truethat
Banned
- Joined
- Sep 10, 2007
- Messages
- 13,389
Why do you think those lies are being told? Why do people lie to begin with?
Are you familiar with fabrications and lies told "witnesses" at the war trials?
Most of the poll voters voted by political correctness as you probably did.
Why do I think they lied? To make it somewhat easier for others to understand what was going on. I think the human mind has a hard time understanding torture and suffering. Even the testimony could not equate what really happened. And I think you should consider that in your own reactions. You live in a very comfortable world. I would imagine you have not been tortured and have not suffered so you experience a sort of cognitive dissonance with regard to this history.
One thing that is nice about being a total rebel on this site, is that you cannot accuse me of going along with the crowd in a sense of political correctness. If I was politically correct I would not even engage you in the first place.
I wrote something some time ago about my own experiences with suffering.
When people talk about abused children there is often this suggestion that being abused will create a monster. It is a sort of distancing from the capacity of evil in man. And it’s been difficult for me to sit by in silence because to argue the point would be to put myself out there with my experiences, which when I have done this in the past, has caused a sort of pity of me which is not very comfortable.
In sitting in silence I feel that I don’t contribute what I should to the conversation. But also for many years I have experienced a great deal of worry and fear in not quite comprehending how it was that I managed as a child to get through the experiences of my upbringing without flinching in my resolve. It seems almost unreal to think that I had at such a young age the temerity to withstand these influences and yet I remember never bending; always knowing what was right and what was wrong even if everyone else in my family told me otherwise. I often felt like Steve McQueen’s character in The Great Escape.
To suffice it simply I was raised in family of six children by an alcoholic mother who I would suggest had schizophrenia perhaps, but definitely narcissistic personality disorder. In a typical family of alcoholism one child is usually singled out as a scapegoat and that was me. My father was basically a man with no self esteem and a passive withdrawing person who hid from his problems and escaped through work and dismantling electronics in a room in the attic to be left alone.
My mother had delusions of grandeur and was well read. For example she read us children Kafka’s Metamorphosis one Easter. She was obsessed with biblical interpretation when I was young. And so she viewed suffering as something that could be used to teach. Aside from this she was a violent abusive and crazy drunk. I always got in trouble for confronting her with her actions and not standing by when she was abusive towards one of my younger siblings. This was considered disrespectful. Beatings were a regular occurrence. But those physical attacks are barely in my memory. They don't hold a candle to my solitary confinement.
There was a ritual of my “banishment” from the rest of my family from the time that I was 10 years old until about the age of 15 when I escaped. And it’s odd that I and my older sister refer to our leaving home as “escaping from the house” but this is what it felt like. During the school year it was not so bad really. But in the summer it was terrible.
My ritual was to be sent to basement and ignored. And that’s basically it. In the basement I had a pillow and blanket and I slept on the floor and that was it. In the basement we had a toilet and an industrial sink so I could get water easily. But I couldn’t get food. One particular summer I was banished in the basement for the entire summer vacation. No one in my family was allowed to talk to me and so at times they would forget to feed me for days and days.
It is strange to recall those times in the basement because there was so much fear involved because of my age. In some ways there were things that would still be hard today, physical abuse, hunger and darkness at night with bugs crawling. In other ways there were things that I see were manifestations of my own fear, the fear in the darkness, the loneliness and feelings of persecution, the worry, the unknown, the shame.
Until you have experienced something like this you don't understand at all. You can't imagine what it is like to watch a beam of light on a wall for hours, being too tired to even move because of such hunger pains and depression. Your depression leaves you after a while, your outrage goes as well, you fall down into a well of lonliness and just continue, you do not live, you only continue.
Until you have experienced fear like this you don't understand at all. Your heart becomes weakened from panic and terror, terror is very hard to explain to people who have not experienced it. You want to come out of your skin. You go on and on and on. You do not understand. You try not to understand, sleep becomes a way of life that can save you. But then when you are not allowed to sleep you exist in a cold painful surrealism that is never ever able to be explained.
In my essay I also wrote this
I have realized that suffering is something that is very hard to explain to people who have not really suffered; especially not an imprisoning suffering. There is always a sort of skepticism that can’t accept that people could really be this cruel. It was not until I read Victor Frankl’s, “Man’s Search for Meaning” did I ever find someone that I felt truly understood what the experience was like. And in his work he suggested something very important me personally,
If a prisoner felt that he could no longer endure the realities of camp life, he found a way out in his mental life - an invaluable opportunity to dwell in the spiritual domain, the one that the SS were unable to destroy. Spiritual life strengthened the prisoner, helped him adapt, and thereby improved his chances of survival.
”
Man in Search of Meaning, p. 123
I do not compare my experiences to the Holocaust. But I know that my experiences are rarely understood. I hardly ever try to discuss them with anyone because it is incomprehensible to most. And over the years I've had conversations with my mother because she never really saw it the way it went down. First she doesn't remember most of what she did because of blackouts. Second she blames the other members of my family including my siblings for not feeding me or bringing me my needs. She doesn't to this day understand the kind of terror she inflicted in our family. She reminds me a lot of Jim Jones. She doesn't want to admit any of it. My family also wants to let it go because it is very painful. In some ways I think I am lucky to have been banished because she was equally as cruel to all of them.
And to your question why did these lies happen. Well in some ways when I've recounted these times with my family members, we each have different interpretations. For example I mix up incidents that happened when I was 10 or when I was 14. And I don't always get the details right. It is only when someone sits down and measures it out with with am I able to sort it out correctly. But having "escaped" I don't want to do that. I want to exist in the joy of life that I never thought would ever be mine.
You might deny my whole experience based on the misplacement of dates, names and rooms. You could challenge the veracity of it all. But I know what happen and so do my family members. But even they do not understand the depths of despair in which I existed. To them I was simply down in the basement. They didn't experience the eerie misery. They don't understand. When I say I was in the basement it doesn't convey the way the unfinished walls leaked water all night. The way I'd wake in the morning and pick slugs off my legs. The way the darkness was constant except for two small windows in the back. The way in the winter months the cold was so unbearable. The way I waited and waited and went on and on in boredom and in such loneliness. It is impossible to recreate in words those experiences.
You need to ask yourself why the minutiae matters to you more than the devastation and anguish. Why those details count more than the evidence that piles up in front of you like so many bodies.
It is as if your reality hinges on it not being true in order to justify your moving forward in the world on an even keel. But those who have experienced know that it must always be remembered even if it is not understood or remembered perfectly. Because life doesn't exist on an even keel and people are capable of being apathetic co conspirators in that dark dark place. We must not shy away from the truth of cruelty that exists in all humans. We must not be afraid to admit it. Because this is the only way to stop it.
Why do I believe them? Because I understand some of what they have tried to explain. Even if they can't get all the details right, their eyes know, their hearts explain it to me silently. I understand because I remember. And those with whom I have had conversations are the only ones I've met who understand me as well.
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