The_Color_Black
May 7th, 2011, 22:49
I was gonna hit my friend with this over chat, but maybe its best here:
I try not to let the emotional side of circumcision and restoration hit me too hard. I really don't like feeling depressed and, in fact, I tend to try to let nothing hit me too hard emotionally. I supposed I have “shelled” myself off from the world like that, even before I knew what I know now. But to know that a piece of me is permanently gone, forever, with no hopes of return, taken from me before I could speak or defend myself by some outsider. No not taken, violently cut away from my body as I laid there screaming bloody murder in a soundproof room so that no one can hear my screams. Being surgically altered by a doctor who has a $500+ incentive to cut it off of me, knowing that a piece of me is out there somewhere, decaying, rotting, probably gone, or even worse, in some sort of women's facial cream. A product that benefits from my misery. To top it off, I live in a society where a man is his ability to tolerate pain and his penis.
By knowing the truth, I know I am inferior in comparison to 80%+ of the men in the world . . . I think that is the real source of my pain. I know the truth and there is no escaping it. Life was easier when I was ignorant, and because of that, part of me wants to protect those around me by keeping them ignorant as well. As if this is some secret burden that I can bear and save everyone else from. But whether they know it or not, they are still affected and, perhaps they too would rather be knowledgable than ignorant, just like I wanted to. So that's what the question comes down to, I think.
Do I try to save people the pain of the truth by not telling them anything? Or do I tell them everything hoping that the truth can help set them (and myself) free? And when I do reveal my knowledge, if that is the path I choose to take, will everyone simply look at me like some crazy person? Am I going to be able to deal with that?
Galilleo knew the truth and chose to speak. He said the Earth wasn't the center of the universe. It hurt everyone's ego (especially the church's) at the time and as such, he was thrown in jail and nearly excommunicated. Now we know he was absolutely right. Is this not similar? Did Galilleo have an obligation to share his knowledge, his truth, probably knowing that it would lead to such negative consequences? Do I have such an obligation then? . . . I wish they would hurry up and come out with a viable foreskin regeneration technique. Then I could finally have it back. In the end, it would be my way of being able to tell the doctor to "stick it" and I would have the last word when it comes to my body.
Restoration doesn't recover a lot of the things taken away, in essence, it sometimes feels like a hollow, shallow victory . . .
Speaking of saving others. It has recently occurred to me that our society dictates that men are supposed to live to serve others. In a way, I find this to be a noble principal and I have never had a hard time living this way before. In fact, I have been unable to live otherwise. I sometimes find myself literally trapped in a web of my own good intentions. I could try to start living for myself, but it seems so selfish. Circumcision is at the heart of this. By depriving one of pleasure and making them subconsciously inferior, they become a subconscious slave to somebody, someone, something. In my case, it has been the people around me. I have been a slave to the requests of my mother, of the expectations people put on me, of my friend, of making my brother's life better, and even of my roommate as much as I tend not to like her sometimes. I live to serve others and I'm stuck that way. I've never had a problem with it before, but perhaps I should.
Because of my tight circumcision, I've always had a difficulty identifying girls that I liked. I could like somebody, but after getting an erection in my younger years, I lacked the skin to accommodate it. It seems my surgeon was good at what he did, just like mom wanted, too good if you ask me. Erections used to hurt. Because of my lack of information and exposure to ideas of sex and puberty, the whole other half of life and the half I would spend most of my time in, the only way to get rid of an erection given to me by a girl I liked was to masturbate. Of course, with no slack skin and my ignorance of lubricants, it was a painful business. No wonder I've created so many shells. I was circumcised, one that creates shells on its own. I had puberty hit me like a blind man running into a brick wall and thus on some level rejected the changes happening to me, and I've had to deal with so much physical pain since then.
The pain ended in the summer of 2009, when I regrew a little slack skin. Whereas my penis was able to change though, I'm not sure I was able to. Perhaps its harder to rid oneself of shells than it is to grow completely new skin cells.
More will of course be added later when I find a way to put what I feel into words. It seems it has all hit me again, hard, and I can no longer cry for it. As if my tear ducts themselves are too saddened at the loss of another part of my body to function properly.
I try not to let the emotional side of circumcision and restoration hit me too hard. I really don't like feeling depressed and, in fact, I tend to try to let nothing hit me too hard emotionally. I supposed I have “shelled” myself off from the world like that, even before I knew what I know now. But to know that a piece of me is permanently gone, forever, with no hopes of return, taken from me before I could speak or defend myself by some outsider. No not taken, violently cut away from my body as I laid there screaming bloody murder in a soundproof room so that no one can hear my screams. Being surgically altered by a doctor who has a $500+ incentive to cut it off of me, knowing that a piece of me is out there somewhere, decaying, rotting, probably gone, or even worse, in some sort of women's facial cream. A product that benefits from my misery. To top it off, I live in a society where a man is his ability to tolerate pain and his penis.
By knowing the truth, I know I am inferior in comparison to 80%+ of the men in the world . . . I think that is the real source of my pain. I know the truth and there is no escaping it. Life was easier when I was ignorant, and because of that, part of me wants to protect those around me by keeping them ignorant as well. As if this is some secret burden that I can bear and save everyone else from. But whether they know it or not, they are still affected and, perhaps they too would rather be knowledgable than ignorant, just like I wanted to. So that's what the question comes down to, I think.
Do I try to save people the pain of the truth by not telling them anything? Or do I tell them everything hoping that the truth can help set them (and myself) free? And when I do reveal my knowledge, if that is the path I choose to take, will everyone simply look at me like some crazy person? Am I going to be able to deal with that?
Galilleo knew the truth and chose to speak. He said the Earth wasn't the center of the universe. It hurt everyone's ego (especially the church's) at the time and as such, he was thrown in jail and nearly excommunicated. Now we know he was absolutely right. Is this not similar? Did Galilleo have an obligation to share his knowledge, his truth, probably knowing that it would lead to such negative consequences? Do I have such an obligation then? . . . I wish they would hurry up and come out with a viable foreskin regeneration technique. Then I could finally have it back. In the end, it would be my way of being able to tell the doctor to "stick it" and I would have the last word when it comes to my body.
Restoration doesn't recover a lot of the things taken away, in essence, it sometimes feels like a hollow, shallow victory . . .
Speaking of saving others. It has recently occurred to me that our society dictates that men are supposed to live to serve others. In a way, I find this to be a noble principal and I have never had a hard time living this way before. In fact, I have been unable to live otherwise. I sometimes find myself literally trapped in a web of my own good intentions. I could try to start living for myself, but it seems so selfish. Circumcision is at the heart of this. By depriving one of pleasure and making them subconsciously inferior, they become a subconscious slave to somebody, someone, something. In my case, it has been the people around me. I have been a slave to the requests of my mother, of the expectations people put on me, of my friend, of making my brother's life better, and even of my roommate as much as I tend not to like her sometimes. I live to serve others and I'm stuck that way. I've never had a problem with it before, but perhaps I should.
Because of my tight circumcision, I've always had a difficulty identifying girls that I liked. I could like somebody, but after getting an erection in my younger years, I lacked the skin to accommodate it. It seems my surgeon was good at what he did, just like mom wanted, too good if you ask me. Erections used to hurt. Because of my lack of information and exposure to ideas of sex and puberty, the whole other half of life and the half I would spend most of my time in, the only way to get rid of an erection given to me by a girl I liked was to masturbate. Of course, with no slack skin and my ignorance of lubricants, it was a painful business. No wonder I've created so many shells. I was circumcised, one that creates shells on its own. I had puberty hit me like a blind man running into a brick wall and thus on some level rejected the changes happening to me, and I've had to deal with so much physical pain since then.
The pain ended in the summer of 2009, when I regrew a little slack skin. Whereas my penis was able to change though, I'm not sure I was able to. Perhaps its harder to rid oneself of shells than it is to grow completely new skin cells.
More will of course be added later when I find a way to put what I feel into words. It seems it has all hit me again, hard, and I can no longer cry for it. As if my tear ducts themselves are too saddened at the loss of another part of my body to function properly.