The Victim

I don’t know how this will be received, but I believe every once in a while, it’s worth reminding that we have to carry ourselves into a World hostile to an unplugged man’s life. Outside of our much focused and sometimes myopic quest of getting what we want out of this short existence, we forget that the self-deluded are all around us. Every rough edge to any circumstance has a tendency to appear like the head of a nail peeking out from some weather-beaten timber needing to be smashed flat.

The matter-of-fact, come along or get left behind mindset, is excellent for dealing with your spouse, kids, business associates, and friends. Men learn quickly that most people prefer to defer, and if they can follow your vision to a beneficial place, everyone is happy. Men understand that being the supplier of resources, be it time, fun, money or leadership, is a burden to be accepted. If a man is lucky, those around him provide value in return, and life is interesting.

My mother is a self-identifying victim. A Boomer hippie, she decided commune life in California was “more free” than collective life in the Midwest. I think it was the farming she grew to hate, when she really wanted drugs instead. So she and my father, the prototype soy “gentle” son of a WWII Marine, decided to leave me with “friends” at a Utopian style collective when I was three. No one from any state authorities knew my parents were gone, and a check from the government came to the residence to help the community take care of me. I went to school with the other children, and I was none the wiser until I turned six.

New regulations were passed as I was entering first grade, and every kid had to have vaccinations, or a religious reason to decline. Regardless, physical parents needed to be available to sign documents and appear at school to answer any questions. Needless to say, this was too much of an administrative burden on the group, and a number of us kids immediately became wards of the state.

I was in a group home until nine, when I was adopted. My adopted parents worked hard, gave me a very stable foundation, and I succeeded in their care. I thought that would be the end of any family revelations, but 40 years later, things changed.

Victims don’t understand burdens or value. Victims only understand pain. “Victim” has been allowed to become an identity for far too many people, including many of those into whom men pour vast resources. Our own desire to make things smooth just to solve the goddamn problem makes men forget nuance, and become the hammer.

With this in mind, my biological mother reappeared needing something. I came to find out at 43 years old that I am her only child and she has cancer. She has adult leukemia, with complications from Hepatitis C. My mom is a dirty whore with a blown immune system and failing liver. Of course science has come to the rescue of the Boomers with a Hep C cure, so all she needs is bone marrow from me to hopefully make her strong enough to put the cancer in remission to save her liver.

At first, my mother asked if I would donate a portion of my liver. I told her to fuck off.

Here is where nuance and setting an example for others came into play. If I would have cast myself as a victim, and focused on the numerous times some predator tried to grab my dick as a child in that group home, or getting beat up weekly for being “Orphan Boy,” I would have let the selfish cunt die a jaundiced emaciated death.

What I did, instead of focusing on this one person from my past, was register on a national marrow system, so hopefully she will be but one of multiple people I help, because it’s what I choose to do. It’s altruism from my mental point of origin.

Of course, I was the bad person and aggressor in the end anyway. I don’t talk with my mother for obvious reasons, but from her long-winded Facebook postings, she is heartbroken, I’m ungrateful, she did the best she could, I should be more supportive, a mother’s love is forever, I ignore her financial problems, I deny her the “right” to see her grandchildren, etc. . . .

As surprising as her tone-deafness, are the responses to her posts in support of her nonsense. She has a complete support system of old, dried out, Caucasian whores (and thirsty old men) that tell each other every minute of every day that they are the victims of society. I literally saved this woman’s life, so that she may libel me.

The silver lining in all of this is that I don’t have Facebook, and that I’m anonymous on Twitter. I’ve come to value my wife more through this experience, because she is the one who reads the garbage and summarizes everything for me. She’s very cute and careful about it too, which makes it fun. It also lets me know that she values my worth over the drama that could be generated for her time and attention. I let her get outraged for me, and for some reason, having a common enemy also gets her in the mood.

We choose to be victims or not, and we choose our own tribe. Don’t let your past tear down what you are continually building.

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