A body-snatched Spaniard, 14

On 30 October 2009 I received an e-mail from Teresa:

I’m surfing the internet once more after lots of time of not doing it, and I still don’t see all of those things you had to tell me that you couldn’t because, as you put it, I was “paying your bills”… What should I think? That you lied to me?

That if I lied to her, she asks. Even after month and a half of having managed to reach escape velocity from her gravitational field, Tere doesn’t perceive that when I lived in Las Palmas I didn’t want to talk to her. Moreover, I never had the slightest intention of telling her what I thought about her.

As stated in my previous entry, Teresa reproached me that I didn’t comment on a film significant to her. That’s precisely what Tere had in mind in her latest e-mail, cited above. In Las Palmas I responded that I couldn’t comment due to my economic dependency. Had I said that it was unthinkable for me to be an intimate confident of someone for whom I felt extreme repulsion, I could’ve been kicked out to the street… After her demand of an impossible compassion and my reluctance of telling my reasons, Tere imagined that, once in Mexico, I would feel free to tell her everything by e-mail. The truth is that I never promised anything: in Spain I only wanted to get rid of her. Her words “What should I think? That you lied to me?” only show her eternal demands and projections. And about telling her the truth, my goal here is not to hurt her (I could’ve easily added her last name throughout this long article), but to elucidate a very concrete case of suicidal self-hate as we will see in this last entry.

Although I have material for a book about my misfortunes with Tere, with this fourteenth and last entry it’s enough. I’m afraid, therefore, that I won’t keep my promise a couple of entries ago: “although I was fed up of her crazy phone calls, about which I’ll talk in another entry.” Suffice it to say that those phone calls were lunatic inquisitions from Tere: similar stuff to that story about a single trash bag with which Tere tormented me for a few days. Nevertheless, in this entry I’ll certainly talk about another story I promised to tell.

Teresa ends up in the Fruit Cake Hospital

This is the most important section of my analysis. It has to do with my hypothesis that an unprocessed hatred toward the abusive family transmutes into depression, as I explain in my essay “On depression.” Within this framework, suicide or suicidal ideation are perfectly comprehensible. Indeed, suicidal ideation is what at the beginnings of the new century Tere suffered when she was committed to a psychiatry ward of a public hospital of Las Palmas. This is the story:

By the end of 2002 Tere contacted me through the internet for the first time. In that year I still didn’t have a webpage. But I had translated to Spanish several anti-psychiatric articles authored by Lawrence Stevens. Tere liked especially one of those articles in which, following Tom Szasz, Stevens said that suicide ought to be “a civil right.”

Tere rarely writes in English. Instead of contacting the author she contacted the translator—me—, and through a series of e-mails she revealed an interesting story that I believed from 2002 to 2009, when my trip to her native island disabused me. I confess that since we met in the internet Tere was so fascinated with my anti-psychiatric work that, for years, she paid the bill of my (now defunct) antipsych webpage.

The day that I left her island for good Tere was in her flat of Las Palmas. On her own initiative, she showed me the file of the psychiatric ward in which she was committed not long before she contacted me in 2002. Although it was written in almost illegible handwriting by the nurses and physicians of the hospital, the file demystified the story that Tere had detailed in her e-mails of 2002, as well as in 2003 when she visited Mexico.

In the idealized story, Tere was casually passing by near a bridge in her island when a policeman believed she would jump from it and called the ambulance, which unjustly took her to the hospital. A female doctor, her story goes, had her in an observation room and Tere protested that the detention was taking too long. This moved the doctor to arbitrarily commit her. Once involuntarily committed in the psychiatric ward she was drugged with Valium, again against her will. The tranquilizer produced a terrible side effect, paralyzing her muscles and Tere believed she would die. She wasn’t allowed to leave the ward for days and days… (If she was cut off the outside world it was because she didn’t want to give the doctors but a single phone number of a girlfriend, who to boot was never at home.) Once her brother took her out of the hospital, Tere was so scared that decided to move to Madrid. Even though she owns a flat in Las Palmas (where I would live years later), Tere preferred to share an expensive flat in Madrid in her obsession to get away, at all cost, from the betrayal she suffered in her native island.

