Ein interessanter autobiografischer Bericht zum Incel*-Problem, welches vom Feminismus nicht ansatzweise zur Kenntnis genommen wird.
* “Involuntarily celebate”
Das Incel Phänomen ist meines Erachtens relevant, weil es sehr stark deutlich macht, was Feminismus – vor allem die Rape Hysterie – anrichten kann. Vor allem bei unsicheren Männern. Feminismus geht über ihre Leichen und schert sich einen Dreck drum. Die zarten Seelen von Frauen sind unendlich viel wichtiger.
Am MIT ist ein rennommierter Prof rausgeschmissen worden, weil er angeblich in Onlinekursen Mädchen sexuell belästigt hat. Klingt nach Brüderle-Dimensionen, wahrscheinlich ist quasi nichts so wirklich passiert, aber alle nehmen alles unglaublich ernst, beteuern 5x pro Satz, dass sexual harrasment ja nun gar nicht geht, zero-tolerance (Ha!) und so, und das Lebenswerk des Mannes, der 40 Jahre lang ein hervorragender Professor war, liegt ohne genaue Angaben von Gründen im Dreck.
Auf der verlinkten Seite entspinnt sich ein Kommentarstrang mit Hunderten von Meinungen, wovon ich auf diese besonders hingewiesen wurde.
(sigh) Here’s the thing: I spent my formative years—basically, from the age of 12 until my mid-20s—feeling not “entitled,” not “privileged,” but terrified. I was terrified that one of my female classmates would somehow find out that I sexually desired her, and that the instant she did, I would be scorned, laughed at, called a creep and a weirdo, maybe even expelled from school or sent to prison. You can call that my personal psychological problem if you want, but it was strongly reinforced by everything I picked up from my environment: to take one example, the sexual-assault prevention workshops we had to attend regularly as undergrads, with their endless lists of all the forms of human interaction that “might be” sexual harassment or assault, and their refusal, ever, to specify anything that definitely wouldn’t be sexual harassment or assault. I left each of those workshops with enough fresh paranoia and self-hatred to last me through another year.
I was smart enough to realize that maybe this was silly, maybe I was overanalyzing things. So I scoured the feminist literature for any statement to the effect that my fears were as silly as I hoped they were. But I didn’t find any. On the contrary: I found reams of text about how even the most ordinary male/female interactions are filled with “microaggressions,” and how even the most “enlightened” males—especially the most “enlightened” males, in fact—are filled with hidden entitlement and privilege and a propensity to sexual violence that could burst forth at any moment.
Because of my fears—my fears of being “outed” as a nerdy heterosexual male, and therefore as a potential creep or sex criminal—I had constant suicidal thoughts. As Bertrand Russell wrote of his own adolescence: “I was put off from suicide only by the desire to learn more mathematics.”
At one point, I actually begged a psychiatrist to prescribe drugs that would chemically castrate me (I had researched which ones), because a life of mathematical asceticism was the only future that I could imagine for myself. The psychiatrist refused to prescribe them, but he also couldn’t suggest any alternative: my case genuinely stumped him.
All this time, I faced constant reminders that the males who didn’t spend months reading and reflecting about feminism and their own shortcomings—even the ones who went to the opposite extreme, who engaged in what you called “good old-fashioned ass-grabbery”—actually had success that way. The same girls who I was terrified would pepper-spray me and call the police if I looked in their direction, often responded to the crudest advances of the most Neanderthal of men by accepting those advances. Yet it was I, the nerd, and not the Neanderthals, who needed to check his privilege and examine his hidden entitlement!
This, to my mind, “defiance” of feminism is the main reason why I was able to enjoy a few years of a normal, active dating life, which then led to meeting the woman who I married.
Now, the whole time I was struggling with this, I was also fighting a second battle: to maintain the liberal, enlightened, feminist ideals that I had held since childhood, against a powerful current pulling me away from them.
And no, I’m not even suggesting to equate the ~15 years of crippling, life-destroying anxiety I went through with the trauma of a sexual assault victim. The two are incomparable; they’re horrible in different ways. But let me draw your attention to one difference: the number of academics who study problems like the one I had is approximately zero. There are no task forces devoted to it, no campus rallies in support of the sufferers, no therapists or activists to tell you that you’re not alone or it isn’t your fault. There are only therapists and activists to deliver the opposite message: that you are alone and it is your privileged, entitled, male fault.
The Blue Pill is strong in this one.
Seine 15 Jahre Selbstmordgedanken sind genauso schlimm, wie wenn der falsche Mann zu einer Frau sagt, sie habe Holz vor der Hüttn.