#rupture and repair

[thesoulache]

Guided Audio: Mindfulness Skill-Building

short guided demo of a practice to cultivate mindfulness skills

Mindfulness is maybe one of the top skills and practices in the general world of personal recovery and healing. It is also a necessary and important skill for practitioners to have for successful therapeutic outcomes. It helps to enhance attunement and general awareness of moment-to-moment interpersonal processes.

inspired by written demo included in research article, "Therapist's Guide to Repairing Ruptures in the Working Alliance" by Jerald Gardner, Lauren Lipner, et al. with my own intuitive takes...

[lady-laureline]

Today we're talking about a massive thorn in my side, namely the "water under the bridge" mentality in response to interpersonal conflict. While there is a time and place for it, it leaves a lot to be desired as a default response.

Healthy relationships (romantic or otherwise) go through cycles of rupture and repair. Hurt and healing. Transgression and reconciliation.

This knowledge is usually passed down from parent/guardian to child, through direct instruction as well as example. Buut, if the 'mentor' was never taught this skill, they cannot teach it, and the 'student' will grow up with little concept of healthy confrontation, and instead learn that keeping pleasantries afloat - and yourself under control - is what matters.

Within this context, bringing attention to pain signals a lapse in judgement in those that know better, and a lack of discipline or consideration in those who don't. It's also a sign of precarity: without the ability to break the problem down, it's harder to develop a sense of proportion. Ergo, a threat is a threat, no matter if it's a small misunderstanding, a tangible disagreement, or a full-blown crisis.

×

As someone who did grow up with the skill to repair, my understanding of a mature response to conflict is to parse it out: picking a moment to bring it up, having an open conversation, figuring out the relevant differences in perspective and the actual (versus assumed) root of it all. Only then can the parties involved make up and move on.

I took this attitude for granted before cohabiting with someone without the repair skill and finding out the hard way that trying to fix things was not what was expected of me. The lack of closure was what kept me from feeling like things were okay between us - but for them, not leaving the problem alone was the only thing keeping it alive.

At first, I tried to earn the right to talk about it, thinking I just needed to phrase it right. When that didn't work, I tried convincing myself I didn't need repair after all (pretty funny in retrospect). In the end, I had to conclude that each person is responsible for their own willingness to put effort into understanding the needs of another, and that denying your own, no matter how justified the context, just leaves you with more trauma.

×

That said, I have no intention of treating these attitudes as two sides of the same coin.

"Water under the bridge" doesn't carry your problems away to harmlessly dissolve into the ocean. Those emotions will stick around until you acknowledge their existence and their purpose, meanwhile they’ll eat away at you from the inside, whether you've dulled yourself to the pain or not.

With so much unattended hurt floating about, pretending everything's fine is ultimately nothing more than damage control. It might distract from the immediate upset, but - despite individual sacrifices made for the common good - it doesn't functionally bring us closer together. The brain is wired to fill in whatever information we're missing, and has a chunky negative bias, so without facts telling us otherwise we're likely to assume the worst about a situation and those involved in it. The less you are inclined to prove those suspicions wrong, the more pessimistic your reality becomes. This is how you end up alone in a room full of people.

But we keep shooting ourselves in the foot because the only thing scarier than loneliness is vulnerability. Even if you're willing to admit change, you'll have your psyche screaming at you to quit digging your own grave the second you let your guard down (it's trying to protect you and doesn't know any better).

Sometimes you have to take yourself by the hand and tell yourself it's ok. That you deserve better. Because we all bloody deserve better than just living with the crap that doesn't resolve on its own.

[crislion-photographer-blog]

Parece que cada día se libra una batalla en mi cabeza, aquellos recuerdos del pasado luchando entre sí, como ángeles contra demonios y no se cual es el fin de tal lucha…ojalá pronto llegue a su fin.

[thescorpiogirl]

Llegó ese día, y todo empezó a tener valor dentro de mi. Estoy a dos días de cumplir siete meses sin ti, y a pesar que al principio pareció difícil y que pensé, talvez no llegar a la sensación que tengo ahora, puedo decir que valió la pena cada lágrima, cada noche ahogada en ese sentimiento y con las fuertes ganas de volver pero decidida a no hacerlo. Y aún no podría decir que ya todo se olvidó y dejé de sentir, pero hubo un crecimiento y madurez en el proceso, que me hizo entender que la vida sigue y no podemos retener a nadie en nuestras vidas. Por alguna razón nos cuesta entender que si esa persona quisiera estaría con nosotros, tratamos de justificar cada acción y solo le damos el poder que no merece, porque sólo queremos pensar que volverán pero no siempre pasa. Lo mejor que pude hacer es tratar de hacer entender a mi corazón y mente que aún tenemos mucho por delante y que la vida no acaba, al contrario es una nueva oportunidad para hacer mejor la cosas, de expimentar más y enfocarnos en lo más importante, nosotros.

[sentientsky]

i have never understood it when ppl say “aggressively fighting and screaming at one another is part of a healthy relationship”. like sorry, have you never heard of communicating with those you care about in a clear and mutually respectful way? how about setting boundaries? no? okay cool

[moocowmoocow]

[cleverlykeenserpent]

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[johniac]

SciTech Chronicles. . . . . . . . .Jun 27th, 2025

[naija247new]

FAAN Orders Emergency Closure of Enugu Airport Runway as Air Peace, Ibom Air Suspend Flights over ‘Unsafe Infrastructure’

Naija247news – Enugu, Nigeria In a dramatic escalation of Nigeria’s aviation safety crisis, the Federal Airports Authority of Nigeria (FAAN) has temporarily shut down the runway of the Akanu Ibiam International Airport, Enugu, citing a sudden rupture in the asphalt surface at a critical section of the runway. The closure, which runs from April 22 to May 6, 2025, comes as multiple airlines,…

[player016]

“…the traits that draw Gi-hun to Jun-ho are also traits that put a strain on their relationship. Jun-ho's devotion becomes near obsession, his eagerness to please becomes crossing boundaries, his curiosity becomes a lack of privacy.”

