My Struggle

With trauma

One of my readers reached out to me and essentially begged me to have a “trauma session” with him. He was convinced, based on my writings, that I had trauma and that he could help me uncover it. This is the standard move of therapy culture: assert damage, project pathology, then sell yourself as the shaman who can heal it. This is how useless people cope with their own stagnation. It is invented nonsense, largely practiced by people who attend secular pagan cults and then superimpose their dysfunction onto everyone else. Still, for the sake of educating my readers, I decided it was worth subjecting myself to this stupidity so I could document exactly how empty, degrading, and damaging these practice really are.

So I arrive at his office for what can only be described as the dumbest experience imaginable. He removes his shoes, sits on a chair without legs like a preschooler at circle time, and has me lie down on a mat on the floor. He turns on ambient water sounds, because apparently adulthood now requires pretending you are a leaf floating down a stream. Before anything begins, he tells me that if I don’t have an answer to a question, I should just make one up. This detail matters. This entire system openly encourages fabrication. Its defenders will claim this is not invention but “the subconscious speaking.” That distinction is meaningless. Discovery is impossible in a process that relies on fiction. This is not insight. It is LARPing for emotionally incontinent adults.

He begins a routine of faux hypnosis, snapping his fingers and asking questions. He tells me to “scan my body” and pick a part that is “standing out.” I choose my arm, because in a system completely detached from reality, any answer is equally valid and equally useless. He presses for more detail, asks which part of my arm, then announces that we are going to “open a door” to that part. He asks me to think of a number. I say six. He snaps his fingers again like a man who watched half a YouTube video on hypnosis and instructs me to imagine my six year old self.

He asks where I am. I tell him I’m at school. He responds with a drawn out, slightly sexual “yeahhh.” He asks where in the school. I say the hallway. The sexual moaning intensifies. He asks how I’m feeling. I’m fine, because this is make believe and because I am not a woman who measures his existence through nonstop emotional check ins. He then asks how the six year old boy is feeling. At this point, I am genuinely fighting the urge to say, “Extremely creeped out because an adult man is moaning at me while trying to regress me into childhood.”

This goes on for an absurd amount of time. He asks meaningless questions. I invent answers, because fabrication is the only way this ritual can proceed. The process grows progressively stranger as the moaning becomes more intense and the infantilization more overt. This is not healing, but manufactured faux-vulnerability. It is the deliberate erosion of adult boundaries disguised as self improvement. It is regression marketed as growth. This is what happens when a culture mistakes emotional exposure for virtue and weakness for depth, and then congratulates itself for the confusion.

Over the course of the session, he must have used the word “feeling” a hundred times. Not once did we discuss actions, outcomes, decisions, behavior, competence, or results. I was missing work. I was losing money. I was lying on the floor listening to an adult man sexually moan. Therapy culture is not merely useless. It is parasitic and dangerous. It consumes time while pretending to be productive. It replaces output with introspection and then congratulates itself for uselessness.

This is an infallible, closed loop system. Endless inward excavation, narrative obsession, and fixation on subjective meaning ensure that everything becomes proof of deeper trauma. Resistance is denial. Discomfort is proof. Strength is repression. Productivity is avoidance. There is no exit. The system cannot fail, because failure itself is reframed as pathology. The practitioner is not a guide, a builder, or a producer. He is interchangeable with any other man trained to run the same script. This is not growth. This is ideological entrapment.

When the music was finally shut off and we were sitting upright again, he asked me how I felt. I told him the experience was deeply annoying. Then I flipped the script, which he did not appreciate. I grabbed frame and asked him why he was obsessed with feelings. I asked what concrete change this process produces. I asked how he distinguishes insight from imagination when the client is explicitly instructed to fabricate answers. I asked how lying on the floor pretending to be a child improves a man’s effectiveness in the real world.

I pressed him on why, as a man, he was sitting with his legs crossed, blubbering about feelings for an hour, and selling this as work. I asked how he justifies pushing passivity, introspection, and emotional indulgence onto a generation of men already drowning in indecision and weakness. He had no answers, because of course he didn’t. A system designed to be unfalsifiable cannot explain results.

The reality is simple. I should have spent that hour working, building, producing, or improving something tangible. Instead, I sacrificed it so you don’t have to. I gained no insight, no clarity, no actionable information, and no improvement in behavior. The only thing revealed was how aggressively this practice substitutes imagination for competence and feelings for outcomes.

This was genuinely one of the dumbest experiences of my life. Those pushing this nonsense are Globohomo agents, whether they realize it or not, advancing an ideology that pathologizes strength, glorifies weakness, and replaces masculine action with endless emotional navel gazing. Your job is now to join me in making fun of them. Mock them relentlessly. Push this garbage out of the public square and out of the Overton Window.

Men are not broken. They are underutilized. They do not need to lie on the floor and hallucinate childhoods. They need purpose, responsibility, pressure, and results. Anything else is just expensive, creepy roleplay for adults who are afraid of reality.