This is Tere’s tale. Originally it made such an impression on me that I mentioned it in my webpage without mentioning her name, as a typical case of psychiatric commitment of a sane person. However, when Tere showed me the psychiatric file, I discovered that her tale was a fabrication.

In the diverse documents that Tere showed me, what first caught my eye was the police report. He testified that Tere told him she was measuring the bridge’s height. Tere hadn’t told me this little detail! What I remember now is that even in her idealized version Tere said she rudely talked back to the policeman when he asked, alarmed, where exactly was she going.

Until now I start to connect the dots. Remember how Tere treated the employees of Las Palmas? The point is that such behavior provides a very different reading of the facts. The policeman knew that another person had killed himself a week before by jumping off the bridge. Now, confronted with a rude woman talking about measuring the bridge’s height in the middle of nowhere in a freeway road, he called the ambulance. I remember that Tere herself confessed me that the reason she talked rudely to the policeman was because of what the police symbolized in her mind when she was much younger, especially due to the character of the Francoist police.

So we’ve got Franco once more. It’s evident that Tere projects her juvenile experiences to the present, and onto completely innocent people. Nowadays the Spanish police are very different from Franco’s police, and even more in the Canary Islands. The Canary people in general, and the Spanish police in particular, are kind. However, due to her eternal retro-projections Tere didn’t see any provocation coming from her rude answer to the policeman, who only fulfilled his duty after the recent incident. On the contrary, and like other persons with an attitude problem, Tere projects her traumas onto the people in her immediate surroundings, however innocent they may be. For example, in one of her most provocative e-mails Tere wrote:

Are you sure you are not projecting toward the Islamic subject your unresolved rage and revenge thirst for the harm you got in the family during your teens????????

Tere’s head of concrete impedes her seeing that I’m not projecting but describing what’s happening in Europe. That’s not projection. Tere’s words are a projected self-portrait onto the people she happens to encounter. If there’s someone whose “rage and revenge thirst” is unresolved, it is Tere’s. It’s she the one who suffers from “family harms.”

This is not the first time when someone projects onto myself her self-portraiture. Analogously, the first event in the chain that ended up in her commitment, the policeman’s call to the ambulance, had been a diametrically-opposed incident to the story Tere had made me believe. Let’s now see what happened after that.

According to Tere’s tale, the commitment had been an arbitrary action of the female doctor in charge of the admissions. Only until I arrived to the island I learnt that Tere’s suicidal ideation had been something very real. From Tere herself I learned that she was measuring the bridge’s height to make sure she would die after jumping off! Tere told me this personally in Canaria: not even by e-mail. She had to check up the height because a couple of her acquaintances had jumped off from not sufficiently tall buildings and have survived with huge body handicaps. But I found even more surprises in her file…

One of the things that surprised me the most is that Tere made a few little tantrums asking to leave the hospital, confronting the nurses with the words:

“I can take my life whenever I want!”


“I can take my life when I feel like doing it!”

Although I don’t have the file with me, I remember those phrases. When I read the police’s report—that Tere intended to measure the bridge’s height—, or the nurses’ report—that she made tantrums about taking her life—, amazed, I asked Tere: “But did you tell them those things?”

Candidly Tere assented and rationalized her conduct as the legitimate reaction before the commitment. There were other phrases of this kind, but I don’t remember them exactly. Since Tere only let me see the file in her presence, I couldn’t annotate what I read. But I can state that the file transmitted a very vivid image that Tere made a fool of herself in the hospital, lachrymosely demanding her right to kill herself. That had been the real cause of her commitment, not the malevolence of the Canary authorities, the version of the story that I had originally swallowed.

When Tere showed me the file it didn’t cross her mind that the revelation would radically transform the idea I had about her case. Tere showed it to me under the impression that I, who for a couple of years had done anti-psychiatric activism, would solidarize with her cause. She never perceived that by showing it to me her old tale would crumble.

