The Narrative of the “Free Republic” by Stefan Molyneux

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The Chat That Led Up to the Moralists?

The Moralist is a robot of sorts that was installed in me very early on by my parents and fine-tuned by my teachers, peers, and siblings.

Basically, the Moralist creates and recites rules that I am supposed to follow. When I don’t follow them, the Moralist carefully but deliberately puts pressure around my neck. Whether these are the chains that the Moralist has wrapped around my neck or the Moralist’s hands, I’m not sure.

The Moralist doesn’t have any volition. It doesn’t spontaneously produce opinions or desires: it merely regurgitates that which it is programmed to spew in order to control me.

For me, the Moralist leaps into action when somebody I have some sort of connection with expresses a negative emotion. I feel quite a lot of guilt, and there’s no escaping it despite what the other person says. This is because the Moralist is able to spin a story that links my actions (or inactions) to this person’s negative feeling, and so even if I had nothing to do with the other person’s feeling at all, I feel like a bad person.

The Moralist, however, is not without a voice. I think that Mr. Voicebox was speaking the words of the Moralist Sunday evening, especially in that final, chilling line: “I don’t think you should kick me out.”

There is a threat in there, and the threat reflects a real and true danger that was present throughout my childhood: “don’t evict me,” the Moralist hissed, “if you value your life.” The Moralist was set up as necessary for my survival.

However, the Moralist that remained was abusive. Since it did not respond to my entreaties to release its grip on my neck nor did it speak with me when I made the demand to do so, it is a strong possibility that it is an intruder within the ecosystem.

When I did order the Moralist out, I felt much freer! I felt like I could breathe more easily, and the anxiety that resided in my chest dissipated.

What I am uncertain of is if the Moralist can actually be ordered out quite so easily. I have a feeling that it will keep trying to sneak in, to work its poison into my joints and bones, so causing me to feel sick instead of allowing me to become healthy.

But that’s why I have the rest of you guys, both inside and out.

I have identified a Mr. and Mrs. Moralist as the persons who create rules with which to abuse me.

They aren’t talking.

Mr. and Mrs. Moralist, you are no longer welcome in my house. Go back to the hell from whence you came!

Mr. Voicebox… if that is your real name…

“Yes, what do you want?”

I don’t think you were being very honest earlier.

Now, I don’t really know why this is, and I could be wrong, but I noticed something.

“Oh yeah?”

Yes. It didn’t seem to me that you asked a single question of Mr. Stonewaddle… you didn’t even ask him, in the form of a question, what his name was.

“So what?”

What I mean is… you spent a lot of time talking… but very little time listening.

“Oh, well… I feel really uncomfortable with all of this.”

Mr. Stonewaddle is very, very important to us, and he saw right through your speech there. Even you felt it, didn’t you?

“…”

I don’t want to attack you. We need you in some way, though this is all new for me… but I am positive that we will need your skills! But I don’t particularly think that you should try to assert control like you did back there.

“I don’t want to talk anymore.”

This is some hard stuff… even I am having some trouble remaining honest and open here. It’s not that I don’t want to attack you, as if I will if I have to. I don’t have to attack you, and I won’t attack you! We do need you, but there’s something we have to talk about. My problem is that I don’t know what it is.

Mr. Voicebox… who are you, really?

“I don’t want to say.”

Why not?

“I’m really kind of scared.”

What’s causing you to be scared?

“I don’t want to be kicked out.”

Well, do you belong here?

“I don’t think you should kick me out.”

I’m not saying that I will, and if you do belong here, it’s not possible for you to be kicked out.

What I’m trying to say is that I don’t know if you belong here. I can see how you might be useful, but attempting to assert control over the rest of us just isn’t going to work. There are persons awaking that will not stand for that sort of behavior.

I don’t know who I am, and I’m not really sure who you are…

I wish I did, though.

I really wish I did.

Hello, Mr. Stonewaddle.

I don’t really know if that’s your actual name, but that’s the one I’d like to give you for the time being.

I realized something earlier today, during a Sunday call-in show for FDR… oh, wait, you were there, weren’t you?

