Examining cruelty and its origins
10 October 2026 - 1,735 words
The subject of this blogpost is about cruelty. Cruelty is not an emotion or a feeling, it is not a desire or a need, it resides not just internally but perhaps primarily externally. Cruelty, for the purposes of this piece, is an action.
It’s important that I stipulate this because cruelty is very often conflated with a whole cluster of emotions, like anger, resentment, or perhaps hate. My discussion here is not lobbied against anger, which acts as the primary agent of justice, nor is it really against resentment, which, is a feeling that gives rise after one represses their anger or at least grows under unchanging, injust circumstances―no, for me, cruelty is not a message to listen to, nor is it something that brews.
Cruelty, instead, is a choice.
Cruelty is these things given no outlet. It occurs in the absence of justice, not as its arm, it occurs when resentment self-justifies, not in the absence of reason. Cruelty is always cast as inherently righteous.
Cruelty is a potent tool―dole it out in the correct measurements, in the correct implements, it may go unseen under the surface. Cruelty feels good, it feels right, like the pain of massaging sore muscles, the pleasure of suffering under the release of pain. In this way, cruelty feels right.
Cruelty is sadomasochistic. Notice that I do not simply say “sadistic,” as in, taking pleasure in granting pain to others. It is sadomasochistic, the pleasure of pain itself, whether that be in others, or in oneself. Cruelty does not feel good; or rather, it feels good insofar as it feels painful. It is not that cruelty is somehow sadomasochism manifest, or sadomasochism is a manifestation of cruelty. No, here I mean sadomasochism not as a discrete item with lines around it, but rather a kind of impulse of desire that flows through sociality. Cruelty simply is one form of it.
In this way, we don’t just like to dole out cruelty. There are times when we also like to receive it.
Anger is probably the most productive emotion; it demands we do. It is probably the most irrefutable emotion; it’s impossible to hide, and impossible to deny. Anger is the engine of reaction and action; it is our nervous system fired up, posed to act.
Anger is not somehow beyond injustice itself, even as it acts as the weapon of justice. Certainly, anger can become so powerful, so expressive, so passionate as to fail to constrain itself and go beyond its intentions. But anger does not truly wish to hurt. When anger hurts, guilt, pain, regrets often follow. One might even become angry at oneself for the incidental injustice committed. But anger that has gone so long unrecognized, so long unexpressed, so long burning, forgets itself. It begins to resent itself.
Resentment is anger denied. It is an anger so strong, festering without justice, activated and denied, pushed and pulled, sparked and suffocated, an anger that has been told to shut up and deal with it over and over again, an anger pushed down and pushed down until it has become so dense that nothing can be seen beyond its horizon, an anger that has forgotten what it was supposed to act against and now seeks out an outlet to explode against. Resentment is an anger that has forgotten what injustice(s) it was originally levied against, and therefore cannot recall the appropriate response.
Resentment, for this reason, is dangerous: it is anger without direction. When resentment finally does lash out, it will not understand how much or even why it should constrain itself; why would it feel guilty? There has been injustice done. What that injustice even is, at this point, can hardly be remembered. Its exigence erased. That doesn’t mean resentment is inherently bad though; resentment is an indicator. It is the manifestation of an anger that lives with an injustice it should never coexist with. Resentment tells you something: it tells you to sort your shit out.
I wonder if you could resent yourself?
But one path towards cruelty then, is believing the lies resentment tells you. It is believing the circles it thrusts you in. It is believing that this unending crave to hurt is just, necessary, and the only way out. It is believing the lies that you must hurt them, you must hurt them so badly, because they deserve it. It is believing the lies that you―I mean, they are deserving of all the pain you could possibly give them. And it is believing that it will make you right. It is believing that it will make everything okay again. So we fantasize about a revolution that gives you the social justification to massacre all the people you believe deserve it. We fantasize that killings, or perhaps torturings, will make everything right again, or at least give us some pleasure in the moment. And god, does it feel good to fantasize.
