-whore, the guy is much too modest to deserve such epithets and instead “simply” works hand-over-fist to avoid being shamed. At some point in his presumably early life, inspired by at least one episode of traumatic shaming, Barry must have decided to henceforth set for himself the all-enveloping and all-important mission in life to prevent ending up a target of shame, especially shame coming from his blind, wildly-overbearing and reflexively-judgemental seven sisters.

In certain ways, I amor, hopefully more accurate by now, have been–like Barry Egan and yet there are a few differences. Barry sought to dissipate the stresses which entered his life as a result of his neurotic (slavishly anxious) need to avoid shame, by acting out in verbally-aggressive ways as well as by way of destroying immediately-available material objects and by so doing sought to display a certain sense of personal power of the intimidation and weakness-redeeming kind. On the other hand, I preferred to basically bottle up all the negative shame-related emotions which generated from within by my own psyche. Whenever I felt the ghoulish touch of shame creep up on me, I would fairly-consistently prefer to pretend as if it simply were not there — as frequently admitted by now, I sought solace in repressing awareness of such automatically egodystonic sort of personal events.

For the most part, although I did lose my temper sometimes, I usually did not seek to ease the burden of my shame-smitten soul by shaming others (e.g., by way of gossip or direct put-downs); and whenever I did do so, to the extent I was left feeling bad about it, would then–in turn–lead me to also repress any awareness which I might have had to that effect, thus typically leaving me still none-the-wiser as to what was going on and in particular what was going wrong in my life.

I was, however, like Barry, sometimes perfectly capable of destroying material objects in fits of frustration but the circumstantial contexts were rather different. When I was in a state of particularly unbearable and persistent pain, I have destroyed the occasional material object that happened to be available by being in my immediate vicinity. A few years ago, even though it didn’t involve me being on the immediate receiving end of an episode of shame, at one time I did cripple with one firm kick the dinner table which happened to be standing right outside of my room at my previous address. Throughout the entire day I had been suffering from what was a terribly-frustrating belly-ache. Likewise, when I was on the verge of moving to my current address, while sorting through some old computer stuff, frustration again got the better of me when I ended up dealing with a bunch of cables that had gotten entangled and I couldn’t find the patience to disentangle them. In a fit of anger, I grabbed a knife and cut through them and I guess I must have thrown them away after that, sick and tired that I was of it all.

I threw quite a bit of things away during the time I moved. Years ago, after I had just moved into my previous address in 2005, either my mother or sister, I forgot whom, thought it would be a nice idea to bring me a hard-drive containing video material dating from my childhood and which my dad originally must have recorded with his camera during the early eighties and that my sister had digitized since. All throughout the years I had never even been in the right kind of mood to see the footage documenting my childhood. After having lain around for about nine years doing nothing more than catching dust behind my wardrobe, I decided to throw it away with some other stuff I wanted to rid of. Nobody had ever asked me as to whether I first off would be interested in even seeing the material, and then nobody ever claimed the drive back. As a result, I took it upon myself to throw it away. I must have failed to invest a great deal of contemplation into the matter and at any rate my health condition certainly did not afford me with much opportunity to do just that.

By seeking to wholesale deny shame as being part of my life, I effectively refused to live life to the fullest possible degree. By denying myself the full learning capacity which could be mine to have if only I would not have been unwilling to recognise personal shame and guilt as being salient emotive cues indicating the existence of personal mistakes and characterological flaws, I denied myself the full capacity to learn from life as it presented itself to me in uncensored and unadulterated fashion. By practising an artificially-enhanced form of shame-avoidance, I was left at a profound handicap to learn to grow into a responsible person, culminating in what otherwise could have been genuine moral adulthood.

Another obvious sort of risk belonging to the practise of Shame-avoiding Self-idolatry, is spawning around your abstract being an arbitrarily heavy protective cloak of psychic armour, i.e. a dangeran occupational hazard–from seeking to frantically and reflexively flee from personal shame is to eventually grow into something of an emotional zombie, someone–through growing artificially-enhanced moral-consciousness-numbing, if you will, calluses of the psyche–whose capacity to have any semblance of a significant emotional life is stifled.

As a result of accumulating a progressive amount of toxic (shame-avoidance~induced) debris of the soul, as it were, especially due to my doubly unrecognised trauma, I now am quite sure that I developed a chronic health condition because of it, although it took me quite a few years to even be willing to recognise that the cause of my debilitating syndrome was largely psychosomatic in origin. I always managed to delude myself into believing that somehow my tenacious ailment had to do with some kind of heretofore unknown food intolerance (lactose, gluten, . . . ) or that it would be due to some other mysterious material (physical) disease-causing factor, some kind of undiagnosed or undiagnosable bowel disorder or pesky digestive disturbance. And as I invested all of my resources into trying to find a material cause for my cryptic, crippling and complicated condition, I completely neglected to investigate my nevertheless painfully failing and ailing psyche.

I am, however, not the first member of the family I grew up in to practice ShaSe-idolatry. As a consequence of her parents’ fateful decision to forcefully keep her supposedly unbearable dirty little secret just that – a secret, my mother was effectively forced to likewise commit herself to a (lifelong) practice of Shame-avoiding Self-idolatry. In fact, by basically refusing to act as responsible parents, my grandparents helped (if not forced) my mother to be locked down in a state of servile bondage to her own Shame-avoiding Self-idol. As of the time of the abuse (or maybe even earlier), my mother’s parents decreed–implicitly or explicitly–to my mother that being able to dodge (imaginary) shame (coming from the community at large) was a more important goal to strive after than maintaining personal integrity and mental sanity (rooted firmly in perfect truth and perfect sincerity).

In all likelihood, my grandparents themselves likewise were already (avid) practitioners of Shame-avoiding Self-idolatry well before my mother was even born (as probably were so many of their contemporaries who sought refuge into stoicism and solemnity). The toxic legacy which my grandparents saddled my mother with lies in their refusal and or incompetence to effectively perform their parental duty in response to my mother’s abuse. In their ineptitude as responsible parents, in their failure as able parental crisis managers, they taught my mother–explicitly or implicitly–to be prepared to sacrifice the truth, in combination with her truthful emotions, all on the proverbial altar of Shame-avoiding Self-idolatry — just for the sake of being able to avoid the shame that otherwise allegedly would be coming her (and, especially, her parents their) way and which–it was implied–were to threaten strangling the very life out of her (and, by extension, her parents) if she would only let it. That is, my grandparents forcefully (if likely unconsciously) infected my mother with the shame-avoiding bug; and she, in turn, dutifully–because she probably didn’t know any better–passed it on to unsuspecting little old moi (and, quite possibly, my sister as well).

Better yet, let me rephrase this last statement with a bit more accuracy. Due to my mother’s paralysing and reason-defying fixation on shame-avoidance, courtesy–at least in part–of her parents, she was pushed into a more unlikely position to be able to teach me (and my sister) how to handle shame. And so, if I happened to have come from a previous life in which I also had not yet learned how to deal with personal shame, she would then have been in a more unlikely position to be able to, in my current life, provide young silly me with the psychic tools needed to learn handling shame coming my particular way. And so I would then be naturally confronted, in this present life, with the task of learning how to overcome personal shame without any human assistance, parental or otherwise.

As such, it was all up to me–if under the subtly discernible tutelage of God–to instead teach my own self what I still needed to know about shame, in particular shame sustained personally.


(1) Ever since I moved to my current address in the summer of 2014, the health of my teeth has shown a remarkably rapid decay. My first tooth spontaneously broke off late 2014 while eating banana-chips. Some other teeth have broken off since and the roots of yet even other teeth started to inflame and ultimately needed to be taken care off once the pain became too great. In less than a year, starting from late 2018 to mid-2019, I lost five teeth and my dentist no less than three times had to refer me to an oral surgeon in the local hospital to have troublesome teeth or their remains be removed. I am scheduled to have another four teeth removed in the hospital late April of 2020. All-in-all, I will then have lost a total of fifteen teeth and I suppose the next stage will be prosthetics, as merely being able to chew food is increasingly getting to be a challenge. Although in the long-term, as funny and unnatural as it may sound, I expect a full natural restoration of my teeth.

It’s likewise funny that my teeth are pretty much the only part of my body which show deterioration consistent with my ageing. I will be fifty next year and yet my body nor face show it. Except for my teeth, I look a lot younger than someone pushing fifty. All throughout my adult life I’ve looked younger than I am, even when I used drugs. When I was twenty-eight, someone casually yet sincerely asked me whether I already had turned eighteen; and when I was forty someone else estimated me around twenty-eight. If I were to now meet myself in the street, I would still estimate myself to be closer to thirty than fifty. . . Strange is the life I’m living;

(2) The classic imperative motto: Know Yourself, also–by necessity–includes the imperative: Know Your Body, and therefore–in necessary turn–also includes the imperative: Know Your Sexual Function. Getting to know your sexual function then obviously requires from you to spend time into its exploration as well as, in the case of this procreative special organ, discovering ways of controlling it.

Although in the beginning of my training I did use porn, I’m not a fan of it. First off, I do not like, have never liked and will never endorse any kind of porn that features abuse, in whatever form. Indeed, getting off on viewing (sexual) abuse is immoral and downright dangerous as it attracts the sort of spiritual beings you don’t want anywhere near you. In addition, consuming porn quickly becomes idolatry, especially when gaining pleasure is the sole objective; in a best case scenario, you just end up wasting away time and your procreative potential in exchange for a little bit of cheap carnal pleasure. Basically, an idolatrous consumption of porn is tantamount to your sacrificing of time and procreative potential to the images making up porn. Specifically, by masturbating to a pornographic video, you sacrifice your time and semen (in case you’re a male) on the abstract altars which may be thought to be associated with your pornographic viewing session. More specifically, when you jack off to a video of people engaging in sexual behaviour on-screen, you may be said to sacrifice your time and semen to the idols constituted by the individual porn-actors (Person-idolatry) as well as the idols formed by the actors doing their thing in front of the camera and providing the source material for the video at hand (Porn-idolatry).

Even though not being a great proponent of porn, I’m not categorically against it either; and if I would have to recommend a type of porn, then I would suggest masturbation videos, if for no other reason than that those are most likely free from coercion and abuse — especially so if the featured genitalia respond to masturbatory action with verifiably-present lubrication (precum or cream). You will then have fairly compelling circumstantial evidence that the actors at hand are enjoying themselves and that there’s no coercion (let alone abuse) involved. Personally, I preferred to see girls masturbating (featuring self-lubricating vaginas, and no anal stuff). However, I also noticed on the porn I did use to watch that a lot of the girls on camera were eating or even lapping up their own juices; and this is something I do not recommend. In fact, I’m quite against it, as it is spiritually dangerous and seems what demons want you to do, they want you to eat your own cum — as I have done myself when I was possessed, and as they tried in vain to make me do yet again after I was set free from my demons (by way of imposing into my dreaming mind at night certain encouraging images to that effect).

However, while the use of porn may be of help in the beginning, as it has with me, it needs to be kept in mind that, instead of fixating your attention on the genitalia displayed by porn actors (however alluring they may be), your focal point of training should always be your own genitalia and specifically your control of it. And so I recommend working toward reducing, and possibly ultimately abandoning altogether, time spent on watching audio-visual external stimuli of an erotic kind.

That’s why I prefer to no longer use porn, or any other external visual stimulus for that matter. Not being distracted by porn (or any other image sources, real or imagined), I apply a little bit of coconut oil to my glans for extra lubrication (which in the beginning was essential due to also having to treat my phimosis) and simply concentrate on the task at hand using plain (but slowed down) masturbatory action. If I feel an orgasm approaching, I slow down (more), or quit altogether and when I’m too late, I try my best to hold in my ejaculate. I recently reached the point of having had several what are called injaculations and am getting better and better at preventing losing sperm on point of orgasm.

Another benefit from learning to control your sexual organ like this is that it builds will-power and such is useful not just in the arena of prolonging sexual experiences (something which your sexual partner might just thank you for it), it is a universal virtue and constitutes personal assets definitely worth bragging over: temperance and self-control.

A final word of caution: if you are going to use external stimuli for erotic pleasure, then stick to porn and do not go around whacking off (or flipping beans) to images of scantily-clad girls (or guys) appearing on social media accounts, for example. Porn actors either know or presume that their audience consists of a bunch of masturbators and offer up their product for public consumption precisely with such aim in mind. In fairly stark contrast, while some more naughty Instagram models might (secretly) hope that (some of) their viewers go ahead and beat off to their (more naughty) images, in general such assumption is not warranted; and so spanking monkeys to Instagram models is, in general, immoral (however enticing their presentation of themselves would be) — unless, of course, you have received their explicit masturbation permission beforehand.

Owing to to the simple mechanism of classical (Pavlovian) conditioning, masturbation–especially if ejaculation/orgasm is the default end-goal–serves to pornify the regardless very human objects of erotic stimulation. That is, every time you grant yourself the automatically pronounced biological reward of orgasm while masturbating to images of a model, you do increase your perception of that model along the direction of most of all being an instrument of sexual gratification. If such model happens to not be a porn model but–let’s say–a fashion or fitness model instead, you as masturbator have now entered a morally iffy territory, since models (of whatever flavour) are still first-and-foremost living-breathing human beings . . . instead of, viewed in its most degrading fully pornified light, self-animating common fuck dolls;

(3) There’s an interesting parallel between my responses to my childhood traumas and that of the main character in the movie called All Good Things (2010) — one of my favourites. Played by Ryan Gosling, David Marks is said to have witnessed his mother commit suicide when he was little. Apparently likewise unable to deal with the magnitude of the traumatic experience unceremoniously thrusting itself upon his life, while seemingly receiving no effective help from either his uncaring and emotionally detached father as well as a third party psychiatrist, the poor young lad resolved to hide under the table for a week and when he came out from under it, began acting as if nothing had ever happened. Although it was a fictitious event (if based on a true story), young David strongly reminded me of my own responses to my traumas. David, like me, seems to also have worked hard to repress into his own unconscious any awareness of a type of event–clearly overwhelming in its scope and nature–which his mind also failed being able to come to terms with at the time. I’m tempted to say that this traumatic event, especially in combination with his pathological response to it, catalysed into being the seeds of a psychopathic condition within his ailing and fragile juvenile psyche. Mind you, I too could have developed a psychopathic constitution since I, like David, also was left with no functional conscience;

(4) Well, that was current at the time of writing, late 2017. At the time of present writing, late 2019, I have since relaxed my diet. Right now I’m trying to eat fairly normally albeit healthily, although I do try to put a casual (not obsessive) emphasis on fat-rich foods instead of carb-rich. I suppose I got tired of eating an adapted diet. I’m not much of a cook anyway. So all this neurotic ado about food started to become a drag. I’ll just have to ride my symptoms out. Anyway, to date, my base-level of anxiety has subsided significantly and I have every hope that in the near future all of my symptoms eventually will disappear;

(5) As an adult, I have never been jealous of my sister, including in an artistic sense. She graduated from art academy in 1995 and I accepted her invitation to come to her final exposition. But when I checked out her graduation projected, I found that I didn’t like it. I had brought along a buddy from the university to her exhibition and he didn’t like it either, but that was not the reason why I didn’t like it myself. Perhaps I have been brutal as to venting my critique so readily and intently, but to me her work lacked inspiration and did not even strike me as art. Call me old-fashioned but I happen to like it when art requires skill and craftsmanship, and I just didn’t see it in what she had made. To be perfectly honest, on hindsight, I feel as if she effectively was conned by what seems to have been too lenient sort of teachers — her education, to some extent, therefore seeming like a tuition rip-off.

Indeed, most of modern art strikes me as not worth the money some people are apparently willing to spend on it. Call me crazy, call me conceited, judgmental whatever, but I have little care for most so-called modern art. I like to discover (mathematical) curvature, organics, vibrancy, (lively) colours and complexity in art; not unalive sterility, rigidity and all-around uninspired and colourless blandness. Philosophically speaking, a teacher worth bragging over to me is not someone who, in effect, is too afraid of ending up being disliked by their students if and when being stern and adamant in their teaching attitude; but rather a good teacher in my book is someone who helps their students gain higher levels of proficiency by way of being critical of the work their students produce. Of course, a teacher can be toxic in the sense of liking punishment a little bit better than actually helping students, but I think the virtue of criticism is something that modern art teachers do not seem to recognise — surely constructive criticism is meritorious, in principle. Then again, realising an admitted possible bias in my opinion, in particular regarding my sister, from what she produced and put on final display, I nevertheless fail to see proper levels of worthiness in her teachers;

(6) All of this happened while she was married at the same time, mind you, and also while her husband was in the same establishment as we all were; then again, she and her husband of the time seem to have had an open sort of relationship, coming with a shared fooling-around sort of license. To each their own though, I’m not judging them for it; but it’s just not my cup of tea. You have to understand the wider context at the time of incident: I was pretty much busy hitting on the girl tending the bar, trying to get her email address and was not thinking about Woman III at all when she must have noticed my efforts at courting said barmaid and for some reason must have inspired her (as if propelled by envy) to intervene and literally seize me by the hand to go for some place quiet upstairs. Well, we all know what that means. Silly me, in a moment of weakness, I almost let myself getting mixed up in the sort of situation I normallyand nowadays, most certainly–would not want to end up;

(7) On a sunny day in the spring of 2012, I was sitting on a bench in a local small public park reading from an interesting book written by Philip Zimbardo called: The Lucifer Effect, How Good People Turn Evil — when out of nowhere this well-dressed and polite older man walked past my bench and, with apparent curiosity peaked due to the clearly legible name of Lucifer on my book cover, made a casual remark about what the substance I was reading would be and before long decided to sit down next to me.

It turned out that he was a Jehova’s Witness and we started talking about various religious matters. I told him that only a few years prior, upon returning from my American deliverance mission in 2009, I had made an initial attempt at reading the Bible, but failed to pull through the whole thing when I got turned off by all the violence either endorsed or committed by Moses and his contemporaries as recorded in the Old Testament. This soft-spoken genteel man, whom I had never met, informed me then and there of the existence of a couple of biblical verses which had escaped my notice until that point in time. Also known as the Greatest Commandment, it concerns an element of scripture which I now like to call the little alchemical gold-nugget of the Bible: 1) Love God with all your heart, soul (strength) and mind; 2) Love your neighbour as yourself (see: Matthew 22:35–40, Mark 12:28–34, and Luke 10:27a);

When I left for home again some time after our spontaneous meeting, I remember thinking to myself, how the hell could I be able to fulfil, in a general sense, the second prong of this Greatest Commandment? How on earth would I be able to love my neighbour as myself, when I can’t even bring myself to love my own immediate neighbours? At the time, there were a few Spanish students living right next door and they had a habit of staying up late at night and, as such, make the sort of noise which routinely prevented me from falling asleep. While already lying in bed, having to go out late at night to knock on their door to complain, obviously made me resent them for it.

Being therefore able to just love those neighbours struck me as already enough of a challenge as is, let alone potentially loving every other human being on the planet (since they all, courtesy of the general mobility of the human being, might end up being my neighbour — however fleetingly).

There is this scene in one of my favourite movies called Into the Wild, where “Alex” (the main character, played by Emile Hirsch) meets an older guy, a real-life character named Leonard Knight, down in a place called Salvation Mountain. This likewise gentle man tells Alex that a lot of people in the valley just love me a lot. Everybody now, I think, in the whole world is just loving me. And I want to have the wisdom to love them back. Alex then asks if Leonard really believes in love, to which he replies, Yeah. Totally. This is a love story that is staggering to everybody in the whole world. That God really loves us a lot.

I now believe that in this small exchange lies the key of being able to love your neighbour as yourself. To have the wisdom to love other people, requires to be able to understand those people since there can be no wisdom if there is no understanding; and to be able to understand other people, in turn, requires to be able to know them, to have as much as possible accurate knowledge as to their personhood, who they are as persons. And so the more knowledge you would gather of someone, the better might be your understanding of that someone, i.e. the better your grasp would be of their motives and actions (where they’re coming from), and so the better could be your ability to love them — as you would be less inclined to condemn and hate them (for flaws and actions you would now understand). And so, based on this given, the natural task would then be to gain an as broad and deep understanding of humanity as you could possibly manage, and as such be able to access the (knowledge, understanding and) wisdom needed to love, ideally, any random person out there.

And this is the arena of Christ-consciousness (as opposed to ego-consciousness) the immaculate ability to put yourself perfectly into someone else’s shoes, a perfect capacity to understand that random someone and hence be able to love them, ideally: as perfectly as you would have them love you. The task of attaining Christ-consciousness would then be tantamount to a quest of understanding the human being in the great multitude of ways with which they appear to each of us. The better your ability to understand the greatest variety of people, the better able you will then be to attain Christ-consciousness.

If it is true that we are made in God’s image, meaning that each of us individually is God in the making, then increasing understanding of the human being necessarily equates with gaining a better understanding of God; and by becoming better at understanding God, we would be better able to love God. In other words, the simple straightforward key toward fulfilling the Greatest Commandment lies in striving for Christ-consciousness by way of improving understanding of the human being in the great variety of ways with which they present themselves to us;

Ron Kray’s Paranoia and Reciprocal Person-idolatry practiced by the Kray family

Original publication:

The London of the fifties and sixties saw the heyday of the glamorous gangsters called Ronald and Reginald Kray. One of them, Ronald, showed increasingly severe symptoms of paranoid schizophrenia from a fairly early age onward. Followed by my own analysis of it, the next passage is taken from a biography about the twins, written by John Pearson, called The Profession of Violence — The Rise and Fall of the Kray Twins (referenced as JP). For the sake of argument, I will assume that Pearson’s rendition of events is accurate and truthful, although I have no way of knowing at the present time to what extent this is indeed the case. In support of my analysis, in addition to using the material contained in Pearson’s book, I will also use portions from the autobiography of the twins called, Our Story — Reg and Ron Kray (referenced as RR).

The relevant part of the story begins when young Ron, already convicted and incarcerated, is about to change from his current gaol–where he is known and respected by fellow inmates–to an altogether different, more relaxed sort of prison; one in which, however, his esteem as an up-and-coming gangster happens to not be acknowledged by his new fellow inmates. Suddenly deprived of the intangible sort of sustenance he was so used to indulge, even though he otherwise had every reason to look forward to improved living conditions, this rather profound change of scenery marks the starting point–paradoxically enough–of the real psychic trouble for Ron.

Reading note: The quoted sections in the next passage form Ron’s own retrospective commentary on the matter at hand.

Then Ronnie Kray’s routine was broken. Without intending it, his good behavior had made him eligible for the easier life of a first offenders’ prison and he found himself aboard the Solent ferry, bound for the Isle of Wight. The prison at Camp Hill was more humane than Wandsworth. There was a liberal-minded governor, prisoners mixed freely most of the day, and the whole prison staff made an attempt to teach these first offenders trades and stop them turning into hardened criminals. Ronnie hated it.
There were too many games, and far too many straight prisoners for his liking. In Wandsworth the old lags respected him. He had had prestige. Here he was nothing. The Wandsworth tobacco circuit didn’t operate [note: tobacco constituted a form of trade-currency in prison]. Instead of prisoners needing his help, most of these new ones kept clear of someone smelling so patently of trouble. He was still shy, still vulnerable, and found it hard to start a normal friendship. All his relationships beyond the family had been with the weird, the cowed or the small group of Bethnal Greeners he had grown up with. New friends appeared impossible.
He was entirely alone here: his family and followers were a continent away across the Solent. He had no aptitude to learn a trade. And for the first time he sensed that he was losing touch with the one being who had always been his firm link with reality. Reggie’s success started to obsess him.
Gradually he withdrew into himself. He gave up the effort of talking to people. He stopped writing letters and seemed to lose the power to read. All he could do was watch, and he gradually became convinced that everyone was hostile to him. In the past he had controlled events; now he was helpless. People had feared him; now they were getting their revenge. During the night he would lie awake for hours, brooding on what he’d seen, trying to work out what had happened to turn everyone against him.
If Reggie’d been there. I’d have been all right. But there was no one. I started thinking there was someone there all set to do me in.
The worst thing was not knowing what he had done.
Then I worked out what was behind it all. I was a bit barmy now. But I thought everyone was thinking I had grassed.
This explained everything — the silences, the lack of friends, the sudden isolation. But it was terrible. Ronnie had spent his life loathing the Law; an informer was the lowest of the low. No one could seriously believe this of him. The suspicion turned to certainty. What other reason would a group of prisoners have for making him an outcast? He tried to face it calmly. If people thought like that, so what? He knew the truth. He had less than a year to serve now; then he’d be back among people who loved him and respected him. The year soon proved too long.
I don’t know what it was [that] set me off, but I thought there was agents everywhere working a big plot to torture me.
His only hope was vigilance — never trust a soul or give himself away. Somehow at night he had to keep himself awake. His survival depended on it now. He talked to no one, did nothing except concentrate on his battle to stay alive. People ignored him, but he knew that they were watching.
Then came the thought that finished him. Just suppose all his enemies were right — suppose he had been an informer without knowing it? How could he prove he wasn’t? If only Reggie had been there, he would have known, but on his own like this how could he be sure of anything? Perhaps there was someone else inside him forcing him to do things he never knew. How could he know that he was Ronnie Kray at all?
Hardly sleeping now, barely eating for fear that someone might have poisoned his food, Ronnie spent most of each day huddled in his cell facing the door. The warders, worried that he might kill himself, kept him under observation, making him more nervous still. They noticed that the only time he moved was to go to the mirror. He spent hours on end watching himself. They thought it vanity. It wasn’t. He was attempting to keep sane with the sight of the one familiar thing remaining — his own face. Even that was changing: there was a puffiness around the eyes, a faint thickening along the jaw-line.
This was the point at which he broke. The watching game could last no longer. If they were all against him, he would face them and get it over with. That evening, instead of staying in his cell he walked to the recreation room. He stood apart from all the others, watching for a while. There were all enemies — he could see that now. They were pretending to ignore him with their silly games, but he had had enough.
He began breathing deeply as he had done between rounds as a boxer to gain strength. He screamed, then charged, arms flailing, punching at everyone he could. He tipped a table over and hurt several prisoners before he was safely put into a straitjacket. (JP: pp.121-124; chapter 6)

Ron was convinced that his fellow prisoners considered him the lowest of the low; someone who snitched to the Law; someone who ratted out some of his own to what they considered to be the despised eternal enemy. He was evidently incapable of thinking that his fellow prisoners shunning him was because they simply didn’t want to make life any harder for themselves than it already was; they didn’t want to get involved with someone who was up to his eyeballs in serious gaol-time kind of crime; someone who habitually committed felonious sort of crimes; indeed, someone who had made a profession of violent crime.

The obvious implication being that Ron must have thought that there was an inherent nobility in his nevertheless predatory type of profession; that it was perfectly honorable to engage in his preferred trade, even if it meant–which it did–brutally feeding off of the community like a human-sized leech; someone who–rather than trading in the likes of pots and pans–was a merchant of fear, of terror and intimidation, of promises of pain and suffering if demands were not met. If Ron had had a more sober and realistic understanding of the ways in which he interacted with his social environment, he might have become privy to his fellow prisoners by-and-large being partial to an entirely different view of their shared world from his own: that the gangsterism practiced by the likes of Ron was not at all something to be proud of — indeed, something to be ashamed of. Hence, upon having managed to realise this, Ron could then also have figured out for himself that his fellow inmates, in general, would tilt toward wanting to avoid any association with men of his ilk; even so much as casually socialising with one of those “dangerous gangsters” was deemed something worth dodging.

Facilitated by an obvious failure to accurately put himself into their shoes, Ron perceived the distance the other inmates kept from him as being caused by their seemingly unanimously shared notion that he had become a turncoat — someone who was the worst of the worst, clearly deserving to be ignored (at the very least, that is…) In Ron’s distorted mind, his fellow inmates had now unveiled themselves as dangerous liabilities because they supposedly came to view him as fair game — a prey to be fed upon instead of its very polar opposite: the awe-inspiring fearsome predator he was used to being regarded as in the previous prison and with his people back home in London. Fully compatible with his own classic us-versus-them dualistic (Manichaean) sort of worldview, traitors deserve any beating, any kind of punishment, they could get. In other words, in Ron’s mind warped by an unhealthy flood of noxious paranoia, his fellow inmates had suddenly revealed themselves as enemies thirsting for his blood, and therefore needed to be dealt with as such as soon as possible. Better do it to them, before they do it to me — Ron must have thought to himself. And so by preemptively attacking his newfound enemy, Ron–in his predationoriented and alphamale natured type of mind–did what to him was only most natural, most sound; being an issue of vital importance, since it ostensibly concerned his very survival.

Reflecting on this fateful transfer to the new prison, Ron writes in his autobiography:

It was such a doddle there, just like a holiday camp, yet I hated it. It seemed so far away from home and my friends and family and Reg. It was great for them up in the Smoke, but I wasn’t part of it. I got depressed and withdrawn. I didn’t want to know anything or anybody. Then I heard that my Aunt Rose had died of leukaemia. I went beserk.
That’s when my paranoia started. I began feeling that people were plotting against me. If I saw two people chatting I was convinced they were planning how they were going to get me. So I just had to stop them, hurt them, make them see what they were doing was wrong. (RR: pp.48,9) I kept getting these urges to kill people because I was convinced they were plotting to kill me. (RR: p.51)

That Ron misinterpreted his fellow inmates is perhaps not so surprising if you realise that the gangster probably did not afford himself much occasion to really try to understand other people. Fully consistent with the predatory nature of his character, in which care for other people quickly stood to become an obstacle in the way of exploitation and abuse, he admitted in his autobiography: I loved my family and my friends, but I couldn’t give a toss for other people. (RR; p.27) Would it then be such a grand mystery that he was prone to misread his social environment if he–by implication of this admission of his–refused to spend a lot of time trying to understand what all those other people were like? A basic understanding of what made other people tick would, after all, easily have been beneficial to the man since they–by being all around him all the time–must have interacted with him on a daily basis.

This little anecdote about Ron Kray nicely illustrates the sort of trouble which may arise if and when your perception of other people shoots (far) into the negative for no rationally defensible reason. Change your view of them from humans to demons and, next thing you know, you might just catch yourself wondering how justified you would see yourself being to simply let it all hang out and blast those fucking guns at those evil bloody bastards, or jam those damn daggers up–far up–their diabolical bleeding guts. Send em all down on one way tickets to the depraved bowels of a perpetually-agonising eternally-infernal Hell (or waste em and let God sort em out, whatever; fuck those evil sons of bitches at any rate, just fuck em and fuck em royally).

Ron acted evil toward his fellow prisoners precisely because he thought–indeed, was convinced–that they saw him as evil, someone deserving–begging, yearning–to be punished (sooner rather than later). He must therefore have considered that what in reality was an evil act toward them, was merely an expression of self-defense: save me-self from pending pain and suffering by striking the enemy before they can strike me — the enemy who, mind you, is always itching to attack and dying to exploit weakness. And by striking them (preemptively), let the enemy know just how powerful an enemy they themselves were to have in me, one who didn’t take no shit from no-one, not one bleeding soul. Better think twice before trying to harm me then, eh?

Although the fate of the prisoners he attacked is unknown (at this stage of my investigation at least), if Ron had been armed, it could very well have resulted in a veritable blood-bath — and then heads might just have been ruled in need of rolling in retaliation and–if the times and circumstances had been different, less civilised, more medieval–the spiral of retributory violence could have been set in action, claiming ever more victims as the conflict dragged on.

The anecdote suggests that Ron experienced a corruption of his perception and subsequent interpretation of outside events such that their combined effect on his psyche would form a twisted seat of will. And by having obtained for himself a soul-anchored source of malevolent motivation–by virtue of this paranoid mindset of his, by owning this internal generator of ill will–the prophecy of those fellow inmates becoming his enemy would only have stood to become fulfilling due to Ron’s own deliberate efforts in that direction. Simply put, people tend to turn from potential into actual enemies if you treat them as enemies right from the start. Compared with the story of Emily Rose, who–like him–showed to also have had at least some of the symptoms of paranoid schizophrenia, Ron acted as the confrontational counterpart of an obviously more reservedly-acting Emily. Whereas Emily preferred to flee from her “monsters”, Ron chose to confront and engage his enemies.

In order to understand the behavioral attitude of the gangster, it is necessary to understand Ron’s background — his social milieu — into which he was submerged from the time he was born.

Ron and Reg grew up in a rough and poor part of London, the East End, where street fights seem to have been the order of the day around that time — an apparent mix of pass-time and tradition. Crime was common-place and living in and around their neighbourhood–Bethnal Green–was far from idyllic, euphoric and utopic. But while street was pitted against street, they nevertheless all seem to have had a special enemy in what they called the lawi.e., even though they liked to brawl among their own, they had a common enemy in law enforcement, the police.

Reginald recalls when he was twelve and found himself arrested for something as relatively innocent as shooting a pellet gun out of a moving train. The police treated me like a hardened criminal. That was when I first really began to hate coppers. They went completely over the top and really upset my mum. It wasn’t as if I’d hit anyone or hurt anyone, but still they took me to court. I was lucky. I got off with a warning. (RR: p.14) Not surprisingly, coppers were not among the people young Ron and Reg sought to emulate. Quite the contrary, the choice role-models of the twins were always boxers or villains. Our biggest hero was Ted ‘Kid’ Lewis, who was champion of the world at three separate weights. He grew up just round the corner from us and we worshipped him. (RR: p.16)

The twins had a very special relationship with their mother, Violet. After they were born, conveying her delight at having been blessed with not one but two babies, Mrs. Kray liked to proudly wheel her adorable couple of new blood around the neighbourhood in her cute little carriage. The twins were not first-born, however; that one had come out four years earlier. But this child, Charles, was notably different in character from his younger siblings. Contrasting a placid Charlie, the twins were demanding and brought out all their mother’s protectiveness. They did something more: for the first time they gave Violet’s life a touch of the glamour she had dreamt of when she eloped [nb: Violet ran away from home to marry the future father, Mr. Charles Kray, Sr.]. Nobody else had twins; they were something special, and when she pushed them out in the big double pram they conferred on her the final accolade of cockney motherhood. It was a pretty sight; blonde young mother, gleaming pram and these two beautifully dressed little dolls, making their way past the pubs and stalls of the Bethnal Green Road. People would stop and look, neighbours inquired about them; her two sisters begged for a chance to take them out on their own. In those days everybody loved the twins and wanted a go with them, says Violet. (JP: p.19)

Unfortunately though, Ron and Reg quickly found out that growing up as twins was no walk in the park and they relied on each-other in order to assert themselves in what seems to have been a very trying sort of environment. In addition to each having the other’s back, the mother was always there for them, faithfully showing the kind of love that was not just without condition (=justifiable, indeed, desirable) but also without any expression of substantial criticism (=less justifiable, indeed, questionable). Apparently quoting the mother, Pearson writes, Twins always stand out. Bein’ twins they’re naturally conspicuous. Other kids pick on ’em. And there always seemed to be older children ready to lead the twins into trouble. So it was their fault, not the twins. For Violet knew how vulnerable they were behind their toughness — Ronnie particularly. And she could never bring herself to be hard on them. (JP: p.27)

Commenting on his mother, Reggie writes: She was the kindest woman in the world. She never hit us — not even when we’d been right little bastards. And whenever any of the neighbours or the mother of some kid we’d bashed up complained about us, she’d always say, What, my twins? Never! The thing was, she meant it. She thought the sun shone out of Ron and me. (RR: p.6) Pearson confirms Ron and Reg: Apart from their father, the only member of the family who really understood the twins was their Aunt Rose. Their mother didn’t. The twins were always careful to keep their fights and outside life from her. Even as small boys they would tidy up after a fight: whenever anyone complained about the twins, Violet would invariably defend them. Someone had to. Their father wasn’t there. I’d say to the twins, Well, what happened? And they’d say, Well it wasn’t our fault. If a mother has to choose between her own and someone else’s kids, what choice is there? (JP: p.39)

While initially referring to their local neighbourhood heroes, Ron likewise makes clear that not one of them could hold a candle to the supremely prominent position of the mother: I admired all these men, but the two people I really loved were both women — my mother and my Aunt Rose. My mother was simply a wonderful woman. No man ever had a finer mother. We often had no money and very little food, but she always made sure that Reggie and Charlie and I had something to eat and something half decent to wear. She always seemed to be cooking, washing or mending for us. She never gave in to despair or frustration, even when times were bleak and the future seemed to hold nothing. Even now, as I sit in Broadmoor, wondering how it all went so wrong, I can still remember my mother holding me in her arms when I was little. I can still remember the smell of her soap. She was always spotless, even in all the grime and filth of the East End. She was the most placid woman I ever met. I never had an argument with her, we never answered her back, and I’ve never had a bad word to say about her. I would kill any man who spoke ill of my mother. (RR: p.20)

The love of the twins for their mother went so far that they seem to have modeled their conscience based on what made her smile, versus what made her frown; what earned them blessings, gratitude or otherwise recognition from her was good, and what made her protest or what upset her constituted evil. Good was what brought them praise and love, chiefly from their mother but also from anyone they happened jointly to admire. Evil was the opposite. (JP: p.28) So it was that goodness centred on their mother but was extended to the life and the people she admired. The twins admired them as well. Violet had a strange sense of cockney decency. (JP: p.35)

The extremely attached nature of the twins’ love for their mother–one that regrettably stood to grow pathological with time–could very well have been encouraged and catalysed by the mother herself, regardless of how conscious she was of her efforts. From the moment they were born, Violet was able to indulge–viewed in a down-to-earth sort of pessimistic light–using her new children as trophies with heartbeats, as it were: cute little human vehicles–her two little bunny rabbits–bringing in, it seems, copious amounts of soul-soothing recognition from the neighbourhood for her newly exalted position of cockney motherhood. Steeped in perhaps entirely well-meaning sort of gratitude, inspired by all the good the twins brought into her life as young mother, Violet’s love for her twins took a dubious turn when she basically proceeded to idolise them. Indeed, viewed soberly and skeptically, in a symbolic or metaphoric sense, you might regard her as the high-priest tasked with overseeing a practice of Person-idolatry that was centred around her own two precious little infants — a literal twin-object of Person-idolatry, if you will.

Sadly, however, this sort of initially innocuous sort of worship was not just confined to the cradle stage of development. When Ron and Reg got older and at an early age inevitably got caught up in the rough and violent social habitat of London’s East End, as already pointed out, Violet always chose the side of her own children whenever people came knocking on the door to complain. For Violet, Reg and Ron essentially could do no wrong and, if it only helped to clear them of wrongdoing, she would have no qualms to pretend as though her twins could not possibly have been the culprits of whatever it happened to be they were accused of.

The twins’ aversion for the police was nurtured into being at already an early age. Mr. Kray, the man of the house, was a draft dodger. Staunchly refusing to get entangled in the ugly and rapidly expanding confragration which went on to become known as World War II, rather than putting his neck (and limbs) on the line fighting for His Majesty’s forces in foreign places, Kray Sr. preferred to flee from the intrusive clutches of the government hungry for military-aged able-bodied male subjects. As a result of his choice to seek refuge in a perpetual flight from a nevertheless omnipresent local danger–which the government is, in such a case–the father could afford to stay at their home at Vallance Road only for ridiculously small intervals of time.

Having a father on the run for the draft-dodger-hunting department of the police meant that the rest of the family had to cover for him using deception. Ron recalls, When war was declared and my father went on the trot from the army we were only six, but on the occasions when he did come round to Vallance Road he told us that if the police came looking for him we were to tell them that he had left home, that he wasn’t living with our mother any more. And he used to send us round the corner to the tobacconist to buy a newspaper, just to see if there were any coppers hanging around. (RR: pp.21,22) As a consequence of taking on the continuous task of having to protect the father cost what may, the twins could hardly have helped learning how to be dishonest–and sell it convincingly also–from an early age. Through circumstances well beyond their control, Ron and Reg were therefore put into excellent positions to grow up into skillful deceivers and actors.

With the aim of finding some measure of peace for subjecting them to calculated and deliberate dishonesty, it helps your ego to see your victims of deception as only being worthy and deserving of your attempts to draw them away from perfect truth, away from perfect mental sanity — which is what lying, and engaging in deception in general, serves to do to all those souls exposed to it (including, by necessity, the liars themselves!). Hence, together with honing skills of deception, the children were also subject to–what they in all likelihood must have experienced was–the rather irresistibly attractive temptation to instill into their beings a sincere gut-level sort of hatred for the objects of their kindling faculty of deception; objects that (it should not be forgotten) were all around them all the time and–if such was not annoying enough–also had the undying tendency to bother them all the time, whether they happened to be at home sipping tea with mum, or roughhousing with other kids in the street. Ron remembers an occasion when their dad was home momentarily, an undisclosed number of members from the loathsome camp of the despised enemy came knocking on the door, and the father quickly hid beneath the kitchen table, hidden by the tablecloth, while Reg and I were having our tea. He stayed there while a copper questioned us about our dad. We were both frightened but we gave nothing away. That was the first — and last — time a copper ever frightened me. Another time he was hiding in a cupboard and as a policeman was going to open the door I shouted out, You don’t think my dad would hide in there, do you? The copper shrugged his shoulders and went to look somewhere else. (RR; p.22) In no uncertain terms, Ron offers, I hated coppers ever since I was a nipper and they used to come round to our house looking for our dad. (RR; p.27) Our mother tried to bring us up properly, but with a background like that it was impossible for us to have any respect for the law. It was always a case of them or us. Times were dreadful really, but I found the war ever so exciting. I loved the sound of the bombs and all the noise. (RR; p.22)

Reg and Ron basically went on to grow up into two-faced individuals: explosive little “devils” dressed in sharp suits when, surrounded by members of their firm, going full steam trying to excel in their gangster roles; versus homely and considerate sort of “angels” when in the presence of mommy dearest (or elderly people, in general) — the aspiring young gentlemen, whom their mother no doubt liked them to be, diligently–feverishly and passionately–working toward the final destination in life that meant anything to them: to finally be able to live the =*good life*=, the exact opposite of a life of poverty and want, the sort of life they had (to endure) when they were little and which they seem to have hated with (a passion on top of) a vengeance.

Contrasting the relatively tranquil and serene world of the mother and her cozy East End peers, one in which they were quite capable of behaving in ways approved by Mrs. Kray, there was another sort of world beckoning the twins she knew nothing of — or wanted to know nothing of. It was opposed to the world they respected and was exciting for that very reason. It was brutal and secret, and they first discovered it as they fought and planned their wars across the wastes of Bethnal Green. There was always someone threatening them, someone to be ‘done’. The only rules here were the rules of war, and just as the twins were so much kinder and more considerate than most boys in the respectable world, so they were wickeder here. (JP: p.36)

With the mother loving them to death, Ron and Reg–in perfectly symmetrical reciprocity–thought the world of Violet, i.e. a rather exquisite and heavenly sort of world at that. To them, she was quite simply the best mum any couple of lads could have, someone who–in their returning worship–herself likewise supposedly couldn’t do wrong. In a most sober and dispassionate analysis, the mother seems to have used the twins as trophy children to gain relatively exceptional motherhood recognition from the neighbourhood; from the moment of birth already promising a future of local glamour and access to the much coveted, much revered =*good life*=. In grateful return, the two bunny rabits rather unreservedly and reflexively idolised the mother by sparing no effort to make her feel as if she–indeed–was the best and brightest shining mother in the world; declared, for all practical purposes, holy and beyond reproach — as if being a literal true-blue god-mother. In other words, by the twins categorically refusing to express or tolerate any sort of criticism for the mother and vice versa, the twins answered their own idolisation by the mother perfectly in kind; i.e., the mother and her twins together were caught up in a shared practice of mutual Person-idolatry: the mother idolised the twins and the twins dutifully idolised their mother in seamless (quid-pro-quo) reciprocity.

Unfortunately, as any practice of idolatry does, also this nevertheless deceptively seductive (ego-stroking) practice of triple-object Person-idolatry did come with a toll. In order for the mother to be able to hold on to her cherished artificially-exalted mental image-impressions of her two precious sons, she had to rather consistently assume an air of willful ignorance with respect to her little darlings their–what she otherwise could have noticed were–increasingly dubious, if not to say, outrightly shady, kind of wheelings and dealings. When the twins were eighteen and a distance was growing between them and their brother Charles, who had since given up attempts to instill discipline into his headstrong younger brothers through boxing classes, Violet and the twins were now adopting the rationalizations which would permit their love to continue unimpeded over the years ahead. ‘I used to worry about the twins, of course. I wasn’t their mother for nothing. But if they was involved in any trouble, I didn’t want to know. It only upset me. And as I knew that both of them was good boys at heart, I knew the things people said about them couldn’t be true anyhow. I was there one night when Ronnie came back from the police station when they’d beaten him up. An’ I was there another time when a copper told Reggie that if there was any more trouble he’d bash his face in. A mother remembers things like that. And if you have to choose between your boys and the police, what choice is that, especially if they’re all you’ve got?’ (JP: pp.46,47)

Irrespective of how conscious she actually was of her own existential predicament, the mother had to force herself–one way or another–to remain oblivious of the less than squeaky clean moral nature of the activities of her twins; or else, if she would afford herself the privilege of being a little bit “nosy”, her wonderful mental bubbles of them might risk bursting. Indeed, if sheheaven forbid–would admit to herself the Bold and Butt-Naked Truth, to wit: the actuality of her two darling twins keeping the neighborhood in a grip of terror and using wantonly predatory means (e.g., protection racketeering and fraud) to dish out a more than decent living not just for themselves but for the entire firm, if shein other words–would admit the veracity of the handsomely-growing offensively-criminal curriculum vitae of her two sons, she would then jeopardise the rosy view she had of herself as (superficially) rightful claimant to the public esteem tied to her own name, the names of the twins and the name of the family — beautiful beautifying perks which may be regarded as the payoff for her continued and persistent practice of self-hypnosis aiming to sustain the self-delusion lying at the heart of the system of idolatry overseen by her. For the purpose of keeping at bay the regardless painfully accurate and truthful awareness surrounding her two favorite children, the mother basically had to force herself to adopt a perpetual see-no-evil-hear-no-evil sort of attitude, one which unfortunately could hardly avoid stunting the development of her own psyche. Mrs. Kray evidently opted to never ask too many questions around the house; never openly wonder where the money for all those smart suits came from; indeed, where all the money financing all that celebrity-level glitter and glamour revolving around the Kray family came from. In effect, Violet forced herself to permanently wear invisible blinders just so she could keep fooling herself into believing that she was the proud and esteemed mother of two wonderful and very special kind of children. But by drastically winding down her capacity to register and subsequently intelligently interpret (read) her social environment, especially that particular portion of it which encompassed the dubious hustle and bustle of her darling twins, the mother ended up in highly infertile ground with respect to the cultivation of (social) intelligence, since such is predicated on having a faculty of progressively keen and apt perception.

As long as Reg, Ron and their mother were in each-other’s company, they could believe in the realness of the nonetheless delusionary nature of the mental image-impressions they had about themselves and each-other. In principle, as long as they lived together, they could ensure the stability of their shared system of reciprocal idolatry: the sons idolised the mother and the mother idolised the sons in return, all in seeming harmony. But then the inevitable happened when Reg and Ron found themselves arrested and–upon landing in goal, looking to do some serious time–it was especially Ron who began to feel the deprivation of the thick and warm cloak he must have been used to wearing, one that rather than having been made of real wool should instead be thought of as proverbially woven of luxurious maternal comfort and calming reassurance. And there was Reggie as well of course. His twin brother had likewise been an unwavering rock of support and when together as a team they could keep afloat the also substantial practice of mutual Person-idolatry which they maintained between them, with their own two selves being the objects of worship. Even though they apparently did fight a lot among themselves and they rivaled openly for the mother’s affection, at the end of the day, they nonetheless never turned their backs on each-other and always supported each-other up regardless of the prevailing circumstances. When they were separated, however, with both going to different gaols, this all changed. Suddenly they were no longer able to draw the rich kind of support which their system of mutual idolatry–lying at the heart of the Kray saga–had always faithfully provided to them up until that point in time. In regards to this brutal governmentally-induced severance from a soothing (egosyntonic) artificially-elevated yet emphatically-counterfeit version of reality, Reggie–however–seems to have been able to cope better than a Ron giving the distinct impression of suffering the tragedy of slowly sliding off into an abyss of insanity.

In summary, in order to keep afloat the system of mutual Person-idolatry involving three objects and three principal practitioners which she brought into being and sustained, the great sacrifice the mother allowed herself to make was that she had to keep herself DUMB; Violet sacrificed her potential to cultivate social intelligence. As for Ron and Reg, in large part due to having an unconditionally uncritical and incessantly doting mother, effectively deprived of what could have been a functional behavioral (trial-and-)error-correcting system mediated by maternal critical feedback, the great sacrifice for them was therefore that they were unable to grow and develop into responsible persons, culminating in what would then have been genuine moral adulthood. It seems that their moral development came relatively late in life. After having been given rather stiff sentences for some of the crimes they committed, Ron and Reg seem to mainly have come of moral age while locked away (what turned out to be) for good, stripped–for the remainder of their lives–from the otherwise earned right to participate in normal human society.

In 1995, Ron died in prison of a heart attack; Reg died from cancer in 2000 and was allowed to only live the final six weeks or so of his life in the outside world.

If Ron, like Emily, was possessed by demons — when it comes to the decidedly nefarious goal of manipulating his consciousness such that he would be receptive to what to the sane mind would be the fanciful and harmful notion that the people around him formed an enemy only begging to be taken care of — it’s clear that the efforts of those little psyche-sabotaging (mind-fucking) devils were more successful than their colleagues inside of Emily had been — the poor girl who, by running away from her “monsters”, nevertheless was able to enjoy the relative fortune of a karmically far less costly way of coping with the assaults on her psyche than a Ron dealing with his by going berserk on his fellow inmates. Note, however, that the admittedly admirably strong-willed gangster himself might have stumbled–quite possibly, casually–on the idea that, in principle, there could have been demonic spirits housed (or, squatting) within him when he, according to Pearson, seems to at one point have wondered: Perhaps there was someone else inside him forcing him to do things he never knew.

Could what Ron did to his fellow inmates be an illustration of perhaps a main modus operandus of demons? Could it be that one of the prime objectives for demons is to trick their human hosts into believing that certain other people outside of and around the hosts were to form a (clear and present) danger of some kind? — a menace to be reckoned with; an enemy deserving to be loathed, evaded, or precisely confronted, challenged and–if given half a chance–preferably destroyed altogether? Moreover, could it be that demons try (very hard) to make the person they happen to possess believe that all sources of evil lie perfectly outside of the host themselves? — that, by direct implication, the host themselves would appear to be entirely free from any internally-present sources of evil?

