Updated: Aug 24
I'd been out on my front porch, just messing about, under some distinct stress and mental malaise in the background. I was about to walk down to the local shop. I had a small stick in my hand, a twig which one of my stepchildren had picked up on our woodland walks, and in absent-minded fashion used it to prod my neighbour's BMW's front-right tyre. Dad spotted me from the open doorway. "Stop it. Stop it Benjamin. You're bringing shame on the entire family!" I didn't really have the time to cry inside and rage with undying black hatred, in a column of cold, sharp flame until later, so at the time I just took his advice.
Later that day I was arrested. The four policemen looming over me told me that she had made a complaint that I "swung a wooden club at her car". It seems she also presented them with her house-broom as evidence, passing it off as a weapon she had pulled from my hands as I threatened her and sabotaged her vehicle. I protested that that was nonsense, but was taken off, dragged naked from my book ("The Nameless War", a valuable read) and my warm bath, hogtied with reinforced straps, carried out under their arms, still in the nude, and locked in the clinical steel holding cell at the rear of their vehicle, like a hunter's trophy-kill. My frail elderly father, sick from prostate cancer and devastating vasculitis, had stepped in to complain about the unexpected entry and to inadvertently shield me, but they just knocked him out of the way. It was nice that he defended me with his small, wiry body. I'd always hoped as a child that he might love me enough to do that.
They were a little sadistic in the cells, as seems quite common - not providing any toilet paper and refusing to look away as I sat down to relieve myself. They refused to turn the cell light on despite me subtly nudging them that I have a fear of the dark. It wasn’t cynicism or spiteful humour exactly, and I sensed a coldness in them, like there was an unbridgeable void between us. I noticed a drying bloodstain high up on the wall and wondered what had happened before I’d got there. Also, they all had very strange hands. Very smooth and with the hair shaved, or otherwise non-existent. I noticed what seemed to be a slight dysgenic element to their fingers and wrists, and a certain asymmetry to their odd, podgy faces. When the spoke to each other, it was in brief staccato snippets of banal information, in dulled flat monotone, as if they were on radio chatter, and otherwise were unable to maintain a normal conversation. They seemed to be talking about a mixture of what new external training programs presented the best financial benefit in the long run, and how to perform new takedown techniques. Very odd people. I felt like the only human in there.
Eventually, deciding they couldn’t charge me with anything, they made some phone calls with the local hospital. An adult social worker was called to analyse my mental health, as they are fond of doing. I told him about the police sadism, and my neighbour's on-going one-sided feud. With a high-pitched whining voice, he utterly dismissed me, and pressed on with questions about how I felt, with the implication that he was trying to arrange me a hospital stay, whether I liked it or not, as he felt I was under the weather, and a bit confused. He had noted that I was an “anti-vaxxer”, and that I had refused a PCR test.
I grew impatient, and annoyed, having had enough, and leaned forward and punched him hard in the face, bloodying my knuckles on his nose. I think it was my own blood. He shrieked at me, like a seaside Vaudeville entertainer "oooo, sucker punch, Benjamin! Violence is un-acc-eptable!". A sucker punch is generally delivered to the back of the head, as far as I remember, whereas he got to see this coming.
The police growled in their ingrained middle-class manner, and threw me hard to the floor regardless, damaging one of my ribs on the right side, and dislocating my left shoulder. My partner later informed me that she knew he was an open homosexual. His face reminded me of my teenage East London friend's popular social worker dad, who loved to rape her with his buddies at private parties. She did tell a psych team back then, but they poo-poo'd her story, and routinely laughed at his jokes as he was handed custody. She swallowed broken glass in the end, washed down with bleach. An interesting coincidence. In retrospect, it's lucky I wasn't charged on the spot with a hate crime. However, I was placed in a doubled-over crouch position, wrenched to my feet, with my arms dragged up behind my back and locked in grip of their interlocking forearms, and with my head simultaneously pushed down by their palms, putting enormous stress on my legs, neck and back, and pulled out at double-pace, as they power-walked me over to the neighbouring psychiatric assessment unit. I fell to the ground at one point, collapsing in vocal exhaustion and pain, and grazing my elbows, knees, and cheeks on the tarmac, leaving small red stains, however I was yanked up again and the process continued. It seems the IDF has trained them well.
At the unit, I was thrown like a worn sandbag into a small, bright, barren white room, whilst they stood guard. The social worker tittered about in the background. I thought for a moment that they were going to let him in to have his revenge, as he had rolled his sleeves up. However, a Pakistani psychiatrist arrived on the other side of a clear glass panel to the left of me, and his curt, metallic voice rasped out of a tannoy-system on the ceiling, as he interrogated me via the camera high up on the right wall. I was given a full mental assessment, and judged to be unwell, in no small part based on my Covid-19 views, so was interned in isolation in their cold, immigrant-staffed facility for two weeks whilst they patronised me to death, degraded me, and forced me to take their grim medications on threat of indefinite further confinement. I had to 'admit' that my sceptical Covid-hoax stance was wrong as a condition of release. Ultimately, I was let go back to their community team. I wasn't having any of that.