I think this explains why Gihun can be, on the whole, so forgiving of those transgressions/why he doesn’t end their relationship. For every time Junho has invaded his privacy, he’s used his knowledge about him to make him feel safer and more comfortable. For every time his devotion borders on uncomfortable, he’s shown an understanding of Gihun that other people just don’t have.

Borrowing from the addition metaphor, I find myself writing Gihun’s feelings for Junho as very cyclical, which makes sense with that quoted passage.

It goes:

Junho is incredibly thoughtful/helpful —> Junho goes too far —> Junho is incredibly thoughtful/helpful —> Junho goes too far

And so on.

And Junho is so incredibly thoughtful. He’s observant and he’s done his homework and this manifests as an uncanny ability to predict and respond to Gihun’s needs—Gihun, who has spent so long neglecting his own needs that Junho’s care for him is all the more earth shattering.

Junhun asks time! I’m gonna send a couple

What do you think Gihun would like most about Junho? What traits about his personality would attract Gihun, you think?

-016

HOORAY!!!!!! Thank you my fellow junhun warrior this is a lovely question

I think that Gi-hun would deeply admire Jun-ho's determination. It's a quality that they both possess, and equally like about each other. It's also a trait that's helpful in Gi-hun's journey to take down the games. And when it comes to their relationship, despite there being a lot of guilt surrounding it, I think Gi-hun also feels addicted to the feeling of being Wanted.*

*Jun-ho's determination & devotion in their relationship sometimes manifests in more toxic and invasive ways, which upsets Gi-hun; it's when it's softer and quieter and briefly makes him feel like a person again that Gi-hun becomes addicted to it

Another trait I think that attract Gi-hun to Jun-ho would be Jun-ho's extreme attention to detail. Jun-ho Notices things about people, especially Gi-hun. Jun-ho notices Gi-hun's unspoken routine, and will adapt so easily. He'll notice Gi-hun's preferences for food, on the rare occasion that he does eat, and will cater to them. It's endearing.

Speaking of endearing, I think that Gi-hun also just finds a lot of Jun-ho's mannerisms and his demeanor to be rather charming. You call Jun-ho a puppy a lot, and that is Exactly what he is. Gi-hun subconsciously makes that comparison too; the eagerness to please, the vibrant responsiveness to praise, the endless curiosity he has for Gi-hun.... puppy behavior.

I think this is such an interesting thing to think about, honestly, because the traits that draw Gi-hun to Jun-ho are also traits that put a strain on their relationship. Jun-ho's devotion becomes near obsession, his eagerness to please becomes crossing boundaries, his curiosity becomes a lack of privacy. Gi-hun enjoys these things in moderation, but Jun-ho sees the green light and Floors It, metaphorically speaking. Honestly, it's not even a green light it's more like a blinking yellow light LMFAO

[scifibabee]

hey, ya girl had a breakthrough in therapy. who wants to journal with me?

and to be so clear: this is a very nuanced topic, and is based on me and my experience, not saying this is true for all autistics (i'd hope that'd go without saying, but. covering my ass, anyway).

---

the autistic trauma of moral vigilance

aka: being raised in a world where your natural way of being was read as wrong

here we go, folks!

1. every mistake was magnified

when you're autistic, your “errors” don’t get interpreted as oops.

they get interpreted as defiance, disrespect, or dysfunction.

you didn’t make eye contact? you’re rude.

you didn’t answer fast enough? you’re ignoring me.

you asked too many clarifying questions? you’re challenging me.

you didn’t mask your overwhelm? you’re overreacting.

so your body learns:

“if i’m not constantly vigilant about how i show up, i’ll be seen as bad.”

2. masking becomes morality

you didn’t just mask to fit in. you masked to be perceived as a good person.

you learned to suppress natural behaviors—stimming, directness, emotional honesty, tone mismatches—because they weren’t just “weird,” they were interpreted as rude, insensitive, selfish, inappropriate.

and over time?

you stopped being able to tell the difference between what’s wrong and what’s just not neurotypical. you started assuming everything that caused friction was your fault.

so you worked harder and harder to appear morally polished, socially fluent, emotionally tidy. even when it was costing you your nervous system.

3. repair was conditional — and rarely initiated by others

when you’re autistic and raised in a neurotypical environment, you’re almost always the one expected to adjust.

so when a rupture happened?

you were expected to apologize first

you were expected to explain yourself

you were expected to take responsibility for “miscommunications” — even when the other person didn’t meet you halfway

this teaches your brain: “if i don’t preemptively take the blame, i’ll be punished — or worse, completely misunderstood.”

so you spiral not because you were wrong, but because you fear what will happen if someone else decides you were.

4. black-and-white morality became your structure for survival

because when the rules are unclear and inconsistent, when neurotypical norms feel like quicksand, your brain builds rigid systems to try and feel safe.

so you cling to moral absolutes:

“good people don’t yell.”

“if i’m right, i must be calm.”

“if i mess up, it means i was selfish.”

“if i’m hurtful, i’m dangerous.”

you make yourself small, soft, and passive because god forbid anyone see your real emotional intensity and call it wrong.

again.

---

anyway, gonna be screaming the mantras

REGULATION IS NOT A MORAL REQUIREMENT

and

MY BODY IS NOT ON TRIAL

until they hopefully stick.

[fgojous]

love wins all | chapter one ( satoru g. )

from childhood summers and petty high school banters, to the endless college lectures—med school and the chaos of residency, you've been through it all. you've built everything together. you're each other's home—everything. but what if your relationship breaks beyond repair? what if the one thing you couldn't save was each other? can your love still win it all?

neurosurgeon!gojo x trauma surgeon!reader

warnings. romance, heavy angst, hurt/comfort, hurt no comfort, fluff, medical au, established relationships, high school sweethearts, unresolved feelings, unresolved issues, grief, emotional repression, mutual pining, emotional trauma, childhood trauma, explicit sexual content | eighteen plus only!

word count. 5.5k

masterlist.

note. hi, here's chapter one. please ignore the errors (or some inaccuracies lol). i hope you enjoy! reblogs are appreciated <3

CHAPTER ONE: MEET THE GOJOS!