If demons happen to be at war with humanity, such devious sort of core strategy would easily be meritorious for it has stellar potential to be a formidable weapon in the quest to defeat and *conquer* humanity. By driving ever more wedges in between the people of the world, by fomenting ever more *division* between individual people as well as all manner of groups of people . . . before long, the world will have degenerated into a vicious–Friends versus Foes, Us versus Them–kind of a cold and cut-throat ever more savage sort of a devilish dog-eat-dog dystopia.


Ron and Reg, as young boxing lads, posing with a proudly beaming mum.


Person-idolatry and Sadism in the movie Colonia (2015)

Original publication:

Directed by Florian Gallenberger, starring Daniel BrühlMichael Nyqvist and Emma Watson, the illuminating movie Colonia (2015)–The Colony–highlights first of all the woes of Person-idolatry, centered – in this case– around a (religiously-inspired) cult-leader; and secondly, the film illustrates the remarkable phenomenon of people who happen to be possessed by demons, to–rather than acknowledging their own state of possession–go and *project* their spiritual predicament on other people and furthermore justify their proceeding evil actions against those ‘possessed’ people as being nothing more than good – essential even – necessary actions only serving to make sure all of that ultimate heavenly glory prevails over all those wicked works of evil.

Coloniaor Colonia Dignidad in full–is, as the name suggest, a colony of some kind; but not any old regular sort of colony (certainly not a Colony of Dignity as its name euphemistically implies). Set against the backdrop of Pinochet’s 1973 military coup d’etat of the Chilean government ran by the socialist president Allende, on the surface it concerns a post-WWII Germanic cult-like commune having set up shop in a compound located on a remote and fenced-off stretch of land somewhere in the middle of Chile’s nowhere. The leader would be a German lay preacher called Paul Schäfer (Michael Nyqvist); someone I hesitate to call charismatic and yet what is lacking in that department, is well compensated by a certain other dominant albeit dubious leadership trait. Answering to the suggestive (if pretentious) name of “Pius” for his followers, claiming that God would be seeing as well as talking through him and even going full-on Messianic when asserting – during one of his sermons – to be the resurrection and the life, it quickly becomes clear that the leader seeks to maintain absolute authority over his meek and servile flock; and is not particularly averse of using sadistic means to see to it that – indeed – his will, however perverse, gets to be fulfilled, at all times.

By becoming the victim of abduction, through tragic misadventure, one of the protagonists–Daniel (Daniel Brühl)–ends up against his will in the colony — where he would also become the victim of torture, a casualty of the dictatorial new regime.1 Upon finding out what happened to Daniel, the other protagonist–Lena (Emma Watson)–decides to join up with the cult voluntarily, all for the apparent purpose to–like the rest of the commune–slavishly submit to Pius, and share in his worshipful glory;2 yet having as secret real aim to reunite with Daniel, who also happens to be her lover.

We jump into the story when one ominous night the stoic and authoritarian female supervisor by the name of Gisela (Richenda Carey), rushes into the dormitory of the girls. In perfectly-fitting commanding voice, barren of any hint of sympathy for sleeping ones, the older woman brusquely orders a girl named Dorothea (Jeanne Werner) to right away come along with; she orders the remaining girls to resume sleeping. Immediately after a loudly protesting Doro had been virtually dragged out by a nevertheless insistent and imperturbable Gisela, as soon as the door of their room slams shut (or thereabouts), unlike the rest of the girls seemingly held down in either the debilitating grip of fearful apathy or plain old sleep-drunkenness, a perspicacious and rebellious Lena–determined to find out what the hell is going on–gets up silently, sneaks out of the dormitory and–while drawn to the conspicuously audible sound of a youth singing–runs up to one of the uncurtained windows of the nearby building releasing said singing sound into the surrounding atmosphere, crickety and fragile.

It turns out that the men–quite possibly all of them–have gathered inside; all of the women, however, have been excluded . . . with one exception. Doro, full of visible fright, is sitting sullenly and apprehensively on a small table in front of and facing the crowd of seated men — who seem to already be excited by the luscious anticipation of participation in a peculiar pending form of festive activity. It deserves mention that Doro recently told Lena that she’s planning to get married soon with someone she met in the commune a few years ago.

Also facing the crowd, standing next to Doro, is the source of the enchanting voice: a small boy singing with angelic abandon. At some point, Pius gets up, walks over to the boy, goes to stand right behind him and through one swift and decisive gesture with his hands suddenly and unceremoniously makes clear to the child that as of that moment his services are no longer required. He then briefly raises an arm, casually points into the broad direction of the crowd, and dismisses the perfectly-compliant little lad by softly saying, Go.

The autocratic leader now demonstrably and theatrically starts sniffing the air as if detecting the sort of smell that not only should not be there, it moreover is not to be tolerated (any second longer, to make it sound even more dramatic). He turns his full attention to the one girl sitting in crouched position on the table for all men to see (and selfishly savor).

Paul Schäfer: (normal voice yet condemnatorily) No. It still stinks.
Crowd of men: (eager to affirm) Yes.
Pius starts walking around, as if making a point, the rising pitch in his voice betraying rising animation within.
Paul Schäfer: Not even this divine music can drive the devil out.
Crowd of men: No.
Paul Schäfer: I still smell the harlot; rotten to the core.
Crowd of men: Yes.
Paul Schäfer: It is not your fault, woman. But you have Satan inside of you.
Pius wraps an arm around the frightened girl, trying to cozy up; or, at least, [histrionically] trying to give the appearancewith a touch of mockery–to his all-male audience that he so does. The entire time, while quite possibly being busy spending about all of his focus on playing his part of cynical interrogator to {authentic-enough and therefore credible-enough}-degree, the leader evidently remains utterly impervious to the distress oozing from the wide-eyed, audibly shivering and sniffling girl.
Paul Schäfer: (full of overt condescension; looks away from her into the audience, with a devilish smile) So you want to marry, eh?
Failing the entire time to even make eye-contact with her tormentor, Doro is lost in another world, the scary sort of world you’d rather not want to be in.
There’s no compassion coming from Pius, and the crowd is no different as they obsequiously suck up to their bully for a leader by bursting out in ridiculing laughter and thereby directly encourage Pius to continue his reckless adventure into the eerie realms of sadism.
Paul Schäfer: Who would want to marry you, you ugly stinking cunt?

More laughter from the crowd of men, who all (apart from presumably Daniel) are remarkably blind to the painful compassion-begging reality of a visibly shaken and suffering woman sitting and trembling right in front of their insentient noses; as if they all were under the influence of some drugged-up kind of somnambulatory spell–gripped by a strange form of conscience-overriding stupor-like mass-hypnosis–acting as if they with heart and soul have bought into the delusion, egosyntonic in a predatory way, that the one woman in their presence were to only deserve the psychically tortuous punishment of open humiliation and ridicule to which she has been subjected. The obvious implication being that, in their disturbed minds, the woman would not be a victim at all but rather a transgressor, indeed, a victimizer, a sure source of spite and spleen; someone who would be so evil that any evil inflicted upon her would pale in comparison and for that reason alone might be excused; someone only deserving, and squarely so, of what’s coming to her.

As such, they would be strongly inclined to perceive and interpret the besieged girl NOT as someone who would be having entirely justified and rather extreme fear as to what horrible fate may await her while being at the malevolent mercy of a menacing mob of mad men made even more mad by a most mad and malignant master man; but RATHER, the men would see her and read her state of suffering as being nothing more than rock-solid proof of someone ‘clearly’ betraying to have personal guilt for having committed some, by implication, atrocious kind of offense; that she, as a result of perpetrating such unspeakably grave transgression, had only assumed a correspondingly-fitting pathetic countenance (plagued by a little bit of fear for punishment, that’s all); ‘obviously’ nothing more than the direct consequence of having an underlying mental state which–in big, bold all-capital letters–had plastered, GUILTY AS CHARGED, all over it — indicating the sort of committed sin which only begsyearnspleads to be redeemed (using some good-old-fashioned medieval means). That’s it, case closed, end of story.

Paul Schäfer: (commanding) I cannot hear you, speak up woman.
Doro’s too petrified to speak, only gibberish stutters out.
Paul Schäfer: (cunning) I know who. (pauses; briefly studies the crowd; declares, with a touch of sneer) Diete, right?
Suddenly Diete (Johannes Allmayer)–who until now had been sitting inconspicuously somewhere to the back–rises to his feet, his face tense with fear and shame — perhaps also betraying an origin in conscience-wringing guilt, whether he knows it deep down inside or not.
Dorothea: (finally managing) Die- Diete.
Paul Schäfer: (perfectly calm) Diete, Diete, Diete. What do you say to the proposal from this ugly stinking cow?
More sardonic laughter coming from the crowd of men. Pius waits for Diete to gather the nerve to respond.
Paul Schäfer: Well?
Diete: (Shame 1, Love 0) It stinks.

The bond Diete is suggested to have with Pius, and – by extension – with everyman else present too since they unanimously back up their leader, evidently is stronger than the bond he is suggested to have with his very own fiancee (whom he, by the way, truth be told, according to Doro, has met only once before). This example goes to show the raw extent of power which Pius commands over his people. Diete seems so terrified of being shamed by Pius (and gang) if he were to defend Doro by openly acknowledging his pending matrimonial bond with her (and as such openly grant her worthiness and status among the men), that he would rather betray his love for her – minimize and trivialize it – by basically affirming (the palpably-evident delusion) that she indeed must be the source of trouble, and a grave one at that, only dying to be taken care of, as Pius and his faithful all-male echochamber were alleging all along (and loudly so).

But this of course is absurdly untenable and unjust a situation. The level of respect which Pius has for Diete and Doro shows, in bright and lively colors, when he casually delegitimizes and rebukes their relationship in its entirety. It’s not worth a damn to him, as he has no real respect for either one of the love birds. And yet, in spite of clearly not being able to lay claim to a loving and mutually respectful relationship with his leader, Diete does show to yield–by so easily squandering his love for Doro–to what, in practice, is a superseding and stronger type of bonding with Pius (& Co.); one that nevertheless cannot be based on love, but chiefly fear: fear for suffering alienation and eventual rejection (from the group), for shame (in front of the men), for landing all-in-all into ‘unmanageably’ deep waters (requiring some, heaven forbid, novel and exploratory feats of personal independence and the ‘unbearably’ heavy yoke of personal responsibility that has to be heaved and towed with it).

Ever more intoxicated by sadistic amusement, the crowd of menshowing remarkable consistency in the rigorous uniformity of their responses–break out in laughter once more and thereby once again unambiguously and wholeheartedly show to condone the heedless extravaganza of their leader into the nefarious domain of extracting enjoyment at the painfully-serious expense of someone who happens to not be any random person grabbed from the streets (although that would still be bad of course) but rather someone belonging to their very own group (for crying out loud!).3 Such alarming fact alone should have given arresting food for thought–if not to say, paramount concern–to anyone present who, at the same time, would be living in full truth, having a fully-activated empathic connection with the people around them, and who therefore would be fully aware of what shamelessly shady kind of theater they not just find themselves in, but are also actual part of, in a stimulating way even!4

Paul Schäfer: That’s right. That’s right, Diete. It stinks. Why don’t you come up here and relieve your lover of her stench. Those are the demons in her that you smell. (louder) That we must drive out!
Crowd of men: (loud) Yes!
Paul Schäfer: So we can breathe again.
Crowd of men: (louder) Yes!!
Paul Schäfer: We must drive it out.
Crowd of men: (even louder) Yes!!!
Paul Schäfer: So we’re gonna breathe again.

Pius suggests that Doro–owing to the alleged unpleasant odor supposedly lavishly emitting from her asserted demonically-infested body5–would be the cause for everyman present to have difficulty obtaining enough revitalizing fresh air; difficulty gaining the soothing, calming and relieving satisfaction which normal respiration would bring, if only there were not such an insufferably foul stench seemingly hanging in the air right now. In other words, Pius posits among all present souls that the root-cause for any feelings of (allegedly foul-odor-induced) anxiety they seem to be experiencing at the moment is the one very girl sitting right in front of them (in a full-blown yet completely unregistered state of shock, mind you). Pius thus declares Doro to be the singular cause of their collective anxiety (which may, in all fairness, also very well include conscientiously-based bell-ringing sort of anxiety brought about by actively taking part in [rapidly] escalating a sadistic group-effort).

