When I was a child I played a lot of Basketball, just as Elliot did. I wanted to fit in and be accepted so I practiced an hour per day for around 6 months. Over the summer before tryouts, I slaved away with the belief that I would finally be accepted if I was good enough at the sport. For a loser like me, "practicing" meant going down to the local court with my mom and shooting hoops since I have never really had friends. Eventually, I made the select team which shocked everyone especially the black kids on the team who thought I was unfit to look at. It started out alright but I struggled to play well and was awkward with the team members who were all friends with each other. Then, things began to get bad. For some reason, I felt a lot of stress and pressure and was unable to compete with the superior normie athletes. I would tense up in games and shoot air-balls to the disappointment of everyone, playing less than the others. Everyone began to get even more down on me. I overheard the white teammates making fun of my voice and they all looked at me like a mouse. Once, at a practice when I was playing 2v2 and doing better than usual, I heard my coach talking with a parent.
"Did you know that he's retarded?", my coach asked.
"That's amazing!", said the parent.
I never knew what that meant and it stayed inside me like glass. Funny how much of a sick joke life is and the illusion of meaning. We are all like school shooting victims except that the experience of pain, loss of control and meaninglessness is extended over a lifetime.
Anyway, the season dragged on and my self-esteem plummeted, especially following that comment. I became increasingly stressed out and the coach played me less and less until I would only spend about 10 minutes playing per game on average. On the bench, I always anticipated my playing time fiercely, especially if the Stacies were watching. However, I could never seem to do anything right on the court and made a sloppy, nightmarish humiliation of a human-being.
During practice time with mommy, I got frustrated with myself and would have meltdowns, hitting myself in the head with my basketball. "If you keep doing that it will damage your brain!", she told me. I started to really hate myself towards the end of the season and began habitually hitting myself in the face when I messed up or felt bad about myself. I tried to keep this private. However, I would apparently sometimes do it in games as well for all to see. The end of the season rolled around and I had allbut lost hope. However, my mom had not. She came to every game and would often pray or tear up in fear for her autistic child. In the last game I was excited to get one more chance before the season ended. However, 10 minutes til the end of the game I still had not been played. Five minutes, 4, 3,2, mommy walked away off to the side and sobbed and I did not play. I also did not make the team and the people who bullied me went on to get the girls as winners.
Now that we have context, here is my analogy. I believe that my experience in basketball is like the situation that many of us incels experience with depression. Depression is like my basketball coach. While my coach progressively restricted playing time and caused me to deteriorate, depression causes inferior human beings to shut-down in life overall. We sit on the bench more and more with pot and booze as we numb our ability to think, dwelling in our corners. The years drag on and the depression makes us weary as we spend even less time out on the stage of life trying to score baskets. Eventually, just as my coach deselected me at the end of the basketball season, depression deselects us in a sharks and minos scenario via suicide. Never stood a chance.
"Did you know that he's retarded?", my coach asked.
"That's amazing!", said the parent.
I never knew what that meant and it stayed inside me like glass. Funny how much of a sick joke life is and the illusion of meaning. We are all like school shooting victims except that the experience of pain, loss of control and meaninglessness is extended over a lifetime.
Anyway, the season dragged on and my self-esteem plummeted, especially following that comment. I became increasingly stressed out and the coach played me less and less until I would only spend about 10 minutes playing per game on average. On the bench, I always anticipated my playing time fiercely, especially if the Stacies were watching. However, I could never seem to do anything right on the court and made a sloppy, nightmarish humiliation of a human-being.
During practice time with mommy, I got frustrated with myself and would have meltdowns, hitting myself in the head with my basketball. "If you keep doing that it will damage your brain!", she told me. I started to really hate myself towards the end of the season and began habitually hitting myself in the face when I messed up or felt bad about myself. I tried to keep this private. However, I would apparently sometimes do it in games as well for all to see. The end of the season rolled around and I had allbut lost hope. However, my mom had not. She came to every game and would often pray or tear up in fear for her autistic child. In the last game I was excited to get one more chance before the season ended. However, 10 minutes til the end of the game I still had not been played. Five minutes, 4, 3,2, mommy walked away off to the side and sobbed and I did not play. I also did not make the team and the people who bullied me went on to get the girls as winners.
Now that we have context, here is my analogy. I believe that my experience in basketball is like the situation that many of us incels experience with depression. Depression is like my basketball coach. While my coach progressively restricted playing time and caused me to deteriorate, depression causes inferior human beings to shut-down in life overall. We sit on the bench more and more with pot and booze as we numb our ability to think, dwelling in our corners. The years drag on and the depression makes us weary as we spend even less time out on the stage of life trying to score baskets. Eventually, just as my coach deselected me at the end of the basketball season, depression deselects us in a sharks and minos scenario via suicide. Never stood a chance.
Last edited:
