The saving grace of dissolution

I wanna be adored
I wanna be adored

I don’t have to sell my soul
He’s already in me

-”I Wanna Be Adored”, Stone Roses

I firmly believe we own our failures.
Failure is not a timeshare, it is not a team effort.

Failure is yours alone.

Over at In Mala Fide, Ferdinand Bardamu links an interesting article from Psychology Today entitled “Sex Against War.”

It reiterates a thought I’ve seen echoed of late in some circles. Which goes something like this:

Sexually repressed men are extremely vulnerable to the intensely erotic act of mass murder.
OK, it’s not phrased quite so intriguingly, those are my words, but the gist is…

I generally don’t find this mindset very pleasing. It represents a view I’m not overly fond of nor which I respect: for I detest its basic ingredients which are a lack of accountability and willingness to dish out blame. I was alarmed to hear the chorus of men’s voices rise in half-hearted commiseration with George Sodini last year when the middle-aged virgin unleashed a flurry of gonad-driven anger in a hail of bullets at a Pennsylvania gym. Rather than denounce Sodini’s actions, way too many men hemmed and hawed their way into a strange and twisted brotherhood of laments as they whined to his defense. Well, not quite a defense, because a lot of guys didn’t literally defend him, but their sentiments were anything but harsh. I got the sense that a lot of guys felt that under the right circumstances, it could have been themselves.

Of late, this shameless accusatory sense of masculine helplessness has begun to surface more often. Terrorists are now included in this repressed and semen-logjammed parcel of maledom.

In Ferdinand’s link, the Psychology Today article quotes a British writer from the Independent postulating a possible “cure” for terrorism. “…partially educated, preferably pampered, but certainly crestfallen young men for whom the usual safety valves of dissoluteness have for some reason failed to open.” These guys need to get laid, the writer hints. It seems that if you can’t replenish the human race, depleting it is the next best thing reads the humorous byline.

The concept of a “safety valve of dissoluteness” is priceles.

And I’ll be honest. I’m still not enchanted with this thinking. It makes me uneasy to even admit that I might consider lending an ounce of validity to this Murderous Theory of Sexual Alienation. I don’t look forward to being even closely associated with this club of self-pitying virgin losers who would happily destroy the world to spite their little unlaid asses.

However, I feel there is a kernel of truth in this theory.

This morning, upon reading Ferdinand’s post, I commented:

The safety valve concept of young male violence. Very interesting and I notice it’s been bandied about lately. At first I was skeptical for I didn’t feel comfortable with its inherent sense of helplessness and external placement of blame.

As I read the [Psychology Today] article, something very scary occurred to me. When I was in my early 20s, I very easily could have been one of those young men done in by his frozen safety valve.

I had the entire day to mull over my thoughts while I was at work, on the way to work, on the way home…mulling.

That comment was ambiguous and I wasn’t clear what it was I was insinuating. It was an instinctual chain of thoughts, it was real and very genuine and disgustingly honest. Love the internet, don’t ya? Why would I say such a thing?

Well, I thought back to, let’s say, 1984. I was 20, squandering my time in college, not incredibly sure what I wanted to study, not quite drinking yet, not quite partying, and definitely not having sex. Repression, thou art David at 20. I was a mess. And because I felt like a mess, I looked like a mess. I had zero game. Fuck that…I had negative game. Drove women away. I had no visible charm. To compound matters, this vicious circle completed itself in the callous coldness of women I encountered who undoubtedly marvelled at the social mess who stood before them. I had no social skills, I was shy, my confidence level was below sea level. And I wasn’t improving. As I felt worse about my situation, I invited worse reactions. I won’t even detail some of my most hideous and private thoughts. They were not good. Hostility, anger, resentment…dude, I oozed that toxic attitude out of every stinking pore.

As the PT article states, “If young men are designed by evolution to be obsessed with sex, like dogs in heat, you’ve got to wonder what kinds of destructive energies are created and compounded by ideologies telling them these feelings are shameful — feelings common to both Islamic and Christian fundamentalism.”

Then I turned 21. I now had no Islamic or Christian fundamentalism to tie me down. Still, my sense of frustration grew by leaps and bounds, on a daily basis, it seemed. I was alienated and sinking.

But I was 21 and suddenly all my rage, all my antagonism…suddenly became diluted with alcohol. Turning 21 was my pathway into a life of utter dissolution. I love the word, dissolution. So very apt.

It wasn’t only the drinking, but all that it entailed in the social realm. Parties, groups of people hanging out in the streetlight’s shadows, nightclubs, concerts, strange dirt roads leading into the hills of East L.A. where you could smoke pot in privacy while you looked out across the urban wasteland. It was dissolution and it was my savior. Without that dissolution, I have no idea where I might have channeled that frustration. No idea. But it would have been channeled, one way or the other.

So in this way, I see how we can begin to lay blame on murderous sprees at the foot of sexual frustration/repression/abstinence.

The heart of man is dissolution solidified. And the need must be met. As a combination of lifestyles or just one, but the urge must be sated. It’s testosterone, it’s aggressiveness…and it needs a home.
I never blamed anyone for my state. Women sucked, or so I told myself. But it didn’t have to be that way. They sucked because I let them.

This smoldering hate, self-hate, frustration, it simmered, like a lit ember which flares up with a breeze and then cools down in the still air again. It bellowed out violently and at times it regressed back into my dark soul.

Oddity that I was. A psychological puzzle. Was it borderline personality disorder? Clinical depression? I’m sure any competent and greedy mental health professional would have made a killing off my case and if, in the need of a reason, and a name, and a cure, the pain drove me to accede to their diagnosis, I would be classified as just another nut case. But I didn’t accede. I just partied instead. Drank, smoked, and just loafed and hung out with a bunch of similar guys. The safety valve was busy. And in my Psyche class I read about mental illness and how it frequently surfaces at that very age. For you see…despite the fact I was living this raucous life, I still wasn’t getting much action. But it didn’t matter as much, for I distracted myself with other harmful behaviors.

If my religious devotion had prevented me from enjoying the frivolities of dissolution, where would have I gone for serenity? Darkness lurks in our hearts.

Ferdinand’s post is titled Scientific proof that game can save lives, which I thought was farfetched at first.

But he’s right, in one respect.
If I had had “game” back when I was 20, I would have discovered that safety valve then and had no further need for the helping hand of dissolution to guide me back to “sanity.”

But game in itself is bullshit.
I think the best game we can teach young boys is the game of confidence, the game of wholeness and the game of self-acceptance. Game is overly centered around females and that in itself is a relinquishment of personal power. And we’re back to square one.

Guys don’t need to get laid. They need to know they can get laid. They need to surmount the natural social barrier of unfriendly, antagonistic women. And how do they do that? By cleaning up their social act. That’s what Game needs to teach.