Eternal Whiners
by WHO on Apr-15-2000

My volatile childhood begot a volatile marriage. By the time I was 16 and mercifully divorced I had decided I needed to see a shrink. Not because I was masturbating in my own feces and eating flies, mind you, but because I had bought into the golden rule for contumelious childhood’s:

Fucked up kids grow into fucked up adults.

Society has been drilling this into the heads of children via pamphlets and after school specials for as long as I can remember. Terrified of turning into yet another single welfare mother of 8, I decided to enlist in the help of a professional.

So I called the number, made an appointment, and walked into the office with my head held high. My first duty was the completion of a psychiatric evaluation: Do you enjoy hurting animals? Um, no. Do you sometimes think about hurting yourself? No again. This isn’t so bad. There…I’m finished.

Next appointment, I sit down with an old woman. She reaches out, touches my hand and begins with, “I don’t know how to tell you this…”

Of course I mentally panic: “Oh Christ! She’s having me committed!”

“…But we don’t really see anything wrong with you here. There is no need for you to seek counseling.”

My sigh of relief was immediately followed by one of disappointment. I mean, what was wrong this woman? Didn’t she know how messy the first 16 years of my life were? Of course I was fucked up! Doesn’t she know the Abused Child’s Golden Rule?

Obviously, this woman didn’t know what she was talking about, so I went shrink shopping again. My next choice was a doctor closer to my age that was willing to see me despite my seemingly clean evaluation. However, after a weeks’ worth of sessions, she too says: “WHO, I honestly think you’re going to be all right. You have a volatile past, but it seems like you’ve put into perspective in healthy manner.”

Did this ’shrink’ honestly think I was going to be completely cured in one week? OF COURSE NOT! I was going to need years and years of intense psychotherapy until I could safely enter the world of the sane. It seemed to me that I needed a new shrink…

Third and last shrink was a middle-aged woman named Jan. I saw her for 3 years. Every Wednesday night I would sit in Jan’s office and talk about what was happening in my life, crack a few jokes, and philosophize poorly. It was kind fun…and that disturbed me. After all, therapy is not supposed to be fun. I was supposed to be laying on the couch, painfully reliving my childhood as my shrink held my hand and said, “It’s OK…let it all out.” Wasn’t I? Obviously, I wasn’t making very good progress. After every visit with Jan, I would end up driving home thinking to myself on how much harder I would work next time. I would cry in her office if it killed me, Dammit!

Like I said, I stayed with Jan for almost three years. One day, at the beginning of what I hoped was going to be a very painfully cleansing session, Jan announced to me that she was moving. “But…” I sputtered helplessly, “Who am I going to see now?”

“Well I could refer you to one of my colleagues if wish, but really don’t think that’s a good idea.”

“Why?”

“WHO…it’s time you came to grips with the truth— you are sane. You have always been sane. You need to accept that.”

“You mean…there’s nothing wrong with me?”

Besides a mild case of hypochondria, no.”

“Why didn’t you tell me this thousands of dollars ago?”

“Because you would not have believed me. You would have just found another Doctor.”

“You mean all these visits were nothing more than a….”

“Placebo, yes.”

“Well, damn. I feel foolish.”

I left her office for the final day armed with new knowledge: The Abused Child’s Golden Rule was basically bullshit. People just, as a whole, refuse to remain accountable for their actions.

I have all the sympathy in the world for abused kids, I really do. But the second you turn the magical age of 18, my pity disappears. While your first 18 years are beyond your control, the rest of your life isn’t. Happiness is perfectly within your grasp. But just like everyone else, you have to work for it. Problem is, most people DON’T WANT to work for happiness. They would rather whine about their miserable pasts for the rest of their damn lives.

How many sluts do you know that blame it on their sticky fingered Daddy’s? How many scrappers do you know that blame it on the beating they got when they were 6yrs old for spilling a glass of milk? How many mass murderers have tried to blame Jesus for the collection of toes they have in their basements? Countless. However, I am here to tell the eternal whiners of the world that:

IT IS YOUR FAULT YOU A FUCKED UP ADULT. YOURS AND NO ONE ELSE’S. NOT YOUR DADDY’S. NOT YOUR MOMMY’S. NOT THE NEXT-DOOR NEIGHBOR’S. YOURS. YOURS. YOURS!!!

I know a girl who freaked out while watching ‘Braveheart’ with her boyfriend and clawed up her face. Apparently, she was ‘reliving her rape.’ Fuck that. In reality, she was pissed off because he wasn’t paying enough attention to her, so she decided to do something dramatic to get him to feel sorry for her. The scary part about this girl is that she has a son. I bet he’s going to turn out great.

I don’t understand why people don’t take some fucking responsibility for their actions. If you know you are acting abnormally, is it that hard to get some professional fucking help and learn to function sanely? Is it that hard to decide to break the circle and pursue health and happiness? Is it?

It’s not. But if you ask one of these eternal whiners, they will tell you different. They will cry and whimper and get down on their knees while they beg you to understand how…very…hard…it is.

What the whiners fail to mention is that they like feeling miserable. They love sympathy. They enjoy pity. They crave your attention like a heroin addict craves a needle. They THRIVE on it.

I bet you’re wondering what you can do about the whiners, right? My answer is this: nothing. No one can change these people but themselves. But if you clutch their heads to your bosom and stroke their hair every time they fuck up, you better believe you can make it worse. Instead of feeding their sick appetites, why not refuse to be a part of the cycle altogether? Instead of giving them your sympathy, how about jamming a bit of reality down their melancholy little throats? For example, when someone says to you:

“I can’t get a job because my Dad was on disability his whole life and he never really taught me what real work ethic was.”

You should say, “No, you can’t get a job because you’re a lazy piece of welfare shit.”

When someone says, “I brought 5 guys home from the bar last night and let them jerk off all over my stomach because the kid next door touched me in an adult way when I was just a child and I never really learned to express myself any other way but sexually.”

You should say, “No, you brought those guys home from the bar because you are a dirty, dirty slut. But that’s OK because you are going to get a STD soon and die, but only after your crotch turns black and your clit falls off.”

When someone says, “I put up with my husbands abusive tendencies because my Mom let her husband beat her and I was brought up believing that I deserve physical punishment if I burn the pot roast.”

You should say, “No, you let your husband slap you around because it turns you on. Why else would you claim he’s the ‘king the castle’ afterwards as you suck his dick and swallow all of his manly seed?”

If you use any of the above lines, however, I should probably warn you:

You may be labeled heartless.



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