Recently I’ve been doing some thinking. I don’t like to talk about this side of my life because it’s not something you’re supposed to talk about. But truth is, I have a deep secret that I have kept from the world. Sooner or later, people will find out, so I may as well tell the world on my own terms. It’s not something I’m proud of, and I certainly feel ashamed to tell you. But I need to finally clear the air, so here goes…
Over the past decade, I have, through both legal and illegal means, given thousands of Euros to the poor and the homeless. Back when I was a thief I would steal it, and now that I make my money from Wall Street then I mean I’m still stealing it, but it’s legal stealing.
That’s how capitalism works. You steal things legally from people. I can pay my rent by checking my phone for 10 mins every day. It doesn’t take hard work or an education, I hire bankers for that. It’s a total scam. Whenever a capitalist tells you they make money from hard work, then ask them whose. That’s why I am so happy to pass it on, at least that way I’m not a useless leech. Rather, I am a useful leech.
I helped pay for an infant’s heart surgery. I paid off someone’s chemo bills. I helped a homeless family stay off the streets after they lost everything. I bought medicine for a young mother who lived in my village. Sometimes I go out at night and scope out where the homeless sleep, and then stash money there in places where only they would find it.
During Covid I would break curfew and deliver parcels of medical supplies to people who needed it.
All over the world, I’ve touched people’s lives and helped them. Never asking anything in return.
And the reason why I am ashamed to say so is because it’s boastful. This is the first and last time I will ever tell anyone about it. But I do wish to talk about it, because I am very troubled by things.
You see, none of this stuff actually makes me feel any better. People always tell me that being nice to others and doing good things makes you happy, but I never feel happy doing it. Rather, I feel empty. I don’t really get what the point of it is.
Actually, I do. I grew up poor, and I don’t want other children to have to grow up poor. But I only get it conceptually. Doing good things for others and helping them don’t really have much of an effect on me in terms of my mental health or outlook. I still feel depressed, and empty, and numb. I still think life is a lackluster thing. Existentially speaking, I am running on fumes. The world is just as bleak as it was yesterday.
And the reason why is because of how I was raised. I grew up in a broken home to an abusive widow, and all I was ever taught was hatred. Only emotions I was made familiar with was spite, anger, depression, vindictiveness, pessimism and cynicism. I was raised by an evil person who passed her evil pathologies on to me, and as such, things that are good sort of turn into ashes in my mouth.
By all accounts, should I follow my intuition, then I would probably be some sort of megalomaniac. I find stimulation in thinking up Machiavellian schemes, dominating my enemies, that sort of thing. I find thoughts about revenge and punishments to be very entertaining, and I think that’s why I try to help others.
I think that even though I had the upbringing of a Ted Bundy or an Ed Gein, that doesn’t mean that evil is not a choice. So what if I feel nothing when I am kind to others? And so what if I feel better about myself when I give in to mean and unpleasant things?
When I was fourteen, my mother once looked me in the eyes and gave me some excellent advice, she said “You do not deserve happiness.”
And when you find happiness in being horrible to others, then that’s very good words to live by. I don’t really know what my purpose on this planet is. I seem to be quite good at several things, and yet I find pleasure in nothing. People around me often hold me in high regard, but I see myself as very diminished. I can remember an insult for several decades, but compliments or praise roll off my brain like droplets of water on a swan’s back.
I have a meticulous perception of my own errors and failures, but I rarely understand why people appreciate the things I do.
And it’s no wonder. Because I realise that I am trapped in a situation wherein I cannot strive to be something. Instead, I must strive to not be something. Since I lack the frame of reference for any real sense of familial love or belonging, I am instead forced to examine the contrasts of hatred and abandonment.
I think that’s how people become evil. It’s easy for them so they do it. It’s laziness, the path of least resistance. Evil people pretend to be strong, but truth is that it’s the most pitiful of weaknesses.
So that’s what I mean when I am speaking of value-negative positivity. In truth I don’t really like the word positivity. It’s just something I use for the benefit of English speakers.
Because my mother always used that word. She always sought positivity. And I am fairly certain that the road to evil is paved with new age psychologisms about the many fixations of positivity.
Sometimes it’s okay to be miserable and give up things for others. I hate positivity. Can’t stand it. The day I pursue value-positive positivity is the day I’ll be performing a magic trick wherein I am capable of going for a long walk with a single stride.
(Secret is to find a really tall building.)
That being said, I don’t think my situation is hopeless. If I was taught hatred, then why can’t I learn other things too? I suspect that one day, I might understand the point of it all, and feel as though I am part of a real community. But until that day, I’ll just be a benevolent horrible person.
And why? Because why not. That’s why.
