(WARNING: This post contains liberal doses of personal story and very little “theory.” Use at your own risk)
Six in the third place means:
He splits with them. No blame.
An individual finds himself in an evil environment to which he is
committed by external ties. But he has an inner relationship with a superior
man, and through this he attains the stability to free himself from the way of
the inferior people around him. This brings him into opposition to them of
course, but that is not wrong.
It took me 35 years of my life just to start to understand who I really was, beneath the layers of Mommy-talk and Churchianity and Blue Pill sexuality and Being a Good Boy and Respecting Authority and especially, never, ever hating anyone or anything.
As the oldest of six children I got to spend a few years with “Mommy” all to myself, and up through Junior High she was always there when I came home from school, with an All-American snack ready and plenty of homey religious platitudes about turning the other cheek to bullies and sharing your toys with the Unfortunate and most of all, being nice.
Nice Boys who were Boy Scouts and trustworthy/loyal/helpful/friendly/courteous/kind/obedient/cheerful/thrifty/brave/clean&/reverent were not only pleasing to their Mothers, but Nice Girls liked nice boys and by God, if I just did everything Jesus said I’d marry one after avoiding premarital sex and masturbation until I was 23 or so.
Now, I didn’t realize it at the time, but Mom had married the biggest, baddest Alpha available, a six-foot, 200 pound football/baseball star with a harem, when she was still 17 and hot to get thoroughly laid two or three times a day. Daddy, I eventually found out, wasn’t a Nice Boy at all, but a High-T roughhouser in the corporate world, often working until well after the rest of the family had dinner. Daddy didn’t talk to me all that much, but he did have some pretty good advice, like, “Don’t do anything half-assed.” At least that has stuck with me.
This family drama is no different, in its general outlines, from millions of others in America starting sometime after WWII. Or perhaps whenever people started taking psychiatry (“shrinks”) seriously. As early as 1942 Phillip Wylie, in Generation of Vipers, had already seen clearly what was up with American business, government and, especially, MOM.
(Standard disclaimer here: my Mom was a moral, wonderful woman who took good care of me and my brothers and sisters and without doubt was trying the best she could to raise me “right.” She was also a woman. I’m sure she thought she was doing the “right thing” by teaching me what she did.)
The problem was I knew very well I wasn’t a “nice” little boy, inside. I liked helping Dad kill the gophers in the lawn by flooding their burrows and flattening them with a shovel, and I liked exploding ant hills with firecrackers and I liked shooting guns and I especially liked it when John Wayne put a bullet in a bad guy. Or when Steve McQueen shot Karl Malden in the knees in Nevada Smith.
Meanwhile, I was being told by Mom and Sunday School to turn the other cheek, do good to those that harm you, that God would take care of justice in Heaven and don’t get into fights.
The conflicts between all of this and reality is obvious now, to me and you and everyone else, but of course a little 5-6-7-8-year-old can’t comprehend that. I became a massively conflicted person who often didn’t want to do anything except read books and withdraw from the dark, dark world. After a certain age, that’s all on me. We only get to blame Mommy and Daddy for our problems for so long.
What were the conflicts? I knew I was very intelligent, but I didn’t see anything in the world on which it was worth applying that intelligence. I was tall and strong, able to defeat most other men physically, but whenever I was threatened a cold, emotionless feeling would come over me and I knew I could brutally beat or kill the one who threatened me, without regret or pain or guilt, and that went against everything I’d been drilled in from babyhood. So I avoided fights at all cost. I had the ability to lead and inspire people with my physical presence and mental abilities, but I didn’t want to “play games” or be a “manipulator.”
We can profitably skip over a lot of years spent working various jobs to make ends meet, drinking beer and watching sports, reading books and smoking weed. The pot was the perfect anti-anxiety drug for me and the people I hung with; sweet, mellow, all conflicts fading away, relaxation of the ever-present tension and sweet passivity. Y’know, whatever floats your boat, man.
