My trip down memory lane began with the finding of my birth records, which were buried in the same box as the legal paperwork my father saved from when I was taken to court in Middle School. More on that later.
Experience and observation has taught me what everyone here reading probably already knows. Psychiatry is a parasitic enterprise which comes from alien hands. The psychiatric pulse is not responsible for its handiwork, and is not held accountable for its actions. It is the ultimate mad scientist; a microcosmic metaphor for the broader Zionist scheme that overshadows it like a hulled out sun. (Incidentally, for your pleasure, look up the connections between Israeli and American pharmaceuticals. Significant drug money finds its weight in shekel, coming into Zionist hands.) However, what separates me from the casual observer is that I have distinct memories of my childhood – from the earliest up until my refusal to submit further at eighteen.
Like many American children, at the first sign of abnormal behaviour in me as a boy, the ‘doctors’ and ‘experts’ were quick to prescribe a world of drugs. Their evidence? I had learned to walk before I learned to crawl. I cried, frequently. I had infant insomnia.
Even as an infant I had received promises of antisocial diagnoses. And my parents (mostly my mother) in her desperation and well meaning, trusted in her medicinal saviours. The doctors successfully bred an atmosphere of expectation and dread. From my birth, Ma was conditioned to look for signs of antisocial, sociopathic behaviour. And successfully so. Thanks to dramatic psychiatric standards, there was a psychosis lurking under every rock.
Medications began. And so did methodology. When I resisted medications as a baby, a toddler anyways, the recommendation was; “you’ll have to force it into him, it’s for his own good.” And so I was sat down, held at the shoulders and fed medication. Much like a dog who’s forced to eat pills wrapped in cheese.
My sensory issues were jumped upon. It was never considered that my ‘sensory integration’ was a gift. That my hearing and smell are simply above average. No. It’s an abnormality that needs correcting. The solution? Regular brushings and being massaged with cheesecloth.
By the third grade I was a familiar with various medications. Nortriptyline was a keypoint. The green and white capsules marked my memories as a childhood, and how I would spit them up in secret. Until supervised medication times were implemented.
I want to stress that nobody in my family was a villain. I hold no ill will. My parents were as much a victim as I, as they had been led to do these things by the industry. The industry, which capitalised on their insecurities and exacerbated them, and cared only for more shekels to grease their wheels.
In the second grade I was put on a Ritalin regimen. It ruined my metabolism and gave me bizarre tics. The inclement weight problem was an issue I struggled with until college. Eventually, I caught on, and learned how to fake symptoms. This allowed me to get off a variety of meds. But there was always another Lipshitz, another Silverstein, another Greenberg, another ZOG, waiting to cram something new and exotic into me.
I sat through counselling sessions. My favourite sessions were in Portland, where my parents paid a narcoleptic Jew to sleep while I talked about myself in private. I drew pictures. Less humorous was my child psychiatrist from Freeport, who later was indited for death-threats. He collected purposely mis-prescribed meds from kids to fuel his own addiction. He also intimidated children into behaving. “I can prescribe you something that can kill you so quietly and nobody will even ask any questions.” He was let off the hook with a warning and a censure to his license. The reason? He got a diagnosis for mental trauma because his wife had died in a plane crash.
Where was my excuse?
In Middle School, I came into full swing and was put on watch. Mind you, I was a Middle Schooler in the wake of 9-11 and everyone was a potential terrorist. Especially fat kids with issues. By this time, I had succumbed to an unspoken element of the programming. My survival instinct had come to tell me that the only way to escape from the medication trap was to become “normal.”
Normality, for a Middle School, in today’s society enlists an element of sheepish cruelty. There was a kid – who himself was a bully and a pretentious dweeb – who was ridiculed quite heartily by the hoi polloi. I enlisted myself in their crusade – after all, I had never forgiven the boy for hitting me in my testicles with a whittling stick at Boy Scout camp.
Eventually, because it was known I received counselling, and was on medication, the boy’s mother used me as a scapegoat to make an example to all who would torment the ‘underdog.’ (It pays to be a rich victim.) The mother spun a story. When I recovered my paperwork the other day, I was almost stunned to read the charges against me. (Death threats, assault, vandalism, spreading propaganda in the form of violent artwork.)
There were no significant evidences against me, save for a ghost story I had written, and a picture I had done in art class depicting sodomites and semites roasting in Hell. I was also on record as having called the boy a “faerie god-mother,” and a “goddamned hermaphrodite.” (That last part was true.)
But. I had still touched on a number of extreme taboos. I had threatened diversity: both racial and sexual. This when the glorious LTBBQ XYZ-123 Committee on Perverse Relations had just implemented their clubhouses for young sickos in schools across the country. (Taste the Rainbow, Goy.)
My Counsellor was subpoenaed, and all my sensitive psychological profiles were released to the court and made evidence. In the end, the charges were dropped against me, but I was forced to agree to a ‘voluntary’ restraining order.
This led to a major clamp-down on my psychiatric conditioning. I was then forced to go to youth group counselling with other “autistic” boys. (I’m sorry, I forgot to mention that they added Asperger’s to the increasingly massive list of diagnoses.) It was traumatising enough for me, in that I was grouped with the most neurotic boys that could be found. In my young mind, I came to believe that this is what the world assumed I was. A manic, translucent basement dweller who touched himself at inappropriate times. I then gave up on trying to be normal. There was no hope.
Now I was consumed with becoming a proper social agitator.
This sort of thing went on until I was eighteen. At eighteen I fully exploited consent laws and completely refused any further medication and counselling. I had successfully identified psychiatry as a parasitic and hostile enemy, but I had no ammunition to see the sniveling Jew behind the curtain. It never occurred to me, in my naïveté, to count the common denominators. That virtually all my psychiastrists were Jewish, or at least relied upon Semitic blanket theories, did not bother me. I thought nothing of it. That many of them were open homosexuals, did not occur to me.
None of this occurred to me. It also didn’t matter. I was free of all that then. Or so I thought.
The truth is, the ten years or so of psychiatric youth had robbed me of a natural childhood. I had a weight problem that was not natural. I had no idea if the personality that I had developed was mine, or simply the result of medication. I lacked the necessary instincts to have self-belief. I lacked the components to make certain decisions.
I spent the next five years in relative isolation, attempting to reassemble the puzzle pieces in my brain. Tracing each thought pattern, mapping each response and measuring the emotional outcome. Assessing my body in terms of early youth and present decay.
It wasn’t until mid-college that I saw in full swing the mess that I had become. In a Mission Trip to Guatemala, I realised how comically backwards this all was. In the summer that followed, I lost weight and began to pinpoint the exterior causatives that had held-up my interior deficiencies.
During the year that followed, my truth was revealed. I met an old German Church Lady – a wreck of life. She knew all the things that I had missed, but had all but ceased to care. She medicated herself freely. She sneered and jeered, and was broken. She also took the time to reveal to me that it was precisely the Jew who had so subtlely engineered the decay. It was the Jew who had led us to the path of wanton self-indulgence. We swallowed the poison, but we had no cause for defence for we believed the lies. We Teutons, she and I agreed, were naïve as a race.
It was also through this summer that I discovered Renegade, and oversaw the collapse of my former Catholicism. I suppose, though, that the recovery from that summer begins my writing in Nationalism, and delineates the need to write further.
There is no takeaway from this article. It serves only to illustrate what a youth often goes through, and remind those who might forget, why the weaker do not see our terms. The struggle for the young is real, and for each and every Nationalist, the terms of our extradition from the system came with a significant mental cost.
Ave Victoria.