Women have plenty to be ashamed of.
Growing up I was conflicted with a duality in which on the one hand there lied my nature and on the other the will of my mother. At the age of 16 my mother was homeless and desperate for anyone to come and save her torment; her mother was an abusive and neglectful heroin addict and it was around this time two of her brothers had sat in prison for having robbed banks (her eldest brother was busting cheeks-though he denies it). It was during such a trying time she had met my father who swept her in his arms that very day moving her to an entirely different state with him. My father was 21 during this time and an illegal immigrant from Mexico as were his siblings and other friends that had come with him, among his friends was Santiago.
My father had drunkenly cheated on my mother one night and immediately admitted it to my mother expressing his profound remorse: my mother responded with cheating on my father with Santiago-my father was heartbroken but understood and forgave her on the grounds she wouldn’t cheat on him again, unfortunately for the naïveté of my father my mother only used his cheating as a means to rationalize her feelings for Santiago which were already present within her before he had even cheated on her; my mother would not only go on to cheat on my father several more times with Santiago but had also professed her love for Santiago and her contempt for my father (note: my father is not one to be pitied, I simply empathize with him); what my mother hadn’t considered was that my father’s older brother was their boss, as in the boss of my father, his siblings and other friends they had immigrated with for a construction company: after hearing of Santiago’s betrayal of my father his brother had fired Santiago. Santiago moved back to Mexico where he shortly died after: my mother was heartbroken-what was she to do? A 16 year old little girl manipulating a man into breeding her, marrying him, and utilizing his resources which he earned with his blood? A little girl having lost who was perhaps her one true love? Or so she “thought”...
The divorce was ruthless, or rather, my mother was ruthless as she threatened to have my father and his siblings deported should he try to fight for custody. My father’s siblings encouraged my father to do what was necessary for us but with the possibility that he could also be deported and very likely never see his two sons again, what was a man to do?
It’s utterly damaging for the ego of any man to be emasculated by any woman especially a 21 year girl you truly believed to have loved and even having married after a hard life of poverty in a small town from Mexico where men are notorious for keeping their women in check. For a man’s ego to be damaged there is only one way he can redeem himself and that is through waging war on whomever dared to damage such an ego; unfortunately for my father he was not back in Mexico, he was in the US where the wrath of man is punishable with the means of prison-it was not only my mother by whom he was emasculated by but the law and order of the republic; so much for freedom of will.
It didn’t end here; my mother was ecstatic about her new found “liberation” going out to clubs and bars with her friends, free of the “religious fanatic” my father was (and it’s true that he is indeed a religious fanatic, a Christian to be exact, but don’t think so highly of my mother for she enforced and lived by the same values and morals as he does, she had merely done so with different spices and fragrances), it was also during this time she especially began drinking heavily, very heavily; there were days when she’d be slumped over her bed bottle hand whilst my father came for my brother and I only to be met with a locked door with no way in except for breaking and entering: my brother and I would beg for the embrace of our father through the window, crying for his affection and play, locking eyes with our father through the window; our mother didn’t care so long as she had us in her grasp, rationalizing her stupidity as her “living her youth,” as if enjoying your youth demands the abandonment of all responsibility.
My mother eventually met another man soon after my father, perhaps even during; he was a black man with a short fuse of a temper against us all, but even more so against my brother and I. This new man of hers would go on to physically beat my brother and I, tossing and dragging us across the room, beating us with a closed fist as he would a grown man; the beatings were so bad he’d send us back to our father with massive bruises all over our bodies, bruises our father would take pictures of in hopes it’d help his case in court-it didn’t. My father was enraged with my mother and demanded she leave the man but she stuck by his side until the end of kindergarten even going so far as to make a father of him-for my little sister.
Throughout the years my mother had done everything she could to erase the memory of all that had happened, laughing it all off as though it was nothing when we’d bring it up with her, often chalking it up to the folly of her youth-except it didn’t end there.
Shortly after my sister’s father she found another man who she married-this one was actually good but he was far bigger than my sister’s father and black all the same-I associated him with my sister’s father and despised him ruthlessly throughout their entire marriage: he was a genuinely caring and affectionate father despite our difference in blood, but it was too late by the time I embraced this of him. Towards the end of their marriage which went on from my first grade year to the summer before starting high school I grew closer with my then stepfather as my mother would often be gone for days off with her friends and her new lover; she had been cheating my step father for a year and a half before they had split apart: he was a younger Indian man whom she helped attain a green card.