A blonde female walked in to analyse me. I told her she was unwelcome in my house and asked her if she felt lucky. I pulled out my vaporizer, took a quick breath from the mouthpiece, turned it and pointed it at her head like a pistol, 'cocked' it with my other hand, and pulled the 'trigger', making a double-tap "pew pew" noise with my mouth. She screamed and jolted backwards with her hands up to protect herself, as if shot, then scampered back out the front door to her car. It appears she had less grasp on objective reality than me. I have never seen her again.
The day after a male walked in. Quite tall. Greying hair. A little beard. Smiling. He sat down. I loomed over him and scowled. "Hello Benjamin, I'm Sean!". "Tell me Sean, do you like Feminism?". "Oh yes Benjamin, I think it's marvellous. It's so great that we can empower women!". "Get out of my house, Sean, and take your sweet, soy-infused mother face and your underground railroad for self-destructive Marxist female supremacy with you. Are you actively trying to obliterate the future of the White race?" He remained smiling, or at least frozen, with him little teeth and cuddly grey hamster cheeks locked into a display of inert and submissive cheerfulness. I'm not sure what he was thinking, I have not seen Sean since.
Now an older woman called Theresa is still coming round, arriving late each time, and haranguing me about med-taking before she asks how I am. She seems quite a patient person, with the vocal tone of a typical Essex girl Statist, if slightly sarcastic, which can be grating in a care professional. She coped with me calling her kind "subhuman zombie drones for a kakocratic Zionist dystopia", and notes down, with a polite weariness, that I appear to be a little "anti-authoritarian".
Having attended the local clinic for an interview with the Jewish-looking psychiatrist I am now placed under, I was able to quit taking those blasted 'meds', albeit first having to invoke The Nuremberg Code on her (which she promised she would look up on her smartphone later). She pleaded fervently with me, and scolded me, and launched into a sales pitch for the efficacy of Big Pharma brain-poisons, then pleaded some more whilst reminding me of her authority and professional expertise, then counselled me on how ill I had been, and how much she cared about me and was worried for my health, then simultaneously scolded and pleaded a little longer, until eventually relenting, after approximately 45 minutes, and dismissing me from the room with a very sharp glance, closing her folder of notes with a snap, pressing the button to release the secure door, and informing me that I would still be kept on their system, and that, in the event of any sign of future illness, it would be very likely that she would thoroughly review this decision on her part to allow me (presumably) to retain free informed choice over bodily sovereignty in the face of a pseudo-medical, anti-White, Police State Jew World Order.
I had wanted to explain more of my position to her, as she took a keen interest in noting down that I had political opinions. I decided though that it was probably not worth her while being made aware of these small considerations as she was evidently quite content cradled in her current predicament of mind and besides, I knew I would be considered, by conventional internal mandate, totally mad.
I had also wanted to inform her that biomedical psychiatry is a sham. Despite their enthusiasm for destroying contrary lives and making too much money, psychiatrists have never found any physiological pathology behind mental disorders. No genes for mental illness have ever been found. No lab test can determine who is mentally ill. There is no proof of chemical imbalances. I had quietly asked the psychiatrist whether neuroleptic drugs themselves cause episodic psychosis, or long-term brain-damage. I was assured, without evidence, that that was impossible. I asked her if she thought my father's utter dismissal with scoffing contempt of my every opinion, from year dot, and his ridicule of my intelligence, and cold shoulder towards my creative works, and his snide, insulting, belittling - humiliating - remarks if I disagree with him, especially in public, which, as a self-confessed Liberal he is happy to liberally dole out, and his total gaslighting denial and downplaying of my history of abuse at the hands of a couple of other gross tossers, once with a few large bodies off in a little gulley in the woods, and three times with another in a country house bedroom, where I learned, unfortunately, what Pakistani excrement tastes like ("I don't know what you've got to complain about - you've never suffered."), and the derogatory joke about me he shared with one of the abusers as both began to laugh at me in my face, and his love of telling me to take medication to the near-point of forcing it down my throat by threatening to break contact if I refuse, and the time he liked scaring me to tears as a toddler by poking wet, chewed down apple stalks into my face as I hid behind my mother (leading to a bizarre phobia of apples these days that causes me to vomit at the prolonged sight of them), and by dressing up in a werewolf mask and growling at my bedroom door in the night, and all that sort of thing, and my Mum always subtly backing him up by being more concerned about his reputation when I complain and never actually doing anything to encourage him to stop ("it makes me very sad that you say that."/"I wish you could get on with Dad."/"I wish you didn't say that.") despite a good many times when I've either cried and dissociated in cold, empty despair (as a child), punched him in the face until he fought back and broke my nose multiple times which led to me shooting at him with an air rifle (as a teenager), and tried to hit him with a hammer before him calling the police on me who ignored my pleas and took me to the cells for a good kicking (in my early 20's), and yelled blue murder at him (as a 30-something adult) could have anything to do with any mental difficulties on my part, and whether the psychiatric intervention services, for at least 20 years, automatically siding with him, takes his voice as sole authority on my case, laughing at me with patronising, condescending, belittling dismissals and repeatedly accusing me directly of paranoia towards him, as a kind, decent father without fault, and a sane, sensible man to be listened to might also do something to my mind dissolving long term. She laughed, briefly and professionally, as if towards a child. I was informed that this was not the case. Oh well, damn chemical imbalances, I suppose.