What I realized is that you totally exist… you’re not the totality of me, but you played a very important part in the physical and emotional protection of my well-being…

I’m not sure exactly who it is that is addressing you… it’s a rather flighty individual, somebody who would rather look around to the other windows to see what’s going on instead of addressing you.

Anyway, thanks for your patience… and wow, you know, thanks for your sacrifices. Without them, I don’t think I would have ever survived.

I think that I spent a lot of my time attacking you, and for that, I am very sorry. But instead of complaining, you just kept on going, kept on shielding the more sensitive parts of me from the slings I was so willing to fling at you.

I am hoping that we can come to a detente, then to sit down at the table to talk.

I know that it may take some time for you to open up to me, and that you will be a man of few words… but I know that you will counsel patience, and restraint… and caution.

There may be times in which I should decide to not go with your particular advice, but I think that, in the future, certainly to an increasing degree… well, I mean, hopefully to an increasing degree from this point onward, I will at least be able to give some sort of convincing argument as to why caution or patience may not be what the situation requires. It might not be appropriate.

So, Mr. Stonewaddle, the floor no longer needs to be occupied by you to the degree which it has. I am not demoting you in importance, but I am telling you that you can relax now. You won’t need to carry the burden as you have been, and then we can work on making you stronger, rehabilitating you… if you want that.

I know you are much more content to let your aches and pains be ignored, because that’s how we got through childhood without being attacked as much as we could have been… and that it might take some time for you to open up about them. I do sincerely hope that… well, I hope that you will see that I am working to improve myself, and thus I can begin to listen to you again with full ears.

I hope that I haven’t been overrunning you during this conversation. I guess I’m Mr. Voicebox.

“Thank you, Mr. Voicebox. I appreciate what you’ve been saying. It’s difficult for me to get my voice heard a lot of the time, mostly because, well, you know why. I’d rather use fewer words and express myself through action. I… usually don’t get angry. It doesn’t serve me.

“I think that there are others who are willing themselves to speak. I have plenty of time, however, to tell you what I want and what I think would be a good course of action.”

Thanks, Mr. Stonewaddle. I guess that name suits you well enough, then.

I’m wondering who the angry character is… or if it’s not so much that he’s angry, but he provokes action based on a feeling of anger.

I think I will meet him, in time. For now, I think he’s… sleeping! Heh. As well he should. Hopefully, he doesn’t have to be woken up very often, either… mainly because, well, I don’t much like it when I get angry. I don’t think he likes to be awakened, either… but that’s him doing his job, I wager!

Well, at least two of the above adjectives properly describes this photo series:

Me in FDR chic… finally.

And… well, not to go on yet another diatribe about my personal appearance, and certainly not to garner pity for myself… but egads, I am not at all comfortable with the way I look. I don’t like it, no sir.

The question is, do I not like it enough to change, or am I content with complaining about it?

I took off early from work on Friday on the advice of a co-worker who pointed out the nasty snowstorm we were currently having. I made a quick eye doctor appointment and went on over there (barely got there on time due to the weather) and said, “Let’s have at the contact lenses, eh?”

As it turns out, my prescription has stabilized–it’s been stable for over 2, maybe 3 years now. No worse, no better, which is fantastic!

What’s even better is that I was twisting in two over wearing contacts again. Everything is much closer, I feel smaller (which takes some getting used to while driving), but the world is much clearer. Even though my contacts don’t correct for my slight astigmatism, they more than make up for glasses since glasses are always shifting, they always need to be cleaned for some reason or another, and I can never keep them close enough to my eyes since my friggin’ eyelashes are so long.

Not only that, but I feel that I’m much better-looking without glasses, even if I take the time to find glasses that I really like (which is what I did the last time I got glasses).

I do need glasses still, of course, because sometimes I’m not able to wear contacts during the allergy season, but that’s why Jesus invented Claritin^®, anyway.

In a way, I was right to be afraid of Part II of Real-Time Relationships: The Logic of Love… and there is yet more to come, to be certain; however, no longer being able to hide from that fear is a bit of a relief. At least now, it has a name.

(I do understand that this is vague. This is intentional, for the time being. I may or may not expand upon this publicly. If you’re interested in further details, contact me privately or–better yet–pick up the book for yourself.)

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