iblameautistickids
I identify as a Chad
- Joined
- Mar 1, 2025
- Posts
- 586
- Reputation
- 600
Ethan was 14, awkward and unsure. He had just started high school—a place where confidence seemed like currency and silence made you invisible. He wasn't particularly athletic, nor did he have many friends, but he was smart, observant, and deeply introspective for his age.
Lunchtimes were quiet. He’d scroll through YouTube shorts and Reddit while sitting alone on a bench. His For You Page was mostly gaming videos, memes, and study motivation. But one day, something different slipped through—a short video titled “Why girls only date 10s.”
The thumbnail showed a graph and a good-looking guy ranting about dating dynamics. Curious and feeling unnoticed by girls at school, Ethan clicked. It sounded confident, "data-driven," and tapped into his quiet frustrations. The comments were full of terms he'd never heard: looksmaxxing, incel, blackpill. He didn’t understand them, but the likes and shares told him this was a conversation a lot of people were having.
Over the next few weeks, the algorithm began to shift. More videos appeared, often with titles like “The harsh truth about dating” or “How the world really works if you're not Chad.” Some were produced like documentaries with cold statistics and emotionally charged music. They had the tone of warning—like they were protecting him from a hard truth no one else dared to say.
Ethan was a smart kid. He knew some of it seemed exaggerated, but it also felt true. After all, he had seen girls giggle around the tall, athletic guys at school while never even making eye contact with him. The content gave him an explanation. It framed his pain, gave it a name, and then told him it was permanent.
He started googling terms like “blackpill truth” and joined some forums. At first, it felt like a community—people venting, joking, sharing memes. But slowly, the tone turned darker. Optimism was mocked. Therapy was called "cope." Even basic self-improvement was dismissed unless it led to immediate aesthetic gains. Ethan stopped trying to dress better or eat healthier—what was the point, if his skull shape was destiny?
His parents began to notice a change. He was more withdrawn, less motivated in school, and more cynical. Once, when his older sister asked about dating, he snapped: “It’s all rigged anyway. You either win the genetic lottery or you don’t.”
That was the turning point.
His dad sat him down and asked directly: “Where are you learning this stuff?” At first, Ethan was defensive, but eventually he opened up. His dad didn’t mock or scold—he just listened, then gently challenged some of the ideas. They talked about cognitive distortions, echo chambers, and the danger of mistaking personal frustration for universal truth. Together, they looked up counter-perspectives—men who’d overcome insecurities, statistics on long-term relationship satisfaction, even content from ex-blackpill users who had changed their mindset and grown happier for it.
It wasn’t a fast change. Beliefs, once formed, can feel like armor—even if they’re hurting you. But that conversation was a seed.
Over time, Ethan started filtering what he watched. He unsubscribed from the darkest channels. He joined a gym—not to chase perfection, but because it helped with his anxiety. He started journaling, reading, and even saw a school counselor.
He still had moments of doubt. He still struggled with confidence. But now, he was learning to sit with his emotions instead of outsourcing them to angry strangers on the internet.
Epilogue
Ethan is 16 now. He doesn’t think life is easy—but he’s no longer convinced it’s hopeless. He knows the world can be unfair, but also that people change, grow, and surprise you.
Most importantly, he learned that truth isn’t something you find in a comment section—it’s something you build through experience, reflection, and real connection.
Lunchtimes were quiet. He’d scroll through YouTube shorts and Reddit while sitting alone on a bench. His For You Page was mostly gaming videos, memes, and study motivation. But one day, something different slipped through—a short video titled “Why girls only date 10s.”
The thumbnail showed a graph and a good-looking guy ranting about dating dynamics. Curious and feeling unnoticed by girls at school, Ethan clicked. It sounded confident, "data-driven," and tapped into his quiet frustrations. The comments were full of terms he'd never heard: looksmaxxing, incel, blackpill. He didn’t understand them, but the likes and shares told him this was a conversation a lot of people were having.
Over the next few weeks, the algorithm began to shift. More videos appeared, often with titles like “The harsh truth about dating” or “How the world really works if you're not Chad.” Some were produced like documentaries with cold statistics and emotionally charged music. They had the tone of warning—like they were protecting him from a hard truth no one else dared to say.
Ethan was a smart kid. He knew some of it seemed exaggerated, but it also felt true. After all, he had seen girls giggle around the tall, athletic guys at school while never even making eye contact with him. The content gave him an explanation. It framed his pain, gave it a name, and then told him it was permanent.
He started googling terms like “blackpill truth” and joined some forums. At first, it felt like a community—people venting, joking, sharing memes. But slowly, the tone turned darker. Optimism was mocked. Therapy was called "cope." Even basic self-improvement was dismissed unless it led to immediate aesthetic gains. Ethan stopped trying to dress better or eat healthier—what was the point, if his skull shape was destiny?
His parents began to notice a change. He was more withdrawn, less motivated in school, and more cynical. Once, when his older sister asked about dating, he snapped: “It’s all rigged anyway. You either win the genetic lottery or you don’t.”
That was the turning point.
His dad sat him down and asked directly: “Where are you learning this stuff?” At first, Ethan was defensive, but eventually he opened up. His dad didn’t mock or scold—he just listened, then gently challenged some of the ideas. They talked about cognitive distortions, echo chambers, and the danger of mistaking personal frustration for universal truth. Together, they looked up counter-perspectives—men who’d overcome insecurities, statistics on long-term relationship satisfaction, even content from ex-blackpill users who had changed their mindset and grown happier for it.
It wasn’t a fast change. Beliefs, once formed, can feel like armor—even if they’re hurting you. But that conversation was a seed.
Over time, Ethan started filtering what he watched. He unsubscribed from the darkest channels. He joined a gym—not to chase perfection, but because it helped with his anxiety. He started journaling, reading, and even saw a school counselor.
He still had moments of doubt. He still struggled with confidence. But now, he was learning to sit with his emotions instead of outsourcing them to angry strangers on the internet.
Epilogue
Ethan is 16 now. He doesn’t think life is easy—but he’s no longer convinced it’s hopeless. He knows the world can be unfair, but also that people change, grow, and surprise you.
Most importantly, he learned that truth isn’t something you find in a comment section—it’s something you build through experience, reflection, and real connection.