You stare at the mug in front of you. Carefully watching the steam curl up lazily, blending in the atmosphere along with the sterile smell of the hospital lounge. You have been awake for what—eighteen hours? Maybe nineteen or twenty. You’ve lost count somewhere between stitching a ruptured artery and watching one of your patients almost code in front of you.  

You could feel everything. Your eyes burn, the ache just below your brows, the tightness of your back but despite it all, one thing was running through your mind—your husband, or soon-to-be ex-husband, if he could just sign the papers. But he wouldn’t give you that satisfaction, right? He just couldn’t let you go.

But why? Why is he dragging this out when he knows this is far that you can go. This relationship is already flatlined. He knows it, you know it. You both know it.

The door opens, and without even looking at it you recognize the person who just came in. You know it by his scent, the way he moved, the way he could just take over a room,  you know it all too well.

“You did good today.” he says gently, too familiar, too comfortable. “My shift just ended. We should go—”

“Sign the papers.”

He stops, and you look his way. He’s staring at you with that face again—like he couldn’t believe that you were saying it that easily when you’ve been with him for what—nineteen years? You stare at him, his hands stopping midway from unbuttoning his coat. 

“You need to sleep.”

“Did you hear me?” you say once again, too brave to stare right in his eyes, but too cowardly to acknowledge the ache growing inside your chest.

“I did.” he looked away, opening his locker, methodically shoving his white coat inside. His hand lingers on the edge, “We should go home.”

Ah. Home. Home where all the floors are neatly polished, where dishes are barely used anymore.

Home where you sit across each other in complete silence, barely looking at each other. Home where you sleep in the same bed but your backs facing each other, like there’s a cliff in between your bodies.

Where you pretend that this is something that you could fix. Believing that this was just a phase in your marriage even though you filed for divorce three weeks ago.

You don’t even know if you could call that home anymore when you have been sleeping in the on-call room for God knows how long.

You push the chair back, the wood screeching on the tiled floor, “I’m going to sleep in the on-call room. I need to monitor my patient anyway.”

You almost sprinted out of the break room, your freshly made coffee discarded on the table. You couldn’t get out of there fast enough. 

Not because you’re angry. But because you couldn’t fathom this feeling where he doesn’t try enough but doesn’t want to let you go. And you hate it, you hate all of it.

You were tired of arguing. 

The door clicked behind you. 

It hit that you were alone, that no matter what you did, you still felt alone. No matter how he says that he was there, you still felt alone. You gripped your coat, letting your tears silently fall down your cheeks as you toss your coat on the chair. 

You kick your shoes off, letting them land wherever, you let your body fall on the cot. You stare at the ceiling and you just breathe.

You press your face to your hands, letting your feelings catch up to you. Maybe he’s right, you were just tired. Maybe you just needed sleep because when was the last time you slept? You don’t even know. You don’t remember. 

When was the last time you let yourself feel something? When was the last time you didn’t push something down? You wanted to scream, you wanted to throw things.

But instead, you bury your face on the worn out cotton of the pillow. Nothing like the one you have at home. Nothing like you have with him.

You reach for your phone, the screen is bright, no new messages. 

Your patient is stable, post-op vitals are holding and you aren’t on-call. You could message him. You could go home with him.

Maybe he’s still here, still waiting. But you stop yourself because once you do—once you let yourself give in, you might take it all back and you can’t afford to do that.

Not when you’re the one who wanted to end it. Not when you’re the one who messed it up. 

You hear the door open and you immediately turn to the other side, you tuck your arms under your chest. 

You could feel the cot sink. Confusion washes over you when he nudged you to move but you did anyway. He lays beside you, hands gripping your waist gently to pull you close to him. 

The contact made you shudder. It has been months— three months, since you’ve been this close.

“What are you doing?”

“If you want to sleep here, then we’ll sleep here.” he says, his voice steady.  His hand slides under your scrubs—to hold you, to feel you. His palms press against the skin of your stomach, the contact making your spine shiver.

“Satoru.” you breathe, gripping his wrist as a warning. 

You have no idea what’s running on your husband’s mind. Why? Why is he doing this now?

“I just want to hold you.” he murmurs against your shoulder, his lips brushing on the soft of your skin, “Please, just let me hold you.”

His thumb strokes the curve of your waist and you almost break, you almost falter. Everything he does, everything he does could break you in a way that nothing else could. 

You missed this. You missed him more than you could admit. 

You could push him when he pressed a soft kiss on your neck. You could pull away when he turns you around to face him. You could look away when he stares into your eyes.

But you don’t. You just let him. You just let him take the gap between the two of you, until your lips are inches away from each other—then none at all. 

You gasp, like he’s taking your breath from you. He looks at you with worry, he always does. Like you’re going to break if he utters just one word. 

You didn’t know who moved first, but all you knew at this moment was to cling to him, press your lips against him like your life depended on it. 

“We shouldn’t.” you whisper in between.

“Then tell me to go. Tell me, and I’ll leave.” he says softly, leaning his forehead against yours.

But you don’t answer, you kiss him again, slowly—hesitantly. Your lips quiver as you did, your body was tearing down the part of you that still wanted to be strong. His white strands slipping in between your fingers as you pull him in, he bites your lip tentatively, like he’s not sure if he’s allowed to do so. 

But you deepen the kiss, pulling him a little bit more closely as if there’s still space left in between, and suddenly, he wasn’t hesitating anymore. He was kissing you with certainty—earnestly, you could feel the ache with every move his lips make.

You clutched onto him desperately, like you’ve been deprived of touch for so long. And you… have. For too long.

Your trembling hands reach for the hem of his shirt and he helps you, pulling it up until it’s teared away from him, his hands lifting your shirt over your head in return. 

He pulls your pants down along with your underwear, allowing him to see the skin that he has touched for years, the skin that he has adored and worshipped.

His lips find their way to yours again, his hands slid on your back unclasping your bra. Your hands travelling down to the waistband of his pants, pushing it down eminently, more than you intend to.

His kisses went to your face, to your jaw, down to your collarbone. You’re becoming too sensible in the way your bodies are close. You could feel his weight pinning down on you and all you could think about was how you love him. How you’d give him everything without a second thought.