And the crowd reflexively take Pius‘ sermonizing of suspicious validity nevertheless in like heavenly wine, implying to fail to–even on superficial level–reflect critically on the moral nature as to what their leader has them believe; as if his words were nothing but samples of the most holy and elevated sort of gospel ever to have graced this rocky planet of ours with recital; as if it were all spoken by an infallible, irreproachable and utterly flawless God-like being (((who so nobly, selflessly and graciously had accepted the pure, stainless and inerrant ruling of Divine Providence to become the leader of the commune way back when it had all started; sent straight down from Heaven by God himself as if being some special sort of spiritual envoy having divinely commissioned authority to rule over all of those silly and moreover sinful mortals down there in the commune, whom all were to only be positively lost, already standing squarely with one foot in eternal damnation, without his Messianic sort of superior kind of guidance))).

In other words, Pius not only provides his men and himself with – at first glance, at best – a remotely plausible and, at any rate, what to them must be an egosyntonically irresistibly-attractive explanation as to why they would be suffering from perhaps not entirely pleasant nervous excitement right that very minute, but he also provides themselves with a purportedly fail-safe way to relieve their agitated selves from their anxious predicament. The peculiar dynamism between Pius and his followers thus strongly suggests that the leader has managed to program, or brainwash, his followers to buy into the fanciful and moreover outrightly dangerous notion that there were to be found genuine relief(carrying a loudly-colored sure heavenly stamp of approval)in the act of inflicting (arbitrary) violence upon Doro. That is, even though they – in actuality – will be carrying out a blatant exercise of physical sadism, in their perverted minds they were to only be doing noble work, since – after all – they would only be working to drive out the internally-present “evil” sources of her and – by extension – everyone else’s (anxiety-ridden)(atmospheric) malaise. So that afterwards, they may, once again, be able to indulge the serenely sedative sort of ambiance of wonderfully revitalizing fresh air they – by implication — happen to be so used to, and or be so entitled to, as it would have such attractive potential to make them feel so at ease ((getting to have blissfully settling-down sort of feelings of relief; as if having had a really luxurious and satisfying sort of meal, well-lubricated with exquisite sorts of alcoholic beverages of course, coming only with a regal-caliber sort of dessert, even coming complete with a big fat after-dinner cigar if that’s your thing — or big fat joint, if that does it for you)).

It should be obvious by now that the men have fused and aligned their will with that of their leader, perfectly matching and consistently so. Since their leader, by being the bully he clearly is, deserves (by any objective standard) to be labeled the aggressor, the men–by identifying not (one teeny-weeny bit!) with the victim but precisely (wholeheartedly and unreservedly) with the aggressor–by definition, may be thought of as being locked down in a state of trauma bonding with Pius. In other words, the men–while being perpetually and uncritically spell-bound by (in drooling awe of) their nonetheless openly abusive leader–have fallen victim to a Stockholm Syndrome kind of pathological attachment to Pius. By blindly – in full surrender – worshiping their leader, the men have rendered themselves incapable of interpreting the immoral actions of their leader (against Doro, in this case) as indeed immoral (God Almighty–FAPP, AKA Pius–can’t possibly be immoral; simply too perfect and pure in being to be anywhere near acting out in wantonly evil ways). Their conscience effectively must have been decommissioned with respect to Doro and, in general, with anyone designated sinful or evil by Pius (who were to then immediately qualify for the ne’er-getting-boring evergreen {purification of the soiled soul by way of sin-redeeming violence}-procedure). Instead, as long as they selfishly savor the seductively thrilling thrall of participating in the predatory events overseen by their terroristic leader, in order for them to manage preventing their egos from spiraling down in overwhelming inner-conflicting turmoil (and risk going completely mad), they will have to be able to rationalize away any abuse that Pius were to direct visiting upon whatever victim of his choosing — one whom, in their mesmeric myopic eyes, would therefore not be considered as such, but rather an offender of some kind, someone who would only deserve their punishment, however severe deemed necessary.

So there you have your victim-blaming license of (arbitrarily) sadistic conduct; heavenly sanctioned of course. . . because Pius is only doing God’s work, as God would only want to see the members of his beloved creation – all of them – be delivered from all those heinous (and correspondingly smelly) demons . . . as soon as possible and by any means necessary (. . . supposedly).

Paul Schäfer: (to Diete) Are you just gonna stand there like a fool; that doesn’t help her, come on. What we do, we do with love!
Crowd of men: (loud) Yes.
Paul Schäfer: (to his audience) What we do, we do with love.
Crowd of men: (louder) Yes!!
In other words, the punishment they are about to unleash on Doro would be based only on pure goodness; inflicting actually quite dangerous psychophysical shocks is going to only be in her best interest, coming solely from well-meaning men, animated purely by good-old fashioned healing love . . . all for the, in principle, noble purpose of helping that poor girl getting rid of all those nasty life-quelling little devils.
While Doro is looking at her fiance in puzzlement and fear, Diete nevertheless musters to hit her right in the face with his stretched hand.
Crowd of men: (loud) Yes!
Invariably followed by a loud and unanimously encouraging Yes! from the crowd, Diete slaps Doro in the face a few times more until he finally breaks down in tears — the apparent victim of overwhelming conflicting feelings, partially self-induced and steeped in guilt no doubt (whether he’s able and willing to acknowledge it or not).
Paul Schäfer: (puts a ‘consoling’ arm around a shattered Diete) Diete, Diete, Diete. The whore has enslaved you.
Crowd of men: (loud) Yes!
Paul Schäfer: (accusingly points to Doro) That’s the work of the devil!
Crowd of men: (loud) Yes!

Pius acts as if he’s under the impression (odd, but not surprising anymore by now) that, instead of being Diete’s own doing, it was Doro who somehow had succeeded to halt his punishment of her; as if the sly witch she is suggested to be had beforehand succeeded to enslave her fiance’s mind and through deploying some suggested (yet unverified) occultic witch-craft sort of mind control gimmick had magickally managed to make the other stop what Pius seems to believe, and vehemently so, only constitutes justified treatment. Pius thus holds Doro responsible for supposedly messing with the head (and heart) of what he solemnly would believe is but a completely vindicated and authorized punisher (i.e., a supposed certain agent of deliverance).

Pius called Doro a harlot earlier and now confirmed it by calling her a whore. There seems a pattern here. Indeed, I think it’s safe to say that this constitutes the very charge which Pius has all but spelled out explicitly: Doro would be a corrupter of men, someone who uses her genitalia as devices of attraction to seduce men, only to milk them dry and leave them with drained, hollow and bankrupt souls (which would make her at once lowly and despicable, easily bordering on the unforgivable, if not already going beyond it, . . . royally). In Pius‘ mind, Doro would be looking to not just tease and flirt with Diete, but unbridledly spell-bind the guy, indeed, unabashedly snare him hook, line and sinker; and then, of course, the unavoidable–lots of problems–would happen. Whatever Pius his precise objections would be, I guesstimate him to be damned if he’ll allow all of this defiling and desecrating disorderall of this sinful mayhem – to occur on his premises; not on his watch (no sirree!).

As for the men: by blindly and loudly backing up their leader–as if carefree yet sharp-toothed littlekidsset loose in a bloodycandy store‘–the implicitly fawning crowd of men may be interpreted as one big sanctioning amplifier of sadistically manifesting will: <who> not only all-too-eagerly buy into Pius‘ sanctimonious escapade (with a bloody twist) taking place–on an abstract, imagined level–in his heedlessly self-elevating, fantastical and emphatically artificially sweet (saccharine) version of a nonetheless stark, dark and – most of all – crimson-red kind of reality; but <the group of men>–effectively acting as a perfectly-obedient well-disciplined military unitalso actively promote the progression of their leader’s sadistic outbursts by way of their consistent and uniform chants of endorsement.
Enjoying the backing of a small army of loud and relexively-supportive sycophants, Pius has set his mind on acting upon what he must passionately believe is a de-facto holy declaration, a divine decree stipulating that Doro would only be perfectly worthy of her purifying punishment and that–as an inescapable consequence–any obstructive effort trying to prevent her from getting what they all are convinced is perfectly hers to receive, is seen–by Pius and servile disciples alike–as unjust in itself (in fact, the very work of the devil) and therefore, without a shred of doubt, worthy of immediate and absolute overruling and censoring. They are supposedly trying to drive the devil out (from this sly witch coming equipped with a dangerous and treacherous pussy-trap), which – in principle – is something good, and automatically deem as evil (not their own actions at all! but rather) any intervening effort seeking to sabotage what they imply to sacredly believe is only God’s noble work manifesting on their earthly plane of existence, right in their midst, and right this very minute.

Note also that Pius is projecting the trait of seeking to enslave another person (i.e., control their heart and mind), on Doro. After all, being the unambiguously dictatorial cult-leader that he is, Pius may be expected to very much rely on having his people being dependent on him, especially his mind; more (industrial-strength-sort-of) dependency, in fact, means better (industrial-strength-sort-of) obedience and thus better (industrial-strength-sort-of) control [[[gimme, gimme, gimme more of that yummy (industrial-strength-sort-of) *!power!*]]]. Pius therefore likely relies on a host of mind control techniques, all with–what to him would be nothing more than–the perfectly divine and purely noble aim of ensuring that his flock also remains his flock (of bleating bloody sheep)using blinding spell-binding gimmicks from his Machiavellian bag of tricks to keep having them in sweetly servile modes of existence: sadistically malleable men versus masochistically malleable women. And so, evidently unwilling to acknowledge (or plainly incapable of acknowledging) what he himself was doing–as mandatory matter of habit and routine–to each and everyone person walking around in the commune, the man, the master hypnotizer,6 in an impenetrable and blinding haze of suffocatingly-thick hypocrisy, manages to pretend and allege that it would be (not himself at all! but only) Doro who had stooped to the, by inference, so incredibly very wicked practice of *!enslaving minds!* . . . (yes, that’s right, you read *!that!* right!)

Paul Schäfer: (passionately points to Doro; loud) That is the work of the devil!! (invitingly gestures to his audience) Why don’t you come up here and help her.

The rabid wild-eyed mob of men keenly leap to their feet, rush over to a by now loudly and frantically screaming Doro; instantly pin a perplexed, appalled and aghast victim–already blood-nosed–right down on her little table slash sacrificial altar, and proceed to – mind youpunch her dead-smack in the face. All the while Pius can be seen standing a mere few feet away, gripping with both hands–if you can believe it–the face of poor Diete, contorted in agony, just to make sure (the loving and caring father-figure he would be) that the broken and weeping fiance gets to have a first-class front-row viewing spot to an unfolding kind of scene, starring his very own would-be wife, that might just as well have been taken straight out of a horror movie.

Fortunately for the girl, and–in a karmic sense–fortunately for every single one of those demented men involved, after landing a few sure fists in the face of their defenseless victim (effectively acting as their choice sacrificial sin-absorbing scapegoat), one of the men suddenly notices the silhouette of a shocked and alarmed Lena peering through the window, thus–as it happens–signaling the end of their frightening excursion into an expression of sadism that had graduated from an already traumatic psychic form to an especially-worrisome arbitrarily-hazardous physical counterpart.

Facilitated by Lena’s accidentally-detected presence, Doro is prevented from getting lynched on the spot, even though instead would just the same still end up in hospital for wounds sustained — courtesy of an irate crowd fanatically whipped up into a bloody frenzy by a leader high as hell on sadistic grandiosity of a religious bent.7

As crazy and demented this macabre sort of pseudo-Christian kind of ritual may seem, this strange type of activity continues in actuality at certain places in the world, to this day. In India, for example, women recently lined up to be beaten by what seems like local a witch-doctor engaged in a dubious exercise of sadistic superstition, one that is rather similar to the one displayed in the movie.

Women and young girls queued up to receive therapeutic lashings during an annual Hindu festival held in southern India. The extreme religious ceremony is said to cure illnesses and exorcise evil spirits.

Ruptly footage shows women kneeling down in a “lashing ground” and having their backs and hands whipped by priests, as part of ‘Vijayadasami’ festivities held in the village of Bavithram Vellalapatti. The participants are seen bowing as they take turns receiving blows from the priests, who are dressed in ceremonial garb. Some are seen flinching as they brace for another lashing.

The ritual is supposed to rid women and girls of evil spirits, as well as heal ailments. According to tradition, if a woman doesn’t feel pain, it means she has fallen victim to dark forces.

“When the priest lashes the women they won’t feel any pain if they are possessed by evil spirits. Otherwise, it will be painful. The evil spirits after several lashes will run away from the woman’s body,” a local resident told Ruptly.

The late psychiatrist R.D. Laing wrote that Attempts to wake before our time are often punished, especially by those who love us most. Because they, bless them, are asleep. They think anyone who wakes up, or who, still asleep, realizes that what is taken to be real is a ‘dream’ is going crazy. Suppose for argument’s sake, just a little Gedanken-experiment, that in the crowd of men there had been someone who had refused to join in the reckless goose-stepping gig of the hour: a rapidly aggravating predatory group-effort to the cost of one woman. Suppose that this person, a male immersed in a pool of like-minded fellow males, through whatever internal cause and or via whatever external trigger, had begun to realize what kind of a horrible and horrific freak-show he suddenly found himself in. Suppose also that he would have expressed his refusal such that it was noticeable by the other men. Now the big question of course is, how would his–let’s crank it up a notchprotestations (a perhaps growing list of moral misgivings dying to ventilate itself) be received by his male peers? What would Pius himself say and do?

If Laing is right, and I tend to go with him on this one, rather than having any ear for the ramblings coming from this suddenly materializing buffoon (quickly rising to the point of abject lunacy) the men–spurred on, if even need be, by Pius–will be bound to think that there must be something wrong with old Axel (or Heinz, Jürgen,…); maybe he ate something bad, having a bit of a flu, bit under the weather, going delirious and so all of this verbal diarrhea came gushing out. . . you know what, that’s probably it.

However, should – heaven forbid – his rebellious maladies persist, before long perhaps this poor sod too might be found getting rather odorous (ever more so) and – as such – might also very well be deemed (ever more so) in need of the ne’er-getting-tired {purification of the soiled soul by way of sin-redeeming violence} sort of routine. . . applied only with the utmost of care and love, that goes without saying, needless to say.

It doesn’t take long before it’s Lena’s turn. Either at the end of a day’s work or at the foot of some break, Lena manages to outsmart the watchful eye of Gisela and sneak off the grain field to go for a private skinny-dipping swim in a secluded small pond somewhere in a nearby copse (or maybe it’s a decent forest, after all). However, she somehow must have been caught just the same and that’s why she’s now sitting on display in that same room, in front of those same men, as Doro had been on that fateful other night. Presiding over this sadistic make-shift sort of a kangaroo court, again is Pius — Chief Prosecutor, Chief Justice and Chief Executioner all coming together into one volatile individual: smitten by unfettered megalomania, holding sway with a characteristic rod of iron, having an insatiable hunger for sin-redeeming blood and – arguably worst of all – accountable to — notonelivingsoul.

Paul Schäfer: (spiteful) So you fooled Gisela. Be my guest. That’s what she deserves; that fat, ugly, stinking cow.
With the robotic crowd of menas per well-established tradition–laughing approvingly in response, Pius gets intimidatingly up-close in Lena’s face.
Paul Schäfer: (softly) But that you would go and defile our water with your stinking, whorish, naked body.

In other words, we’ll give you a pass for having gotten the better of your female superior, but that’s all hunky-dory since we’re going to nail you good-and-proper another way. We’re going to string you up – in fact – for having violated what we now conveniently regard is a sacred and therefore absolutely unbreakable rule. You have supposedly soiled our supposedly precious (if not to say, holy) water with your uncovered and by implication supposedly unclean and defiling body. While we’re high on idolizing the nevertheless ridiculous rule stating that our water in the wild shall be kept free from contact with uncovered human skinespecially the patch covering the genitalia (in particular, of course, as it happens, the private parts of women)while we’re getting all jazzed up and bent out of shape for having found what in actuality is no more than a superficially plausible excuse (flimsy, at best) to persecute your offensive little derriere (smelly too), you are going to have to redeem your ostensibly grotesque sin by way of suffering at our punishing hands.7 And afterwards, after having seen to it that the hideous blemish is cleansed off (purged off with violent passion) which you so casually–yet so cruelly–had come to visit upon our de-facto Holy Rule, upon having concluded another shiny one of those good and wholesome deeds of deliverance, we all get to feel better about ourselves, relieved from all of that unmitigated toe-curling anxiety that would now still so very much trouble us; and which supposedly could be traced back (for everyman present) to an intolerably unpleasant odor, somehow supposedly hanging in the air ((which might in its entirety be perhaps nothing more than a figment of mass-imagination, a uniformly-natured mass-hallucination simulating the collective sensory registration of an ambient bad smell, possibly brought about by a momentary (demonically-facilitated-and-coordinated?) corruption of olfactory mass-perception; belonging to the menacing mob of malevolent men who themselves are ultimate victims of mass-hypnosis administered by the mean mesmerizing master man running amok on much more than a mere modest misbehaving modicum of megalomania)).

Pius turns around to face the crowd, evidently seeking to emphasize the seriousness of Lena’s heaven-upending transgression and thereby unequivocally communicates to everyman present wanting to be recognized–also by everyman present–as someone who would quite obviously only all-too-laughably easily qualify with flying colors to be given green light to continue going down what in actuality – regretfully – is but a pathetically shabby and (at best) dimly-lit sort of a sordidly sinister and exceedingly eerie kind of a capriciously crooked and terrifyingly treacherous type of a sadistic path (ghoul-infested too); but which–in their self-upliftingly delusional, hopelessly infantile and, most of all, wantonly predatory kind of group-mind–gets to be egosyntonically translated into what strongly appears to be nothing but a perfectly-inviting and really extraordinarily well-kept, truly immaculately lit (bright as day) and endearingly rosy sort of road, straight as an arrow (zero acrobatic maneuvering needed), not at all riddled with deviously-hidden limb-severing booby-traps (hospitals? what hospitals?), having only row upon colorful row of madly-applauding and zealously-cheerleading sort of angels (not at all belonging to the fallencategory one single bit) standing on both sides of the way (all the way!), the sort of way that were to only constitute a thoroughly just and flawlessly effective type of course which, beyond any possible shadowy hint of doubt (whatsoever), would be leading to no other possible destination (100% certainty) than the positive conclusion of another brilliant one of those insanely-blissful and – moreover – divinely-approved acts of deliverance. (. . . the sure stuff that legends are made of, eh?)

Paul Schäfer: (emphatic) Naked!
Crowd of men: (indignant) Oh!
Paul Schäfer: Defies belief. (turns to Lena again) I took you in like a daughter. I made you one of us. I gave you everything you need. (turns to crowd) Hasn’t she lived here snug as a bug in a rug?
Crowd of men: (eager) Yeah!
It’s obvious that Pius tries to paint himself (also representing the commune at large) as a sure beacon of generosity and virtue galore, luxuriously radiating nothing but wave after sweltering wave of admirably philanthropic sort of soul-warming kind of support and sympathy to all . . . versus Lena: self-profiteering, opportunistic, egotistical and now also betrayer of good faith. It is apparent that the leader is trying to make himself look like the victim, one who couldn’t possibly be a victimizer if he tried and who therefore naturally were to deserve compensation for sustained grievances — inflicted by such a heartless, exploitative and clearly criminally-minded defendant.
Paul Schäfer: (to Lena; softly) Now you show your true face. For all women are full of lies, diseased and whorish demons.

If this is how he really feels about women in general, it’s obvious he hates them — like the true misogynist he then would be. However, truth be told, in all fairness, Lena did enter the commune on a ticket of deceit. Her whole stay, in fact, by pretending the entire time to be someone she in reality obviously was not (thank God), has been lavishly soaked top to bottom in deceit. She has, after all, been lying from day one about being a true devotee of Pius (when she much sooner holds him in contempt, sometimes even barely-concealed so). And although he makes a wildly depreciatory and obscenely hypergeneralizing claim about wholesale womanhood that is unlikely to have any bearing in reality (I should hope), it does have to be ceded that Pius does have a point, however accidentally made, when he implies her to be a liar (by inclusion).8 Then again, on the other hand, it has to also be granted that Lena was given barely any other option than to lie her way in. Indeed, the militant fortress-like nature of the communefenced-off and booby-trapped, isolated and fiercely defended by raving mad men brandishing lots of guns, while (almost) being impossible to get out of the place voluntarily–thus can do little but to leave Pius being the great facilitator of a Lena resorting to deception in her–mind you–perfectly understandable and even noble quest of finding someone in the commune who didn’t even deserve to be there in the first place (not that anyone would though); and to then get the flimflamming fuck out of dodge together.

Although Lena manages better composure than Doro did, tears start to well up in her eyes regardless.
Paul Schäfer: (scornful and menacing) Your tears won’t save you. As any loving father should, I will now cleanse you of the demons that are within you.
Pius softly touches the face of his victim with his hand as if to comfort her and yet the gesture feels more than anything part of the old self-idolizing tyrant his (at best, only cursorily credible and actually quite flaky) role-play as noble father figure — having immaculate parental credentials (ahem!) and divinely endowed authority to rule the roost (yeah, right). Indeed, the disingenuity of his consoling action becomes abruptly clear when he immediately follows up with a callous and forcefully executed slap with his stretched hand right in Lena’s undefended face.
Crowd of men: (smelling blood) Yeah!
In spite of being slapped hard, Lena manages to remain calm and regain composure, as if she had been expecting all along that things would get rough. While she stares back at her assailant defiantly, basically turning the other cheek, Piusblind as a bat–hits her again, this time with an intrinsically harder backhand.
Crowd of men: (enthusiastic) Yeah!
Without deliberation (or consultation with any living soul present), Pius strikes Lena for a third time and now does so with such force, that it sends her flying from her seat, making her crash-land on a cold and unforgiving floor.
Crowd of men: (all riled up) Yeah!
Fired up by a maddeningly intoxicating blood-lust by now, Pius orders his men to join him in the assault on the poor girl lying defensively-huddled-together on the floor.
Paul Schäfer: Come on! Show your brotherly love!

In Pius his dubious worldview, one that is apparently shared completely and unanimously by the slavish group of men busy swarming around him, what in reality is a collective product of their selfishly manifesting love for sadism, gets to be egosyntonically reinterpreted as an entirely-justified and divinely-recognized purification procedure applied only with love (no trace of involved hate at all), as if they would genuinely care for the battered person lying in front of them curled-up in fetal position, exposed and vulnerable. And even as they are about to rain their fists of fury down on her, the maliciously mesmerized assembly of mad men that they are would rather view their pending acts of cruelty as only being part-and-parcel of a tried-and-tested lovey-dovey means to separate that which is evil inside of their victim from that which is good, thus causing her to be left with solely her purely good and true self.

Easy, peasy, Japanesey.

On the verge of launching their attack on a defenseless and helpless Lena, out of the blue, an as yet unknown outside cause sets off the alarm-system of the compound. Acting on what seems like a sudden surge of overwhelming paranoia, Piusby giving mobilizing orders involving all men present–immediately though indirectly brings a halt to what the situation otherwise easily could have degenerated into: an ugly lynching ordeal (AGAIN!). Facilitated by Pius‘ easily-provoked mental ailment of simmering perpetual paranoia, the mysterious party triggering the alarm therefore effectively albeit inadvertently ends up saving Lena’s life.