I'd better shut up now so they can all get on with the job of totally destroying my soul, and emptying my sense of self and self-worth into nothingness, and drugging me up with dangerous, spurious chemicals, and, with increasing regularity, sending in heavily autistic cultural Marxist psychopaths in black uniforms to beat me to a pulp and drag me to a grim, prison-esque State building designed only to remove my freedom, and keep me subjugated under pharmaceutical violence. Embarrassingly, I used to self-harm as a teenager by biting huge arterial chunks out of my right arm, often to the point of passing out through blood loss, and requiring both transfusions and multiple skin grafts. I don't do that anymore, thankfully, having weaned myself off that habit solo. It embarrassed the 'medical' staff also, who liked to come up with erroneous (and, in one case, lucrative) theories why I might be doing that. One of these days they might understand trauma. It's unlikely. I've long-decided that my friends lack all compassion on the matter, and are too timid, too gormless, too conditioned, and too argumentative to condemn bio-reductionist psychiatry, so I tell them very little. I don't think they've noticed that anything is wrong. My partner called me "spoiled" recently. Admittedly, that stung.
Unlike Sean, my Dad doesn't have his beatnik beard anymore. I told him off gently in the street today after he gave £3 to a fat, ugly Syrian (or Roma?) immigrant woman selling The Big Issue. Interestingly, as I stormed past her shaking my head, she fixated on him, but, as the money was handed over, it was me she looked at, and me she gave the cheeky smile and the "thank you!" to, with vindicated smugness. I hate that thinly veiled propaganda 'magazine', for the traitorous anti-White content. The writing is also bog-standard. I am, in general, not in favour of random handouts, or supporting those who do not give much of a toss about our country, and the issues that affect our own wretched feudal citizens, more than seeing us as a naïve and compliant piggy bank which they can eternally raid. I'd prefer to drive them into the sea with SA-80s.
Dad replied that I was a bigot. Perhaps he liked her dress, or something. I love him. It's just shouting these days, now and again. I'll never repair internally though as it's too late. At least I healed as much as I could by torturing my throat through a bizarre, inaccessible, disturbingly scary, utterly uncompromising cathartic music project which I titled "Vore Complex" (referencing both rampant consumer culture and my severe Autophagia). Yes, the despair and abject pain in those tracks is genuine. I gave a copy of one of my 32 albums to a previous Pakistani psychiatrist who informed me that he didn't listen to "immature 'Heavy Metal' noise", and name-dropped Rachmaninoff at me. Dad calls it "a depressing racket" also, and sends me Smooth Jazz compilations, and Jacob Collier albums to "learn from" instead, along with huge piles of National Geographic magazines, and books by Yuval Noah Harari and Cass Sunstein. I notice this occurs shortly after these diabolical authors are recommended in The Guardian. He called my National Socialist core beliefs 'Procrustean' quite recently, implying that my incorrect views were suspiciously convenient, as if I had cherry-picked data to make my entire conspiracy fit, in an email he sent me explaining the word meaning with smug pedagogic glee as yet another one of his time-honoured attempts to convince me that I am a total fool. Even more conveniently though, I noticed that the term 'Procrustean' is explained, in Dad's exact phrasing, in a 21st December 2010 Guardian book review of "The Bed of Procrustes" by Nassim Nicholas Taleb. He did jolly well to remember it all this time.
Note: my neighbour has since had me arrested again by reporting to the local police that I pointed a flamethrower at her young family and threatened to torch them to death. You'd think the police would get the wretched hint by now that she is no more than a latter-day Stasi informant busybody and self-righteous conformist with a feminist grudge against me, but no... "we know it's a bit far-fetched but we always have to take it seriously." Barging in warrant-free, they ransacked the house, including emptying out the lower kitchen cupboards, causing my partner no end of hassle. As seems common these days, I was brutally flung into another small steel box and ferried in for benighted questioning and an interminable stretch of authoritarian boredom in the cells. In my absence no flamethrower was discovered, or indeed a weapon of any sort. A terrible bother all things considered. Life in the barren, discombobulated kingdom of yuck continues.