Even if he didn’t ask you to. 

All you could think about is how he’s touching you, how he’s making you feel like you’re his whole universe. 

His breath hitches. All that’s running through his mind was he’s touching you again—like he has been starved, like feeling you against his skin would make him whole again.

He kisses your skin like he has never seen it before. His hands palms your waist, his thumbs pressing gently on your skin. “You’re so beautiful. You’re so… fuck. I..” he murmurs against your skin.

His hands slide in between your legs, coaxing it open. You gasp, arching your body into him as he slid his fingers inside you—curling up, just enough to make your hips jerk. You felt your thighs twitch, you grasp on his wrist, letting yourself unravel in the safest place you knew. He watches your face, how your eyes flutter. How your lips tremble, he listens to you breathe.

“Satoru.” you gripped his hair, “I need you. Please.”

He almost loses his mind when you beg him. It has been months since you’ve been like this to him, it’s driving him crazy. It’s so infuriating how much he wants you—how much he loves you.

How much he’d give you all of him. 

He kisses you again like it’d kill him if he doesn’t, he groans into your mouth when you pull him, your hands gripping his waist as you push him closer. You’re so desperate, hopelessly desperate.

“Please,” you gasp, almost whispering, out of breath, “Please.”

Without saying anything, he positioned himself into you, both gasping as he pushed inside, you bit your lip as you felt the abrupt stretch—neither of you moved for a bit, savoring every second he filled you in. 

You gripped his shoulder, your nails digging a bit on his skin. You should stop him, you shouldn’t let him. But, it felt like home. Yes, fuck, it felt like home.

Because he is your home. What were you thinking? What are you doing?

“God.” he whispers, pressing his forehead against yours, “I miss you.”

Tears prick from the corner of your eyes because of this overwhelming ache of needing him, of him needing you—and how it terrified you.

You wanted to say it back. 

You really did.

Instead, you reeled him in. You kiss him, and he sinks into you more. Slowly moving his hips, driving himself deeper—harder. All your sane thoughts vanished into thin air as he abandoned all his restraint, slamming you into oblivion. 

You wanted to curse him, for making your chest ache, for making you feel good. For fucking you too good. 

The cot creaks, and you were biting down your lip to keep yourself quiet—but all that went out the window when he was hitting all the right spots in you because he knows it all. He knows your body like no one else.

He knew every inch of you, he knew how to make you fall apart. He knew where to touch you like he owns all of you.

His fingers find yours again, intertwining them as he buries them on the cushion atop your head. Then you feel it, that familiar sensation building up on your stomach, fast. 

“Satoru.” you heave, your legs losing all its strength, you tighten around him. “I’m going to…”

You were breathless, uncontrolled—like a string waiting to snap. Your whole body tightens. Your mind was spiraling—you didn’t deserve him, you didn’t deserve to experience his love like this but your body didn’t care, because you craved him. You needed him. 

It was—is, selfish but you’re letting him down with you again.

“Fuuuck.” You heard him groan, his face burying on your neck as his breath ghosts over your ears. “You feel so good.”

He doesn’t stop, his pace quickens—your breathing was sharp, stuttered. You close your eyes. “No, baby. Look at me.”

His voice was ragged, “Look at me, please. I need to see your face.”

And it hits you hard, you grasp his arm as you hold onto the piece of sanity that’s left of you. Pleasure coursing through your whole body, you gripped him as if he’s the only one anchoring you to the surface. 

Then you felt the tremble in his arms, the way his hips slowed down, his voice shattering as he let himself go. 

His body collapsed on top of yours. You didn’t speak, you didn’t move. You just listened to him trying to catch air, you felt the warmth of his breath on your neck—your fingers gently stroking his hair. 

You didn’t know if this is something you’d regret. You didn’t know if this would fix things or become another wound that you would carelessly patch up.

But you didn’t let go.

—

The shrill sound of the alarm woke you up, you tapped the side of the cot where your phone is, desperately trying to turn it off. Then you see his message, 

Satoru | 8:56 AM

I got pulled into a surgery. Didn’t wake you up. I’ll see you later.

Then you see the second message.

Satoru | 8:58 AM

I love you.

Your chest aches.

Then you look down, you see a blanket carefully wrapped around you. You pulled it up to your face, his perfume still etched on the cotton, remembering the thing that happened this morning.

The one where you shouldn’t have let happen. Because, you’re divorcing him—no, you’re saving him. 

Right? From you?

You pushed the blanket hastily and  looked at the time, it’s already 1 pm. No one has paged you or anything. And you really need to take a bath. You sat up, rubbing your eyes, tossing your phone onto the side to pick your clothes up from the floor, clutching the blanket close to your chest. Hoping that no one came in while you were sleeping in here—naked.

You got dressed and looked at your reflection in the mirror. What have you done?

You sighed, picking up your white coat along with your hospital badge from the chair.

Dr. YN Gojo, RPT, MD, FACS | Chief of Trauma Surgery | Cardiothoracic Surgery Fellow

You went out of the on-call room, some of the nurses greeted you and you greeted them back with a smile. But of course, one of them looked at you knowingly—like she’s not buying that crap you call a smile, she knows you too well.

“Go home.” she walks with you, you looked at her and chuckled. “Don’t you laugh at me, young lady. You need some rest.”

“I will.” you say, “In fact, I’m going now.”

Nurse Tanaka pats your back, “Good. How’s things?”

You paused for a while, inserting your hands into your pocket. “Things are okay.”

“And you?”

“Fine.” you simply answered, trying to avoid the upcoming question. You pretend to  look at the time, clearly avoiding whatever it is that she wanted to ask you. “I’ll get going, I’ll see you later.”

She just nodded, the frown on her forehead visible because the way you dodge her question is as if you’re dodging a bullet. You weren’t ready to talk about whatever it is she wanted to talk about. And you don’t know if you’ll ever be ready.

You should be going home now, maybe take a shower, or eat—then sleep a little bit more, but your feet have carried you somewhere else. 

There in the gallery of OR 3. Where your husband stood—calm, precise. 