1 According to the credits of the movie, Colonia Dignidad would–literally below the surface–be a secret torture facility operated by the Chilean Secret Police;
2 Or in technical language: joining the commune of people who practice Person-idolatry having the cult-leader named Pius for its object of service; worship which expresses itself especially–when practiced in its purest form–as a blind, reflexive and unquestionable obedience to Pius; a slave-like submissive attitude which invariably and unanimously is considered justified, worthy–indeed–desirable, as if the man being in a persistent center of praise-seeking attention would be none other than (((God Almighty intheflesh))) — meaning that all of his governing actions and decisions are deemed by his worshipers as if readily without flaw and therefore immediately beyond criticism. Hence, in reference to the one unique person in their company allegedly being in closest (communicative) proximity to God of them all (nearly able to himself indulge in certain omniscience and omnipotence, just watch), even casually questioning Pius would–in their sincere (if spell-bound) minds–be, at best, a most silly exercise in futility; and, at worst, a dreadfully heinous sort of insult (blasphemy!!) levied at their most honorable, most special and (of course, emphatically) most noble person in their midst. In other words, if the latter applies and–<with the collective mental engine driving Person-idolatry centered around their leader, Pius-idolatry, going full throttle now>–we would be talking about the sort of committed offense which once–during somewhat dated, more medieval and less enlightened sort of times–might have been ruled punishable by . . (. . fill in the arbitrarily bloody dots, here);
3 It is important to stress that the victim belongs to the same group as the mostly male perpetrators do, because that victim, upon returning from hospital to resume active commune-life, will be exposed to the very real risk of socially interacting with the same people who had directly contributed to her suffering, an episode which–after all–had been of an especially traumatic nature. Due to their actively supportive role in bringing about Doro’s abuse, each and everyone person involved will have incurred rather substantial guilt with respect to her (whether conscientiously acknowledged or not) and so follow-up interaction with their victim–unless they come clean to her about their horrible behavior–will stand to be rife with automatically unpleasant sort of tension.
Let’s start with the one woman involved, Gisela. Being the female supervisor that she is, social interaction with her is unavoidable. Meetings with her will likely be uneasy, to put it mildly. Gisela, however–being too much in love with her exalted powerful position as Pius‘ lieutenant of the female division–will be unlikely to humble herself and offer any form of apology to Doro. Indeed, seeing that she would see herself as quite literally superior, I would expect Gisela simply to resolve projecting any form of guilt away from herself and back unto what she could very well regard is but an inferior (lower-ranked) Doro, at once deserving of whatever kind of punishment their worshipful Godintheflesh sort of leader sees fit. Probably – therefore – having to deal with an inflexible and already menacing Gisela, it would be all up to Doro to try and mitigate any tension brewing up between them. As such, in order to help minimize or assuage any inherently emotionally-burdensome sort of hard feelings from her end, Doro might just prefer to absorb the nonetheless entirely artificial and equally unjust load of guilt which so brutally had been forced upon her. Since the frighteningly-challenging and unattractively-stressful alternative is to revolt–rebel like the true independence-craving adult human being she would then be–against the tyrannical and totalitarian rule of Pius and minions (armed not only with foul mouths and fists but guns and what not), I would estimate her to be partial to rather choose the way of least resistance by somehow resolving to blame herself (consistent with a yielding masochistic attitude) for supposedly having stepped out of line, yada yada, by having had the stomach-churning audacity and temerity to strike up what turned out to be an unauthorized sort of romance, seeking a romantic relationship with someone who apparently unfortunately was off-limits to her (seeing that she would be too ugly and smell too badly, yada yada).
On to the men. Owing to their sizeable guilt, the men will have to deal with natural and substantial fear for compensatory punishment (fear for revenge–Law of the Talion-style), typically becoming more pronounced the closer they happen to be to her (and their memory eventually would be jarred into jogging due to now being able to live-register their victim through the senses). Especially Diete will have to process an especially-significant portion of guilt since he obviously let down his fiancee in such a spectacular yet brutal fashion. Although hard to accurately predict what will come of their relationship without having any further information to go on, from a purely rational vantage point, I have little hope there would still be a marriage in the post (then again, love is not synonymous with rationality per se). Let me state (what probably many of you likely only find is) the obvious: If I were her, I would be (exceedingly) reluctant to want to stay involved with someone who so easily lets me twisting in the wind and furthermore not only betrays my love due to male peer pressure (of a most silly and infantile kind even!), but who also has the senseless nerve to physically hurt me due to that same silly outside pressure, which is coming from the sort of people who actually have no right (at all!) to interfere with my relationship. Then again, maybe she’ll forgive him for his betrayal–however flagrant and telling it is–if he admits (if even able to) his weak-hearted and bloody folly to her, but–either way–their relationship would be unlikely to stand the light of day, while under their sadistic leader’s suffocating sway. He must therefore, first of all, free himself from servitude to Piusshake off this atrociously intrusive – invasive and life-draining spell to the mean mesmerizing master man–through, if need be, force-feeding himself with the cold hard naked truth, at once noble for its elegant simplicity and universal symmetry: that exercising personal (independency-seeking) autonomy is a natural right to be enjoyed by any living human being — as guaranteed by, and consistent with, the Golden Rule (and which should be denied only under special certain circumstances of emergency, such as a person being or becoming a veritable liability or menace to society if left acting under their own free-willed autonomy).
As for the other men, in case they were to sustain a sure Close Encounter of the Third Kind with their victim, should it ever happen that the (depraved)(power-hungry) sadist inside once again gets the better of them, the abuser(s) might just then be triggered to attack her once more as they (yet) one more time would yield to the (egosyntonically-attractive) temptation to boldly deny their own guilt, have furthermore the dry wits to project it unto her, and moreover also have the perfectly-blind balls to persecute her for it.
Sounds to me like a recipe for social disaster (if not blueprint for creating a miniature version of hell on earth).
When members of one gender sadistically exploit members of the other gender on a suggested routine (pseudo-legal) basis, it’s therefore no wonder that Pius seeks to maintain separation of the sexes in his commune. In addition, it should also be no great surprise if the women in the commune turn out to be especially submissive and masochistically inclined (!guilt-absorbing!), since their egos–after all–have to make sense of their abuse coming from (male-chauvinistic) sadistically inclined (!guilt-projecting!) men, who–notwithstanding their repulsively oppressive and exploitative behavior–still form part of the same overarching group as the women do and so whom the women therefore cannot ignore and or run away from; assuming a (mildly) masochistic character trait would as such correspond with a relatively understandable roll-with-the-punches sort of a bend-instead-of-break kind of a survival strategy;
4 Actors who, as long as they help sustain the dreadful theatre macabre (vive la France!) in their midst, cannot help but to accumulate costly karmic debt themselves, staggering moral cost accrued for being part of a group of servile souls lending active support to the depraved machinations of a sadist for a leader;
5 That Doro might in fact be possessed by demons cannot be ruled out, strictly speaking. She already committed a significant and real transgression by way of sacrificing her autonomy in exchange for blindly worshiping Pius, an offense committed most of all against her own person (apart from God), something which the psychoanalyst Arno Gruen calls “the betrayal of the self” (and everyone is encouraged to read his fascinating and informative books). And this–I was taught by the human person overseeing my own deliverance on an earthly plane–is what demons love seeing us do, they love to see us acting abusively towards either one’s own being or one another as it would ultimately grant them some kind of metaphysical license to go and possess us in actual fact.
As a result of being part of one big sadomasochistic enterprise involving lots of suffering, Doro–like any other member of the commune–is likely to at least have been exposed to the very real risk of demonic possession. It seems self-evident to me that demons naturally gravitate towards places where there is lots of human suffering generated (like this prison-like commune but also regular prisons, mental hospitals and other places where there is an abundance of [self-]abuse going on); all sorts of sites of abuse at which those rather evil-minded invisible creatures would have the best of opportunities to add fuel to the fire, so to speak; the best of prospects to push through their sinister perversions of human will with the greatest of eases, producing the greatest of yields — all for the benefit of their age-old war against us. Indeed, if demons are preying on human beings, having as aim to override and usurp conscious human control (as much as possible), they might just welcome (very much) any event of a potential human host relinquishing autonomous personal control, whether that host would be sacrificing their free will by surrendering in worship to another human being (like Pius) or something else (like a false god or any idol), it doesn’t matter, as long as that free autonomous will–that full command over their own person–goes up in smoke; and, as a result, would be leaving an attractive vacancy for outside non-human spiritual entities, looking to have some iniquitously-minded fun, to move in, join the party and gladly fill in any gaping holes of will, lusciously-succulent corruptible will.
However, owing to his irresponsible (grievously Golden Rule-perturbing) use of power over the commune, it is far more important to recognize that precisely Pius himself might be possessed. Indeed, while Pius cavalierly declares Doro’s supposed bad smell to be due to demons residing within her, what about the alternative? — that any disturbing smell they collectively seem to detect is coming not from her but from him — that there would be smelly demons residing within him. If this is so, then Pius obviously is guilty of projecting his spiritual predicament unto the poor girl — and it would count as an indication of a serious systemic problem.
Unlike she (who’s no danger and whose potential state of possession has little relevance beyond her own person), since–in sharp contrast–quite a few people are dependent on him (about one or two hundred), it is–beyond a shadow of doubtPius himself who so deserves to – first of all – be a natural focal point of (continued) critical review and assessment (e.g., administered by an elected panel of elders from his own people, forming a counsel; unless your first name is ‘God‘ and last name ‘Almighty(which it isn’t), since omniscience and omnipotence are therefore well out of reach and so infallibility and flawlessness are likewise out of the question, flush that autocracy bullshit down the toilet, pronto!). Furthermore, especially for the sake of ensuring the rationality and justice of his rule, Pius very much owes it to the people under his wing to undergo spiritual examination to find out if he–in fact–would be possessed and, if so, to then also acknowledge the chief virtue (bordering on vital necessity) to have himself be put through the kind of deliverance procedure which, counter to his own blood-soaked brutality-promoting manual, should not involve the application of physical violence at all (nor preluding abusive violence directed at the psyche too, for that matter), but which would rather involve most of all a little bit of magic raining down from Heaven, the kind which really does heal and purify ((for what it’s worth, although I can only speak for myself, I didn’t feel a thing when my own six demons were pulled out of me; not even when the staunchly stubborn master commander–the Jezebel spirit, the last demon standing–was removed from me involving lots of apparent spiritual violence, according to the human person overseeing my deliverance on an earthly plane));
6 And self-hypnotizer too if he truly believes in his own poisonous sermonizing;
7 At heart, the charge would be for violating what essentially is an idolatrous sort of practice, one having for an object of worship (however rationally indefensible it quite clearly is) the otherwise freely and publicly available accumulations of outdoors water. In other words, Lena is being accused of failing to adhere to the cardinal apparent rule serving to safe-guard the idolatrous (de facto: untouchable and holy) status of said water reserves — she may be said to have failed in the apparently compulsory practice of Wateridolatry, having for its object the local wild water reserves, of which its admittedly minimalistic sort of worship comes down to leaving said water in a pristine untouched state.
As retarded and unenlightened as this (pseudo-legal) charge may sound to any rationally-thinking human being, it just so happens that only quite recently–in October 2018, in fact–Pakistan’s Supreme Court overturned a death sentence placed on a woman named Asia Bibi, who was convicted in 2010 for violating a very similar sort of ridiculous law promoting Wateridolatry. The original complaint against Bibi came in June 2009. As the Christian mother of five picked berries in a field with a number of Muslim women, she became thirsty, and went to a nearby well for water. One Muslim woman allegedly accused Bibi of contaminating the water because of her Christian faith, making it unfit for the Muslim women to drink. […] Bibi claims that several days later, she was hauled from the berry field into the village, where she was beaten. It was alleged that Bibi had insulted Islam in violation of blasphemy laws — a charge which she denied. During the beatings, she was again told to convert, but she refused, and was later taken into police custody. In November 2010, Bibi was convicted of blasphemy, and sentenced to death by hanging. In 2014, the sentence was upheld by the Lahore high court. Read more at:
If the death sentence were to really be carried out as planned, then the life of a human was going to be sacrificed on the proverbial altar which may be thought to belong to the abstract idol–represented by public esteem, standing or name–representing the law at hand, some blasphemy law. By drinking from the well carrying–what the local Muslims infer to, in effect, regard asholy water, the woman – due to merely being Christian – had supposedly come to soil the water and, in an imaginary way, had come to soil the – in practice – supremely precious idol representing the corresponding blasphemy law, one which – as in the commune – serves to protect the purportedly holy status of the water by prohibiting the likes of the kuffar woman from contaminating said water with their ostensibly inherently unclean bodies (and penalizing them if they do). By sacrificing the life of the woman at hand, the idea would be that in the minds of the involved Muslims, the blemish which they imagine the woman had visited upon said law (reflected in a correspondingly tainted public image of that law) may be thought of as being washed off with the blood of the woman — made available for symbolic rinsing purposes by her capital punishment;
8 It deserves mention that Lena is not just any common liar, but a rather skillful one. After all, she obviously has the guts and confidence to lie repeatedly and persistently; and not just that but also while being in the sort of unchanging social habitat which only stands to more-and-more become like a hostile environment to her, ever more like enemy territory, since she would be incurring more-and-more guilt with respect to all the people she lies to and about, and keeps on lying to and about (tension on the rise; possibly promoting progressive paranoia). The same can be said for Daniel, who–if you watch the movie–so cunningly and convincingly managed to believably pretend being a retard during his entire stay at the commune. If Lena and Daniel were to get romantically involved on a serious level–and they also would want to keep it that way–in order to prevent their mutual trust being eaten away by mutual suspicion, each should therefore recognize to full extent both their own and the other’s proficiency at being credibly insincere — both are naturally exposed to the risk of using their skills of deception not just at times of (personal) emergency but perhaps also at less emergent and (personally) more convenient sort of situations (requiring, for example, some <proactive>, <remedial> or perhaps precisely <opportunistic> on-the-spot kind of ‘<ingenuity>’ . . .).
As for Pius, upon finding out that he had been suckered – shafted – the entire time by not just one but two members of his flock (fucked right in the culo and the kisser simultaneously), the corrosively cuckoo cult-leader that he is may be expected to only up-the-ante of his toxic watchfulness. His cruelty to the members of his remaining flock is likely to increase because he now would be more prone to ‘detect’ spies and traitors in his midst, and treat them as such, with enhanced sadistically vindicating force, whether or not they even happen–in the fact of the matter–to be (half-way) real spies or traitors. Lena and Daniel would be partially responsible for an already sadistic and paranoid leader to become even more so. Then again, Pius himself of course would be mostly responsible for this new psychopathology-exacerbating development (naturally affecting not just himself but the crooked entire circus of idolatry built around his person). By running a completely closed-off sort of a militant cult-like commune, the malevolently-mesmerizing mad master man of opprobriously-predatory priestly pleasure himself squarely deserves to be held responsible for creating the precise conducive conditions for infiltrators–naturally covertly pursuing independent agendas from his own heavenly-sanctioned divine one–to try and come join the stupefying soul-strangulating charade under his bloodstained superstitious supervision;

The look on Lena’s face, while sitting in front of her chief tormentor named Pius, sums the situation in this horrible cult-like commune….