Violence met with violence is not an infinitely expanding spiral. Anger wants to go somewhere. Anger has an end in mind, even if its means are violent. But push down that anger far enough, condense it enough, push it in towards yourself, that line will grow into a circle as it begins to feast on its own tail. It wants to eat itself. It hates itself. Resentment resents resentment. And yet, it can’t eat itself, no matter how goddamn hard it tries. Anger wants so badly to end. That is why it acts with such fervor. It does not wish to be. Resentment does not wish to be. And yet it is. So it yields cruelty, the only instrument it knows; unending violence. There is a reason that killing is not the true symbol of cruelty. Killing, unfortunately, has an end. I believe the reason why people stay in relationships with people they resent so badly is not just a lack of knowing of where to go, but a deep rooted desire built into that resentment of cruelty. So you destroy yourself. You torture them, and torture yourself. And god, does it feel good.
Doesn’t it feel so good to hurt yourself? Doesn’t it feel so good to give yourself what you deserve? You know you deserve it. There’s no anger. What is there to be angry at? It’s your own goddamn fault for being born this way, for being like this. It’s so easy to resent yourself. Shame, unfettered shame. So you hurt yourself, day in and day out. You remind yourself everyday how worthless you are, how much you should hate yourself, because the only thing worse than being this way is not feeling all the pain that you should feel for it. Why does pain feel so good? Why does it feel so good to hate yourself? Maybe its because I’m supposed to hurt. “The amount of shame you are supposed … to feel is inversely to your proximity to what Audre Lorde called The Mythical Norm, which is probably something like a cishet Anglo-Saxon man.” That’s what I wrote in an earlier draft. We are all raised to hate ourselves, for what we are, for what we are not. We are taught and trained to beat ourselves to a pulp day in and day out for nothing more than this bullshit line in the sand. We learn that we are nothing. That we should hurt. We learn cruelty like it’s our best friend and like it will bring us love and money and success and happiness. And you know what the worst part is? We are told that the more cruel we are to ourselves, the more of those things we actually fucking will have. We are told that the more violent we are to ourselves, the more perfect we will be. I was taught to train myself like a machine and then was told that what I actually fucking am is a pathetic, disgusting, inhuman monster.
So of course I’m angry. Of course I’m furious. Because there is nothing on this planet that I am actually expected to feel other than hate, resentment, shame, for what I am. The only thing I am expected to give myself is cruelty, endless cruelty. If I kill myself, I’m a statistic they’ll laugh at. If I torture myself, they’ll barely tolerate me and pity me. So do I give in, do I kneel down and kiss the boot and beg for forgiveness and make myself bleed on its floor? Do I spend the rest of this pathetic existence resenting myself like resentment does? Or do I scream and shout and spit and fight and throw away all the hate, all the resentment, all the shame I was taught made me something at least worth keeping alive?
The most fucked up thing about it all, is that this kind of resentment, shame, tells you that it is tautological. That if you feel it, you deserve to feel it. The only thing worse than being what you are is not hating every fucking moment of that miserable existence. It lies to you, that if you listen to it, maybe it can make you into some kind of decent human being. If you listen to it, and if you hate yourself enough, if you hurt yourself enough, if you torture yourself enough, you’ll be worthy. Because you’ll have suffered all that you deserve. Believe me, that day is never coming. But doesn’t it feel so good? Doesn’t it feel so good to hurt yourself so bad? Doesn’t it feel so good to hate what you are? Doesn’t it just feel so fucking good to know that you are nothing, that you are inhuman, that you are pathetic, that the whole world would think you better off dead? Doesn’t it just make you feel at least a little better that at least you’re feeling all the pain that you rightfully deserve? Think about it. You’re torturing someone as disgusting as you. Just as it should be.
It is only from accepting that we are disgusting, and hurting ourselves, that we then move onto accepting someone else is disgusting, and hurting them. Cruelty starts against ourselves first. Cruelty then grows towards another person. The only way to not be cruel, is to choose, every day, to not be cruel to ourselves. The only way to love others is to love ourselves; funny how that becomes true.