You watch him in silence, sitting at the back in the hopes that he wouldn’t notice that you’re there. You watch his every move, every flick of his finger, every tilt of his head.

He is in his element—he’s living up to his name, he’s continuing his father’s legacy. He’s right there, where he should be. Brilliant. Shining.

He looked like nothing had happened. Like you haven’t given him another piece of hope that you’re not sure if you’d shot down again.

You lean on the wall, just for a second and you’ll leave. Just for a second before you take back everything that you’ve said—before you regret everything that you have decided. 

But you stay. You always stay.

—

Your keys clattered on the side table, your bag discarded on the couch. You looked around, the apartment was too clean. No dishes in the sink, no pillows scattered—like there’s no one living here.

Well, between your shifts and your preference to sleep in the on-call room instead of your own bed, nobody really has been living here. You know Satoru isn’t coming home either. 

Because there’s no half-drunk coffee cups randomly placed here on the counter or on the table in the balcony. 

Because his scent is nowhere to be found. You forced yourself to move, walking through the hallway when you passed by the shelf where that photograph is seated.

You stop. Your hands tremble as you pick up the frame. You stare at the picture, your eyes slowly burning.

Satoru’s arm draped around your shoulders, his lips pressed against your temple—you, smiling, your cheekbones almost taking over your eyes—your friends, pointing their fingers in your direction with smiles on their faces, like you’re the star of the show. 

You hated this picture right now because you looked so happy, so genuinely, stupidly happy. 

You couldn’t believe that this was taken just three months ago. It’s funny—how things could change in a glimpse. 

Your fingers ghost over the glass, over his image. Over your figure. You could back away, you could throw it in the trash, smash it. But instead you put it back, facing it down.

Instead, you stepped back—strip off all your clothes and let the steam consume you. You let the water hit your body, chest heaving, tears falling silently.

You sobbed quietly until your body decided to betray you, until your body decided to stop protecting you against yourself. 

You just let yourself falter because here—you weren’t Dr. YN Gojo, you were just a woman who’s grieving, who’s mourning the version of herself who wasn’t here anymore.

—

You were drying your hair the moment your phone buzzed. You looked at it, even though you didn’t want to—it’s your job, it’s not like you have a choice, right?

The moment you read the page you were already heading out the door—slipping on your shoes like you have got no time to lose, well you really don’t.

The moment you stepped into the hospital, you weren’t the woman who cried in the shower like her life was hanging on a balance. No, you were Dr. Gojo again, Chief of Trauma. 

“Okay, what do we got?” you asked while tying your wet hair up, you grabbed the chart from the nurse without stopping. 

“Male, 33. MVC, multiple left-sided rib fractures. Suspected flail chest. Sats dropped to 89% en route. His chest x-ray confirmed hemothorax.” 

You scanned the image quickly, “Prep an OR for a left thoracotomy. Start large-bore IVs and have two units of O-neg on standby. Page anaesthesia, now.”

Your voice was dominating—sharp but calm. You’ve done this a thousand times before. Even though the whole room buzzed with chaos, you remained focused.  

You tied your cap, walking towards the scrub room when he walked out of OR 3. And for a minute, you stopped, locking eyes with him.

He looked so tired. His white strands falling carelessly on his forehead. You know he wanted to say something to you by the way his mouth slightly opened, you know him.

He’d want you to talk about what happened this morning. He’d want you to open up again. 

But you won’t. You couldn’t.

You didn’t give him a chance when you pushed towards the scrub room. 

You have no time to lose, you can’t think of anything else besides your patient. 

The surgery had gone well. All of it was textbook save.  But you didn’t escape the way your back aches, how your arm was sore from holding all those surgical tools for hours. 

You just wanted to collapse on the floor and stay there if it’s possible. 

Everyone was doing their part and you’d done yours, so you took your mask off, slipped off your cap and gown. You walked towards the nurses lounge, typing something on the tablet when a cup of coffee was placed in front of you.

“Dr. Gojo—I mean, the other Dr. Gojo left this for you.” you almost smiled, because how many times have Satoru been referred to as the ‘other’ Dr. Gojo? Barely. 

You look at the cup for a second too long—he left you coffee, just the way you like it.

You snapped back, your hands moving as your fingers hesitantly wrapped around it. “Thanks.”

You were about to walk away when you remembered something, you turned to the new nurse, “By the way, don’t let him hear you say that.”

“Huh?”

“Don’t call him, the ‘other’ Dr. Gojo. He’ll wreak havoc.” you said jokingly, giving her a faint smile before walking away while sipping on your coffee.

—

“Listen up!” Maki—the Chief Resident—started, the chatter died down, a smile almost slipping past her lips as she watched her intern’s faces.

She cleared her throat and looked around the shiny new interns, fresh scrubs, new badges—it’s a good day for her, and for the attendings too. “You’ve all made it through med school, big deal. Welcome to the real world. Where you’ll learn and fail and hopefully, not kill anyone.”

The door creaked open as she orientated the interns, the attendings going in one by one to observe the fresh batch of interns. And silently hoping that the ones assigned to them aren't a dud. 

And then he came in, Dr. Satoru Gojo, the whispers started again. There he was effortlessly tall—they never thought that a white coat would look that good on someone. It just… fits. His hair was slightly disheveled, his face looked so pretty even though it was obvious that he hadn't had any decent sleep in years. 

“That’s him, right?”

“Fuck, this is getting real. I heard he made a resident cry once.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, he just said ‘try again’ and she cried.”

“We’re so fucked.”

Satoru almost laughs when he sees the interns sitting in a row with eyes wide open. He knows that some are looking his way—maybe some of them even applied to this hospital’s program just because of him, and he’s not surprised, not everyday you get to see and work with a brilliant neurosurgeon such as himself. 

He leaned on the wall, sipping on his coffee while scrolling on his phone—looking bored already.  Suguru leans, “That one looks like he might faint.”

“God, I hope he’s mine.” he mumbles with sarcasm.

He looked around, searching for you, and you weren’t here. Probably caught up again in some emergency. Or a consult? He doesn’t know. How would he when you barely talk to him?

