Thursday, September 24, 2009

Feminism: deadly social disease

Yay! I'm not the only person in the world who thinks that feminism is an evil social disease.

Why I loathe feminism... and believe it will ultimately destroy the family

ERIN PIZZEY set up the world's first refuge for battered women in 1971 - and went on to establish an international movement for victims of domestic violence.

...Having escaped the brutality of the war, we were introduced to a new brand domestic cruelty.

Indeed, my mother's explosive temper and abusive behaviour shaped the person I later became like no other event in my life.

Thirty years later, when feminism exploded onto the scene, I was often mistaken for a supporter of the movement. But I have never been a feminist, because, having experienced my mother's violence, I always knew that women can be as vicious and irresponsible as men.

Indeed, I would go so far as to say that the movement, which proclaimed that all men are potential rapists and batterers, was based on a lie that, if allowed to flourish, would result in the complete destruction of family life.


Feminism, I realised, was a lie. Women and men are both capable of extraordinary cruelty. Indeed, the only thing a child really needs - two biological parents under one roof - was being undermined by the very ideology which claimed to speak up for women's rights.

This country is now on the brink of serious moral collapse. We must stop demonising men and start healing the rift that feminism has created between men and women.

Harriet Harman's insidious and manipulative philosophy that women are always victims and men always oppressors can only continue this unspeakable cycle of violence. And it's our children who will suffer.

Hey, let's start a sharing meme:

"Why I hate feminism: a personal revelation that I've never written before."

I'll go first.

People often comment to me about how much I hate feminism. How much I have consciously rejected its tenets and proposals, its invidious temptations, its poisonous suggestions. Sometimes the violence of my loathing for it spills over into my writing. People have noted how sometimes I seem almost racked with hatred for it, with an anger that seems far beyond any merely intellectual rejection of a repellent and evil ideology. I've been told that I sometimes seem like those people who fled Soviet countries and spent their lives in a dedicated campaign against communism. There is a kind of fury that motivates me that other people who also may reject feminism don't have.

Well, I'll tell you why.

I hate feminism, and leftism and hippie-ism (if there is such a thing) and the collective new ideology that seems to have no name but has taken over the world since the 1970s because it destroyed my mother's life and her ability to fend for herself by turning her into a professional victim, rendering her incapable of normal human relationships and robbing me of the one person in the world I loved the most.

That ideology, whatever it's name is, corroded her personality and fed upon her innocence until there was nothing left of her. It enslaved her will and her intellect for forty years and reduced her in the end to a kind of shell of a person. It poisoned her and crippled her emotional and intellectual and spiritual life and left her in the end, to die alone and penniless in a government-sponsored cancer paliative care home. It turned her into a wraith.

My mum was raised in England after the war and was trained and educated in the traditional middle class manner for girls to prepare her for a normal life as a wife and mother. She could cook, sew, knit, crochet, she knew all about gardening, she could draw and play the piano and make any domestic thing needed. She was also sweet tempered and had a great empathy and love for little innocent things like small children and little animals. She was a great cat lover and was great with dogs too. She was a gentle person, and very feminine in the old-fashioned way that was normal before feminism got its evil hooks into everyone's minds.

And she was brilliant. She learned eight languages, taught herself music theory in her 40s and did calculus problems the way other people do the crossword. I've got her CV and it is a thick binder of qualifications from the Canadian government certification for French, to 1st class engineering tickets, to grade 10 piano, to her undergrad mathematics degree.

When she fell into it in the 1970s, feminism and the trendy pop-psychology theories that eventually were to congeal into the festering clot that we call the New Age movement, began to unravel everything that had created her personality and to leave nothing behind but chaos and psychopathology. It taught her (and this was partly the work of the RCIA programme in the Catholic Church in Victoria at that time,) that everything she had been raised to know and do was worthless and wrong, that everything she had been taught to expect was bad and that she would only be happy in the work force after years of university.

She went to university, did degrees in mathematics and biology, studied languages and then became an engineer. None of this ever made her happy. She spent years being told that all her problems came from her evil patriarchal upbringing. She tried to throw it all off, adopted the fashionable vulgar manners and ideas of the time, that conflicted starkly with her gentle and kindly and commonsensical polite upbringing. She started to lose the sense of who she was. Feminism kept trying to provide her with a new identity that never fit her. She continued to be unhappy as her personality eroded away.

When she did finally get married, the conflict continued. Graham wanted a wife and loved her for what she really was. Feminism told her that wasn't good enough, so she left him to go to engineering school. She became more miserable after the divorce and hated being an engineer. When Graham died she lost all interest in anything, left her job, retreated into fantasy and delusion, became addicted to various conspiracy theories and psychotropic medication and finally died of cancer, having alienated herself from the Faith which she had been told was too patriarchal, and the rest of her family who hardly knew who she was. Before she died, my uncle in England begged her to come there and be at peace. She refused.

A year before she died, I sent her a last letter pleading with her to give up what we both knew was her addiction to falsehoods, fantasies and emotional evasions and to devote herself to the Real. She never replied.

My mother's vast confusion in life was characterised by the perpetual name changes. In her life, she had six surnames, only two of which came from marriages, the rest were the result of her desperate lifelong search for an identity. She spent her whole life fighting her nature, her upbringing and what she knew was true with a deep natural conviction, to keep trying to embrace an alien and logically contradictory false creed.

When I read this article about the incredibly fast destruction of the IHM nuns in Los Angeles by unleashing the demonic doctrines of Carl Rogers, I know in close personal intimate detail exactly what happened. I watched it being done to my mother with her "dream workshops" and "encounter groups" and "realness training" and "gestalt therapy" and the endless navel-gazing rubbish she brought home and tried to foist on me. By the time I was nine I had learned to make up plausible sounding stuff to tell her about my inner life, stuff that fit the trendy pop-psych template, to keep it all out. It was just instinct, but even then I knew enough to hate and fear it.

My violent rejection of it all, like the body's rejection of poison by vomiting, was painful and alienating like a deprogramming, and took decades. But it has resulted in the end in my desperate (and sometimes fragile) white-knuckle grip on The Real, that ultimately led me into the Faith-That-Is-About-The-Real. No matter how hard and unforgiving it can be, no matter how many times I have failed to live it in daily life, it is the only thing that can make meaning in a life and a world that would otherwise look like an absurdity.

When I see these anti-nuns going to their risible conferences and issuing their media releases, I would laugh if I didn't know from personal experience how truly deadly these apparently childish theories can be. If only they were really childish, children would reject them as idiotic.

As I believe I've said before, it's all a big laugh, these ridiculous old ladies, until someone loses her soul.

Finally, some vestigial instinct for self-preservation prompted my mother to ask for a priest to see her before she died, and that priest told me she recieved the sacraments, so something of The Real remained in her even at the very end.

But her life and death have taught me a grim lesson: things don't always work out in the end. Sometimes there is just failure and tragedy and no kindly or wholesome resolution.

Feminism has taught me these things.


someone else's turn now.