This new boyfriend was also a good man at heart, but because he fell for my mother’s malice I despised him and though I wasn’t as ruthless with him as I was with my stepfather I still kept my distance; it was throughout this relationship my mother expressed her love more openly for him... there were nights when she’d shamelessly fuck him hard for all the neighborhood to hear as she moans, groaned, and cried his name, making the entire house shake-our rooms were right next to each other and I ruined all my friendships during this time so there was no friend to turn to then.
There came a day when people were warning the two of them they weren’t right for each other for whatever reason; my mother decided to say fuck them and so we all moved to another over night, back at her home state with her brother in his apartment with his son-his son was okay.
It was during this time I laid conscious witness to the wrath a woman is capable of, most notably my mother; this boyfriend of hers was not only more gentle natured but also an immigrant whom my mother helped attain a green card; my mother’s drinking increased ten fold, puking in the toilet every morning became a routine for them both; fucking for everyone to hear became the norm; my mother was extremely obnoxious I trying to be one of the guys during this time.
Over time my mother had progressed from mocking and humiliating her boyfriend in front of her brother to shaming his religion, his family, and his character (notice how she coaxed him into the distance from his family), to all out punching him in his sleep demanding that he go do the fucking laundry. We heard everything-how she’d slap, scratch, punch, call him a bitch, a faggot, a dumbass man-there were times she’d brag about being able to get any man she wants as men only care for one thing (she was beautiful in her youth but that has long since faded).
Eventually her boyfriend began working and when he had enough money he ditched her completely calling her at the greyhound station at midnight as he awaited his bus; my mother didn’t have a car to go fight him, she was powerless: she resorted to a low growl demanding that he come back to her, that he won’t leave her, that he can’t leave, that they were supposed to get married and have children, that he better get his fucking ass back her NOW!
He stood his ground and I admired him for it.
Throughout the weeks of her grief my mother my mother go through days drunkenly sobbing about wanting to slit her wrists and blaming us for it.
My mother eventually found a job and got an apartment for us all; she went back to drinking and seducing a man from work whom she had written poetry about (we read her diaries).
Eventually there came a day I had gotten kicked out of an alternative school for having slit my wrists; throughout a six month period I spoke with a therapist which she detested as I exposed the truth of her ways to therapist with her there in frustration of following her orders on pretending everything was fine so as to get back into the school but I didn’t care. I knew the school was done with me and I with them.
The following months were tense between us especially being 18 at the time and seemingly doing nothing with my life except for wallowing in self pity (it’s true, I was).
Eventually the tension amounted to us having a massive argument, the neighbors below were terrified and called the police, my mother called her brother to come over and kick my ass, I was arrested for disturbing the peace and after having made the dumb decision to plead not guilty I was finally released after nine from the help of one of the fellow inmates.
The world did not look the same, I felt lost, I felt pathetic, I didn’t know what to do or where to go, what was I doing with my life? Why am I doing this to myself? It was only worse after having walked back home only to find all my belongings were tossed to the wayside in sake of their leisure.
I broke down and contemplated suicide over and over again until I had finally called the hotline for my therapist; they invited me over and I spoke with a couple women who assured me they’d let my therapist know of everything going and if there was any way they could help, I decided I’d be fine and that I’d come in the next day.
My mother and I argued that night: at this point I thought “fuck it, I’m done letting anyone walk over me again: I’m not taking their shit anymore even if it costs me my life.” My mother demanded I leave, I refused, she called her brother to come kick my ass; after sometime she packed up with my sister and left, picking up my brother from his job along the way. After a few hours I heard a knock, I crept my way to the peep hole to find a hand covering my view; I could hear from the creeking in the stairs that there was more than one other person there, most likely their little brother. They’d knock for a few minutes and then kick the door before leaving, doing this throughout the entire night; I sat in the kitchen with all the lights off crying to myself how done I am with them, how ready I am to fight back as hard as I ever have should they break through the door. I knew as soon as I opened the door my uncle would have beat and raped me though not kill me, I knew he’d easily over power me but I wasn’t going down without a fight.
The next day comes and I decide to hell with them all; I leave the city never to look back.