“Now, you’d be assigned under the supervision of an attending. You’ll follow them, do what they want. You will breathe if they say so and hope to God that they don’t hate you. Each of your performances are evaluated, so don’t mess up.” Maki says and starts calling the interns one by one. 

“Itadori.” Maki looks up, she sees the young intern with his hands up, nervously and enthusiastically. “And… Fushiguro.”

“You’re with Dr. Gojo.” and just by saying that, Itadori got pale in the face. Some of the interns are already consoling the two of them in their minds. 

“Miwa and Kugisaki. You’re with Dr. Gojo.”

Nobara  blinks, almost stutters. She subtly points at Satoru at the back, who raises his eyebrows in amusement without saying something.  “Also? Him?”

“No. Dr. YN Gojo.” and as if on cue, you enter. The interns exchanged glances. There you were with a soft look on your face, the one where the interns gave hope that not all attendings are you know… evil.

Their eyes followed you as you sat beside Ieiri. “There she is.”

You smiled and gave them a wave, a bit confused as to why they were looking at you. Maki pointed at the girls, “They’re yours.”

“Wait, she’s also a Gojo?” Nobara whispers to Miwa, glancing a bit in your direction. “Is she like his sister?”

Miwa shrugs, “Maybe just a coincidence? Or maybe it’s a common last name?”

“I don’t think so.” Nobara says.

“She’s his wife. They’re married.” Megumi says, and their eyes widen.

“He’s married?!” she says a little bit loud, but covers her mouth when she realizes how loud she was. She turned to Megumi, “How did you know?”

And the young man just shrugged his shoulders, Nobara pouts, dissatisfied with his answer. Maki finishes assigning and the interns go with their attendings. 

“She looks nice. Thank God we weren’t assigned to him.” Miwa whispers to Nobara, and she excitedly nods. They watched as you walked towards the door, frowning when you realized they weren’t following you.

The look on your face says they celebrated too early.

“Are you going to follow me or are you going to waste my time?” you say, that angelic smile adorned on your face earlier was now gone. “Let’s go. First round starts in ten minutes. I hope you had your breakfast. Walk fast, don’t expect me to slow down for you.”

Nobara stops, her face turns white and Miwa scrambles to walk towards you. 

“Now!”

And you were gone before they could answer you. Satoru finally speaks in soft sing-song voice with a big smile plastered on his face as he walks past Nobara, “Good luck~”

He walks out with his interns following him, but before Megumi could walk out the door he says something to her. “By the way, she’s the Dr. Gojo who made the resident cry. Not him. If I were you, I’d be running by now.”

“Wait… what?!”

—

“Dilated cardiomyopathy.” you murmured, tapping your foot on the carpeted floor as you stare at the tablet in your hand.

She has a history of repaired congenital heart defect. Your eyes stroll down through the numbers, the chart, her whole history.

And… you stopped. Your hands stiffen, gripping on the tablet too hard. You read it, once—twice, maybe even a hundred times.

You blinked, staring at that one line like it is going to change anything. “No.”

“No?” the Chief of Surgery repeated—a little shocked, because how could you say no to him? 

“Are you saying ‘no’ to me, Dr. Gojo? Do you know how much time we have? You’ve seen her chart. I think you’re in no position to say no.”

“I am.” you slammed the tablet on his table, not too hard, but enough to tell him that you aren’t doing this one. No, not this one. It hits too close. “Not me. I won’t touch this. Not this.”

You’ve tried hard enough not to react. Not let your emotions get the best of you, but that isn’t easy in this situation.  “YN.”

“What?!”

“You’re the only one I trust.” his voice was calm, and it unnerves you. “You’re the only one who could do this.”

He stands up and goes in your direction, you take a step back. “You’ve seen her numbers. She’s unstable, her oxygen is dropping.”

You were frustrated. Because it’s true. 

All of it was true, her condition is worsening but you’re not the only one who could do it. You’re a cardiothoracic fellow for pete’s sake—granted you’re already in the final year of your fellowship but still.

“That’s why we need to max everything, her medications—”

“We already have. She’s not responding.” he pauses, “You know Dr. Yamada is not here right now. This is an urgent case, you’ve worked under her. I’m sure you’ve learned a lot from her.”

But that’s not the point. That’s not why you would do it. And it baffled you—you could feel it, the breath you unraveled. Your vision blurs and everything feels like it’s closing in on you. 

“Dad—” it had slipped before you could stop it. The vulnerability you’ve tried so hard to conceal.

Tears fall from your eyes, and he sees it. “Please. What if she coded into the table? What if I can’t save t—”

You’re frustrated. Because you’re not just his surgeon now. You’re his daughter.

And hurt, because never did your father put your feelings into consideration. You’re a doctor, you’re not supposed to let your feelings take over you. 

But one thing just ran through your mind repeatedly, you’re his daughter. 

For once, just this once, you hoped he’d think about what you feel. You’d just wish he’d think about what this means to you.

“You can!” he pushed, “You’re my daughter. You’re your mother’s daughter, if anyone could, it’s you! Do not give me this crap.” you flinched, tears falling endlessly but he doesn’t stop there. “She’s young, she has no prior comorbidities. You’ve seen it, she already has decompensated heart failure, she won’t make it another 24 hours without intervention.”

You bite your lip, harshly wiping your cheeks but the tears come anyway, “She may not make it in surgery either.” you say, voice quiet, defeated. 

“I know, but you’re the only surgeon I trust to try.”

—

Your breathing was heavy—sharp, you could barely hear your footsteps as you descended the emergency stairwell. You couldn’t hear anything beside the storm roaring in your head.

The papers clutched in your hand, your knuckles had gone white along with the shaking of your arms. 

“Fuck!” Without any second thoughts, you slam the papers on the floor, it had scattered like leaves falling down. The sound of your voice bounces through the walls, but there wasn’t any care in your body right now.

You stopped, your world spinning as your back slides on the cold wall, your body hitting the concrete on your feet. You pressed your palms on your face, trying to calm yourself down. 

Breathe. Just… breathe.