A person in his right mind would have kept up a straight face, even someone who would commit suicide. There are people in their right mind that commit suicide. Tere’s file, on the other hand, registered temper tantrum after temper tantrum in the psychiatric ward, aggravated by the side-effect of the Valium that impeded her to breath normally and even “to open the anal sphincter” when going to the toilet, as Tere confessed a Scientologist who does some activism against involuntary psychiatry. Even though Tere let me read only a fraction of the file, her acting out was so obvious that I wonder why wasn’t she punished with much stronger psychiatric drugs. As I said, the Canary people that I met were very kind; this might explain why they didn’t administer her neuroleptics.

I never told Tere a word about how her file had changed my mind. Still, each time that the file reported one of the amazing phrases attributed to Tere, I asked incredulously: “Did you say that…?” Tere continued to assent without perceiving how the new revelations would change my previous opinion.

Tere’s file refreshed my memory on another subject. When in 2002 I read the long tale that Tere had written, I gathered that in the previous days to her fateful visit to the bridge she was extremely upset about a lawsuit against her previous employer, a rather long and tiresome lawsuit process she had initiated. Tere’s frustration about it drove her to visit the bridge.

In September 11 of 2009, the day I escaped from her island, to my surprise those lawsuits were mentioned in the psychiatric file that I saw. And after watching Tere aggressively arguing in her island with innocent employees the first days we arrived to the island, a behavior she would later repeat with me for sure, the dots connected by themselves. For example, Tere told me that she had reproached, angrily, her detention addressing the female doctor in charge of the admissions in the psychiatric ward. I didn’t tell Tere what was in my mind when she confessed this little incident, but it seems pretty obvious that this resulted in a one-way ticket to the ward. Who on earth dares to talk rudely to the one in charge of admissions within the psychiatric ward itself? Only someone so overwhelmed by her emotional issues that acts out her suicidal ideation in front of the thoughtpolice!

To understand this analysis of Tere it’s useful to become familiar with my analysis of Andrew Solomon (linked above in “On depression”). Just as Solomon displaced the rage he felt for his mother on one of his friends, breaking his jaw, Tere does something similar. Of course, women are not tough guys by nature. Instead, they frequently discharge their rage verbally: what Tere did at the stores; with me, with the policeman at the bridge, with the powerful psychiatrist in charge of the admissions, and I assume that with her former employers too, against whom Tere filled up angry lawsuits.

In one word: hysteria. Tere has a medical degree. She knew perfectly well the dynamics of the psychiatric institutions in her native island. She has no valid excuse about how would the authorities of her island react before her acting out her emotional issues.

During the ten months that I stayed in her flat, Tere was there about two months in her holyday days. When she told me that her parents hit her as a child, I suggested her to do a serious mourning to process the trauma: say, something like writing an autobiography like the one I had written. For Tere, that was absolutely out of the question. She told me several times that that wouldn’t do any good to her.

Tere never confronted her parents. She doesn’t talk about her family traumas with her two brothers either. Nor does she reproach anything to her silent relatives. She keeps everything to herself. It’s understandable, therefore, that the volcano of rage she carries inside explodes in other ways.

Tere’s case is typical. I have given my two sisters the bestseller of Susan Forward Toxic Parents, which incidentally I recommended to Tere a few years ago and she did purchase a translated copy of it. Forward tells her clients that graduate in her therapy to write a letter to the perpetrator, the parent who abused her clients when they were younger. Of the many people that I know that have read Forward’s book—Tere included—, no one has followed Forward’s advice. The fears of touching the parent inundate even the minds of those who, like Tere, have already half a century in this world. And in the case that the parent has passed away, as I explained in my essay on Solomon, Forward advises reading a vindictive letter in front of the parent’s grave to obtain inner peace. But Tere didn’t settle the score with any of her parents in the form of long epistles (cf. the first book of my series of five, Letter to mom Medusa).

Tere’s attitude is typical. All people whom I’ve tried to communicate with tell me that they already got over it and that writing long, reproaching letters—let alone sending them to their parents—is out of place. It’s laughable that Tere answered back that she vehemently dislikes writing when she apparently didn’t dislike writing the psychodrama of her involuntary commitment, and even sending it to her intimate friends. Those who suffer from chronic bad temper are capable of anything except addressing their bitterness at the source that caused it.

In my Solomon essay I said that substitutive hate, the one directed onto scapegoats, is infinite. In the case of Tere that means nothing less that her bad tempers and brawls don’t finish just there. Tere needs, in addition to that, to hate the culture that was deaf about how she was abused in her teens. Tere herself confessed to me that she hated the society because of that betrayal, and that when she was committed her old memories of physical abuse at home assaulted her mind. According to her own words, the commitment had been a—:

“Now I know…!”

—that what was done to her as a child was true. But Tere, who has written op-eds to the newspapers complaining about psychiatry, doesn’t write a single word advocating the child’s right not to be parentally abused or about her own childhood, where her real pain lays. It’s no mystery that she transfers her rancor to parent symbols such as the authorities, as we saw with the police. But the policeman who impeded her reaching the bridge is not her father. Nor her mother. Nor her deaf relatives. It was Tere herself, not the file, who told me that when the policeman asked her just where was she going, she responded adamantly:

“To the bridge!”

The hard answer detonated a chain reaction from the forces of law and order. And each time that Tere had the opportunity of repressing her bad temper and keep a straight face, she did nothing but escalate her acting out provoking even more the island’s authorities.

Final analysis

I wouldn’t have written this comparatively long analysis were it not for Teresa’s hatred for the West in general and traditional Spain in particular, and her craving for our culture’s destruction. We already saw that she told me she really loved the terrorist attacks; the Moorish immigration that is taking away what force remains of Christendom in Spain, that she thinks that every single Western family is noxious, and that she wishes that “everything collapses.”

The sad thing about cases like Teresa’s is that there are many of them. What moves me to write this series is that in the nationalist movement there is no psychological analysis whatsoever, not even in the slightest form, of why leftist people hate their civilization. I believe that this case illustrates it. [Note of 2014: after writing this series years ago, Kevin MacDonald published an article this year on this very subject, also analyzing a single case: another hysteric woman.] The volcano of rage that Teresa carries inside never explodes in the form of speaking out about her real aggressors. Never. She re-directs it to the culture that, in her mind, symbolizes her family: the Francoist Spain and everything related to conservatism. Teresa gives a damn about the fact that in other cultures the treatment of women is far worse that what she got as a child. That’s irrelevant. What only matters is the destruction of the culture that crucified her. Period.

Teresa and I have the same age and we both suffered in Catholic families at the same time. Comparing the two biographies it’s evident that I was a victim of more serious parental abuse than what she suffered. But I don’t desire the destruction of my civilization. Before trauma, even big time trauma, there still exists individual responsibility. That someone devotes himself to speaking out about child abuse (like me), or contributing to destroy the West through voting for Zapatero and by hating those concerned with the Islamization of the Europe (like Teresa), only shows that there’s indeed something like surrendering our will to evil.

If leftist feminists were good persons, the first thing they would do is to feel compassion for the girls in Europe whose genitals have been chopped off at their parents’ request. But these women do exactly the opposite: they hate the System dissidents who pity the pubescent Muslims, as Teresa hated me in her quoted e-mails.

“A little woman chasing after her revenge would over-run fate itself” wrote Nietzsche. Teresa and the rest of the little women that feel extreme hatred toward our civilization chase after an unconscious revenge. With so many voters like her in Spain and in the Western world, so many Body-snatched Pod whites like in the 1956 film, the fate of the West looks grim indeed. Teresa’s suicidal ideation, aborted by the psychiatric institution that she loathes so much, transmutes itself into the suicide of our civilization since, alas, instead of killing themselves many other empowered women have become Western haters too.

But there is something in which Teresa and I are in agreement. I believe that the policeman should have let her jump off the bridge…

Published in: on December 30, 2014 at 10:38 pm  Leave a Comment  

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