It didn’t help that throughout this time my girlfriend at the time had disappeared due to a bout of her own sorrow, I didn’t ever think she’d come back.
I was far more dominant in my youth especially with a cousin I had fallen in love with (the love was mutual) but by the time I had fallen with my girlfriend whom I would be with for three years from the age of 18 to 20 I had become notably softer in my handling of women-this was compounded when I was slapped with the reality of the real world, the world I had been sheltered from all my life, for much of it anyway.
I was afraid of falling behind so I worked the first job I could at some restaurant dwelling in petty quarrels.
I believed the only way to survive was conforming to their ways, your ways, the way of the corporate state; I was lost and only knew I had too much potential to squander but no understanding in how to guide it.
The relationship between myself and my then girlfriend was intimate and affectionate; she eventually came back and I forgave her unconditionally; we were a long distance couple and after a couple years of saving (piss poor spending habits on my behalf) I finally journey across the country to meet with her for the first and it was more amazing than I anticipated it could be; meeting her truly cemented in me the belief (or the knowledge) that a soulmate truly does exist, that some things truly are meant to be.
Later that year it turns out she’s turned out (she’s gay); it wasn’t a revelation she was willing to share with me openly; she was still processing her sexuality (she’s lived in repression which was only compounded with her eating disorder, purging), but I wanted answers so I coaxed it out of her; she didn’t cheat on me but she had a crush which she em felt excruciating guilt for as her crush was her brother’s girlfriend. I was understanding and forgiving but even so I was conflicted with feelings of cuckoldry and inadequacy as I felt a failure of a man for having been so naive as to have turned a blind eye to many of the signs which had vied for my attention before (she was never into having sex with me, always only saw me as cute, wasn’t really attracted to other men, tried getting me to break up with her after expressing remorse for having flirted with another man, and reacted with hot excitement after showing her a picture of the cousin I had fallen in love with.)
I’ve regretted it ever since but I pushed her away for the sake of my pride.
She truly did love me, she truly was a lover in spirit and I’ve ruined it.
I had reached out to her several months later with a letter but she never responded; I don’t blame her, she deserves more than a flimsy-hurried letter.
I believed that pushing her away in favor of my family was what I needed; I believed that I could heal my family, that could make us whole, that I could help us all become more than what we are, that we can overcome this together as a family, but I was wrong, I was so wrong.
I played the forgiving role, sweeping everything under the rug with them at first; but that didn’t sit well with me. I didn’t want any of us walking on egg shells around each other and I certainly didn’t want us living in denial of all that had happened.
There came a day when I wanted to express my rage and I wanted them to listen; my mother was defensive and my father was offended; I decided to hell with them both and so it’s been that ever since.
I know not every woman is like this, but what are the odds in finding another woman-my “ideal” woman? It is foolish to impose ideals upon others and especially myself, ideals are for the naive. Much of the women who could be considered my type are usually in the mind of a safe, corporate life with a salary and college education: I despise the corporate state and especially the education system which is no place for knowledge but only doctrines: my passions and ambitions are too barbarous for these women and the odds of finding someone like my last girlfriend are quite slim, she truly was exceptional (there’s also the fact that gay and straight women are fundamentally different, it’s a difference I find shocking and painful but true nevertheless, straight women are far more shallow than the gays); I’ve tried to date around, I’ve met and gotten to know people-the amount of people only interested in casual sex is mighty disheartening as I very much desire a strong and committed relationship in which we grow with each other but it becomes ever more clear that the only thing straight women care for is their submission to power: they truly do not care for anything else of a man unless he’s able to dominate them and make them his slut: in every woman is a slave and a tyrant; give her liberty and she will tyrannize you; make her submit and she is yours. The only women who claim to admire depth in a man only do so because the man in question is in truth just an illusion of a fever dream as he’s yet to embrace his own sacred masculinity-those “men” they desire are no men at all but the Frankensteins of a civilization in decay.
I will not live as a lecher as I value the soil and the body lest I enable and contribute to the degeneracy.
I’ve decided to embrace my chastity; I don’t know if the key will ever be found by another, another worthy of the key, perhaps I will, perhaps I won’t, but I know the path of degeneracy is no path for me; but what of the men? Will they not look down upon me? I will force my will upon them.