You can do this, right? You’ve done this countless times before. You are Dr. YN Gojo, you were trained for this, you are the best. If anyone could do it, it would be you. 

You’ve put yourself together a thousand times, like you’ve never been hurt, been broken apart. But why can’t you do it now? Why can’t you pull yourself together?

A sob escaped you, like a traitor. Too loud, too painful. You’ve opened a can of worms that you couldn’t contain. It all came bursting out. You had no control. 

It all hit too close because you’ve been here before. You’ve watched life slip from you. You know what it’s like to gamble, and they’re asking you to do it again.

Your sobs echoed, it was raw. Helpless. Your shoulders shake with every breath you take. 

You don’t even notice the door slip open, you don’t even hear the hurry behind his steps—he moved fast, just to get to you.

“Hey,” and just like that, he cuts through the noise in your head.

He kneels almost immediately, arms wrapping around your shoulder, pulling you into his chest. “I’m here, baby. It’s okay. I’m here.”

You clutched on his shirt, like he’s the only thing keeping you afloat. Small whimpers escaping your lips,  “Satoru.”

“I’m here.” he pressed his lips on your head, “I won’t leave.”

“I can’t.” you were choking on your words, you bury your face on his chest, feeling his steady heartbeat in contrast to yours. “I can’t do this. She’s going to lose it too, Satoru. She’s…”

You feel his body stiff, but his hold tightens and he presses a gentle kiss on the side of your head once again. You know this was affecting him too. This is why you couldn’t do it. This is why you’d rather feel this alone.

“She’s… I’m going to lose her. I’m going to lose them.” 

Because you’ll pull him down with you and you would never forgive yourself for that.

“I’m going to…” you were spiraling—right in front of him and you know it will break him. All these walls that you’ve spent a long time building just to protect him came crumbling down and you hate it. 

You hate yourself for this. You hated everything. But never him. God, no, never him. 

There’s a throe in his chest but he held you, keeping you close as if he’s putting you back together. 

“I’m not going anywhere.” he whispers, it’s as if he knew what you were thinking, “Even if it breaks me—I’m not going anywhere.”

And for the first time in a long time. You let him in. You didn’t want him to see you like this but you needed him.

You know you need him.

“I’ll stay, YN. I’ll always stay.”

[jacksabbotts]

✧ the eye, the alter and the apostate — ❪ part one ❫

pairings .' aaron hotchner x consultant!reader summary .' the bau is called to investigate a string of ritualistic murders in a small arkansas town—each victim posed with disturbing religious symbolism and marked with an eye carved into their back. the killings are steeped in obscure scripture, apocryphal texts, and performative theology—well beyond the team’s usual scope. with tension thick and the case spiraling fast, hotch does something no one expects: he calls back a civilian consultant who hasn’t been seen since the missouri incident. trigger warnings .' lowercase intened!!! \ blood \ murder \ postmortem mutilation \ carved symbols (open eye motif) \ sensory trauma ( burned eyes, ruptured eardrums ) \ mouth trauma ( rosaries forcibly inserted ) \ religious symbolism \ distorted scripture and catholic imagery \ brief discussion of torture ( medical examiner’s report ) \ reader discretion is advised \ mdni 18+

masterlist | series masterlist | dividers by @cafekitsune | join the taglist

the bau wasn’t usually this quiet. not that it was ever especially loud but a murmur was expected. the team sat around a circle table in the conference room. sitting across one another silently.

the cause for their silence—the brutally graphic crimes photos sprawled out across the table and on the board. papers brushing file folders, spencers foot tapping nervously under the table and the sound of penelope’s clicking pen.

little cross, arkansas, had met its match in death. the kind if touch where the church had its claws everywhere and in everything. the kind of place you’d loathe since you’d last escaped your own version of catholic small town hell.

there had been two victims so far. one male, early thirties, a handyman and a woman, mid forties, a school teacher. both had been found in or near abandoned religious buildings—old churches and chapels.

each crime scene had been prepared in advance. set up with candles scriptural passages scrawled in chalk or blood, a hand-built altars.

but his calling card is what ultimately tied the two victims together. an open eye with a tear drop, carved into the center of both of the victims backs—between the scapulae. a rendering done with extreme obsessive care.

the bleeding confirmed it was post mortem—the carving was the final act.

its the unsubs own twisted version of divine surveillance—the all-seeing-god. he always arranges them pointing east with their arms crossed over their chests like old burial sites, eyes burned shut, ear drum ruptured beyond repair and their mouths sewn shut with rosaries shoved down their throats. they couldn’t sin if they couldn’t use their senses.

the medical examiner had concluded that the sense damage was done while the victim was still alive and thus the unsub was classified a torturer.

pages upon pages was scrawled around each of the victims. several different scripture cut and pasted together misshapenly to covey some sort of message he thought the world needed to know. and at each victims feet, their own handwritten sermon telling the sins that had called for repentance.

the mans—a lesson in wrath—a death sentence he’d earned for his domestic violence.

the womans—a lesson in lust—a punishment for a stillbirth pregnancy out of wedlock.

emily was the first to speak up, breaking the carefully curated silence. ‘okay, tell me i’m not the only one getting vatican exorcist vibes.’ she flipped through the digital case file, her brow furrowing.

‘those aren’t exorcism rites,’ reid muttered, tapping at his physical file ( because only reid would request a paper file ).

‘some of the latin is from revelation, but the rest is… fragmented. there’s a phrase from the book of jubilees, and what looks like an apocryphal psalm that’s not in any catholic scripture i've ever read.’

essentially what he is trying to say is—it doesn’t make any sense ( even to his genius eidetic brain ).

‘victim’s a local handyman,’ jj added. ‘no criminal record. lapsed catholic. attended mass as a kid, confirmed at thirteen, dropped off the radar after.’

rossi leaned back in his chair. ‘he wasn’t just killed. he was… prepared. like an offering.’

morgan narrowed his eyes at the image. ‘this feel like us to you? because it isn’t really our wheelhouse, hotch.’

another silence passed through the room like a breeze before a storm. every gaze shifted to hotch, standing with his arms crossed near the screen. he stared at the photos for one more beat, then spoke with quiet finality.

