i wanna decorate my wrists and forearms with beautiful scars, so everyone can see them and admire how pretty i look with them... but for some reason i live in a world where barely anyone views them like that?? weirdos
I love being a petty bitch.. like yes, I WILL hold a grudge, and YES I will be delusional to a point of cursing someone's ass, and YES I will be plotting against someone just for pissing me off
I don't think "normal" blogs following me after liking my one sane post are ready for all the shit I post
Me when they start the sentence with "my" when they refer to me
your posts are so cute ahh
i’ve completely disconnected myself emotionally from others
so why do i still feel so horrible?
filter: cvt skin knife carving stab
i actually want to be a bitch to a certain few other people on jiraiblr so bad but i feel like i’d ruin my reputation lol
once again asking misandrists to block me ❤️ if you think i'm an exception because i'm a trans man, you are transphobic. if you think hating an entire gender or sex or any variation of intersex is okay in any shape way or form, block me ❤️ i hate radfems and i hate anyone who wields hatred against people based on uncontrollable aspects of their existence. hope this helps.
Don’t act like you’re the savior of all broken souls just because you typed a few kind words on Tumblr. The truth is, people don't owe you their recovery. You can't fix someone who doesn't want to be fixed, and pushing that agenda onto others only makes it worse. Recovery isn't a neat little package wrapped in advice and support posts—it’s messy, painful, and personal. So stop pretending you're the key to someone's healing just because you slapped a 'You matter' sticker on their feed. We can see you're trying to help, but some wounds aren't healed by hashtags and self-help quotes.
They say, "Mental health professionals care about you." But do they? Or are you merely an investment—an asset for the future? Whether you become a smoker, a substance abuser, or just another weary soul suffocating under the weight of existence, you remain a cog in the machine. They care because your suffering fuels an industry—economically, professionally. Not because you, as a person, matter.
School does not prepare you for a career; it conditions you for obedience. It molds you into a well-trained servant of expectation, rewarding compliance and punishing defiance. And yet, people believe the system is built for their well-being. No, darling, it is built for its own survival. Mental health professionals care that you are alive—but not that you are living. There is a difference.
If true care were the foundation of this system, why are those who need only a little effort to heal instead confined to sterile white rooms, left to unravel further? It is not about healing. It is about preservation—preserving the cycle, preserving the economy, preserving the illusion of sanity. They do not care if you lose your mind, so long as you do not lose your pulse.
Would they call me a 'hopeless case' if I were wrapped in wealth? No. They would call it "progress," even if nothing changed. Money has a way of turning despair into "resilience." And if they did abandon a rich patient as hopeless, well—either they had exhausted every possible cent from them, or the abyss inside was simply too vast to be monetized.
It is not about humanity. It is about perception. Who cares if an 11-year-old boy carves his pain into his skin? Who cares if a 17-year-old girl trades her body for the illusion of love? Who cares if a 7-year-old is tormented by a body that does not feel like their own? Who cares if a 36-year-old woman surrenders to her hallucinations because reality is too unbearable? Who cares if a 21-year-old man is drowning in visions so vivid they become indistinguishable from truth? Who cares if a 61-year-old woman clings to the ghost of her son, longing to follow him?
The list is endless. The suffering is endless. And yet, none of it matters—not unless it becomes a headline, a viral sensation, a story fit to be consumed and discarded by the masses. Only then does the world pretend to care.
So spare me the naive platitudes. "Mental health professionals care about you!" they say. No. Most care only about keeping you just functional enough to keep the system running. After all, a dead investment yields no returns.
But who cares? I am just a dreamer, adrift in a delusion—swaying in the direction the world has already chosen for me.
And for those of you who try to 'save' those here with savior complex: