Before the word repressed could inform the word memories and before the word marital could inform the word rape, before a toy egg with a malleable blob inside could be a metaphor for gender, when the only androgynous humans were named Barbie and Ken and they were eight inches tall,before gluten was even parlance so therefore before gluten-free was even a potential, before media fixation on victims of tragedy dragged a subset of humanity to the forefront wanting only to find a tiny thread connecting them to the victims so they could be part of the story, and long before the hashtag became a virtual shoehorn that could squeeze anyone into any trending group that was latched firmly, momentarily, to the nations empathy teat, before all that my earliest memory of the in-group psychosis was when celebrities mentioned therapists.
What I perceived as the braggadocio of socialites at the time (mid to late 60’s) I now realize was my first exposure to what is today’s #MeToo.
It is pathetic. It is like a man wanting sex and settling for porn, the shadow of sex, as a proxy for sex. Women love attention, especially emotional attention. Their ability to see themselves in-group with things that occur in bubbles thousands of miles away merely by tweeting #MeToo, and then to get an artificial form of the empathy they crave by imagining themselves as a proxy for the damaged-but outraged victims and near relatives of victims. But the comparison to porn as proxy for sex only applies to the immediate functional aspects of both things. #MeToo goes so much further.
Divorce in threes on the cul-de-sac is a #MeToo effect.
Women in groups like DivorceCare are a #MeToo effect.
Women in groups like Celebrate Recovery taking up space that should go to , well, those in recovery, those women are a #MeToo effect.
There are more examples. But the biggest problem is the multifaceted way that this urge, this desire for basking in the sadness pool, this justification for days on end of furrowed brow sincere-concern a wife adopts contemporaneously with the slow destruction of her husband’s spirit. The divorce thereafter would be a mercy killing but for the fact that #MeToo is unquenchable. Her torture of the man persists as long as it bears the low and easy fruit of more in-group reward sharing.
There is a dilemma for her. I’ve written about it before. The wife caught in this addiction finds the drug of empathy that is peddled in marriage reconciliation efforts is available and more efficacious than the empathy that follows divorce, which is available short-term and is ever declining in strength. Therefore, she tells her husband that, while she would like a divorce, she thinks it best they try to reconcile. She adds, however, that whatever his alleged shortcoming, TheseThingsTakeTime. TheseThingsTakeTime.
It’s a coincidence that the author Dalrock has been writing about, Stephen Arterburn, has a last name that differs from the term after burn by a single letter. This man enters marriage counseling with the premise that the marriage is deemed to be repaired and can resume normalcy when the wife is satisfied that it is OK.
It’s a small price to pay Mr. Screwed. Invest the time and effort and you can save your marriage. She clearly says she wants the marriage to be healed.
Heard in an apartment nearby…
“Yes….I told you I’m gonna stop using. Its gonna take some time but I really will.”
Thoughts accompanying what was heard in the apartment nearby…
“Meanwhile I will not waste a minute of the time I have left. I’m scoring and using the best stuff I can find while it’s so easy to get.”