So yes, let’s fast-forward: the painful truth is that I was a 35-year-old man working at an adult day-care facility and, literally, getting paid to wipe some poor brain-damaged guy’s ass. All this time I had been reading books, oh thousands of them, about “self-improvement” and so on, How to find Freedom in an Unfree World and Win Friends and Influence People, Atlas Shrugged and Winning Through Intimidation and so on–and every one of them was full of great stuff, the distilled wisdom of some real winners and achievers. I found out just how enjoyable it was to read Ayn Rand’s dense and awesome prose while smoking a pipe of marijuana; it just sure as fuck wasn’t going to change anything about my life.
My brother gave me a copy of Tony Robbins’ Unlimited Power just then. He’d picked it up at an airport and didn’t think he’d be doing anything with it. I started reading and something clicked for me, though I don’t think it had to do with the content so much as with my own sick-and-tiredness with what I was doing. Give credit where credit is due; thanks, Tony. In a few hours of concentrated effort I wrote down some things I really demanded, not just wanted, to do:
- Quit dead-end job
- Move back to Alaska, climb mountains
- Finish bachelors degree
- Work for the state legislature and gain power/influence to advance liberty
- Have more sex; after that, find a decent wife and have kid(s)
It took longer than originally planned, and there were some fits and starts, but I did do all of these things. Above all, and ad astra per aspera, I burned away the desire to be nice, to avoid conflict.
I wasn’t afraid to win, anymore.
A couple years ago I saw a book by Andy McNabb, SAS badass and author, and Kevin Dutton (academic shrink) titled The Good Psychopath’s Guide to Success. I was intrigued, because psychopaths are, we’ve been conditioned to believe, ruthless and brutal people who have no thought, empathy or concern for anyone else, totally self-interested, maybe serial murderers. I’d read McNabb’s books and he didn’t seem like that at all; elite military units like SAS, Navy Seals, etc. are totally oriented toward team success, personal sacrifice for the mission, and having each others’ backs at all times. So what was going on?
Dutton and McNabb laid out the signs of the Good Psychopath: Cool under pressure, detached, invigorated by challenges and difficulties:
“You feel as if your conscience is on ice, don’t you?…Everything that other’s see as a nightmare, you see as a game, don’t you? As if you’re an alien sent to earth to study humans but never understand what the fuck they get up to?”
Yep. Me, too. After I quit smoking the chiba I found out that part of what I’d been keeping down wasn’t just generalized anxiety, it was anxiety about who I really was. I was not as most other men. I didn’t really give a fuck about your emotions, your pain. I wanted to get the job done. I didn’t care about starving Africans, discrimination against homos in Saudi Arabia, or historical injustices to Native Americans. I was told over and over and over, all my life, that I was supposed to care about these tings, to feel their pain, but I just didn’t, and don’t. I was in touch with a core something that most people don’t want to talk about, to even think about. See the motto or tag line of this site above:
“Everyone and everything that wasn’t a stupendous badass was dead.” ― Neal Stephenson, Cryptonomicon
So back in January I caught sight of Dark Triad Man (and I now recall it was in a comment here). It appealed. I started putting out tweets linking some of his articles. Some people (fairly enough) wondered what was going on.
People I respect noted that the content on this site was inside a lot of marketing. It’s hype, it’s got a bunch of pictures of Ivan Throne, Prop. in various power poses:
Frankly, I just like this guy and his writings. He edits, he’s polished, he’s got a professional looking site. He’s got books for sale–but I haven’t paid him any money, at least not yet.
I believe I especially like his stuff because it represents a final step in my own life; I’m thoroughly over all the bullshit “society” fed me growing up about how to be in the world, about masochistic altruism and being nice and other people’s feelings. Other people’s feelings are important–important to getting what you want, for you, your family, your tribe and maybe even your country. Outside of those first three or maybe four, I just don’t give a damn anymore.
I guess Ivan came along at the right time to give me one last push out of the old skin I was already shedding. He’s not for everybody, perhaps. But whoever you are, embrace who you really are, the things you know are True inside, and let the world go its merry, bloody way. It doesn’t care.
You don’t have to, either.