‘it’s not,’ he said. ‘that’s why I’ve requested a civilian consultant.’

that made heads turn.

before Hotch could explain, the glass door hissed open.

garcia entered in a flurry of curls, rings, and caffeine, holding a mug that read ‘i serve looks and justice’. she froze halfway across the room and gasped, wide-eyed. morgan blinked. ‘you serious? after missouri?’

garcia gasped again. ‘tell me you did. tell me my dark darling of the divine is going to walk through those doors in heels and bad decisions.’

hotch didn’t move. not when garcia had said your name. not when she had started grinning like it was christmas morning and you were the gift. but his jaw ticked once.

‘garcia—,’ hotch started.

she spun toward him. ‘don’t garcia me! this is the good kind of office chaos. we’re talking sacrilegious brilliance and a wardrobe that slaps harder than a morgan backhand. be still my blasphemous little heart.’

prentiss grinned, clearly amused. ‘you brought her back?’

hotch’s jaw flexed. ‘we need her.’

rossi raised an eyebrow, trading a glance with jj. reid, ever the innocent, frowned. ‘what happened in missouri?’

jj didn’t look up from her coffee. ‘it’s classified under ‘none of your business.’

garcia stage-whispered, ‘it’s classified under ‘heartbreak and unresolved tension.’

morgan chuckled and elbowed prentiss. ‘bet you five bucks she still makes hotch’s blood pressure spike.’

‘only five?” she asked. ‘have some faith.’

‘she already accepted the case,’ hotch said flatly. ‘strauss signed off. she’ll be on the plane.’

‘thought you said you’d never bring her in again,’ rossi murmured.

hotch didn’t blink. ‘I didn’t think I’d have to.’

from across the room, garcia was already halfway to the exit, heels clicking. ‘i’m going to grab the spare visitor badge. and maybe a crucifix. and some sage. you know, just in case.’

‘don’t forget the fire extinguisher,” morgan muttered.

prentiss leaned closer to hotch. ‘how long’s it been again?’

‘seven months,’ he said, eyes fixed on the screen.

the room fell into silence again, tension stringing them all together like barbed wire.

then, the elevator dinged. heels echoed against tile. the glass doors slid open.

and you walked in like you’d never left.

[muniimyg]

i forgot if you mentioned what bed chem oc is majoring in, but it would be cute if she went on a whole tangent about that or whatever she’s passionate about to jungkook, or idk even a tour or demonstration similar to what he showed her in the lab one time, just so he can be the one learning about her interests for a change!

♡ 01: friday night

series m.list // taglist unavailable

note: welcome to the first of many <3 thank u for sending in ! this scenario doesn't fully answer ur ask but i think it gives good insight to their vibe :)

//

your coffee table is a mess. 

covered in energy drink cans, highlighters, and post-it notes—yet jungkook is the exact opposite of a mess. he’s calm as ever, leaning back against your couch. his legs are laid out, partly for comfort and partly to see if you’ll play footsies with him. as he taps his pencil on the coffee table, you’re hunched over your laptop, reaching your presentation notes over and over again. 

“you spelled neurological wrong again,” jungkook murmurs without looking up from your screen, the tip of his finger casually dragging across your trackpad to highlight it. “you know… if you’re tired, you can just go to sleep. your presentation isn’t until monday.”

“yeah? and?”

he rolls his eyes, leaning back in his chair. “and... it’s friday night. shouldn’t we be doing something… i don’t know. less nerdy?”

you groan, flop dramatically onto the keyboard. 

“less nerdy? coming from you? mr. acid-base equilibrium? you literally watched a documentary on test tube glassware last night.”

“okay, that was cinematic.” he tilts his head, smirking. “besides, people are gonna think i’m a bad boyfriend. they’re gonna blame me for this sad little study date. my reputation as campus hot nerd boyfriend? destroyed.”

“and maintaining your reputation is important to you because…? are you trying to impress someone?”

he opens his mouth.

you lift a brow. “answer properly, chem boy.”

his grin widens—lazy, warm, and entirely unbothered. he leans forward until his knee knocks into yours under the table. the silence after is familiar, laced with quiet breaths and clacking keys and the soft humming of your brain still sorting through your script.

you’re practicing for your final psych presentation—“how attachment styles influence communication in emerging adult relationships.” you’d picked the topic because it felt personal, but lately it’s felt almost too personal. every example, every term—hypervigilance, emotional unavailability, rupture-and-repair cycles—sounds suspiciously familiar.

then he speaks again, quieter now.

“do you think i have an insecure attachment style?”

you pause mid-type. turn to squint at him.

“are you asking because you’re actually curious or because you’re bored?”

“yes,” he says. but this time, when you meet his eyes, he’s not teasing.

his hair’s messily pushed back from all the times he’s run his fingers through it. he’s in that hoodie—the one you always steal. the one that smells like detergent and warmth and him. he’s looking at you in that way he only does when something’s been sitting in his chest too long.

you soften. “you… avoid conflict until it explodes. you retreat instead of repair. but—”

his brow lifts.

“but you always circle back. even if it’s awkward. even if you don’t know what to say.”

he nods, barely.

“so yeah. maybe a little avoidant. maybe a little anxious.” then you add with a smirk, “but mostly just annoying.”

he breathes out a soft laugh, but you see the way his fingers curl slightly in his lap. something’s still tugging at him.

“i only asked because...” he shrugs. looks ahead. “i don’t wanna suck at loving you when things get real.”

you blink.

he doesn’t say it dramatically, doesn’t dress it up. just drops it in the air between you like a truth he’s been holding in his mouth all week.

you stare at him, heart thudding so hard it feels like a distraction. so you reach for his hand, slide your pinky over his, and anchor him there.

“you won’t,” you say quietly. then, “we’re both still learning.”

he swallows, turning to you again, lips twitching like he’s trying not to smile.

and then—very softly, with just a hint of mischief:

 “...should i come to your presentation?”

you roll your eyes. “you have to. you’re in one of my case studies.”

“i what—”

[sufrimientilia]

healing but with downsides

Caretaker with healing powers but every second of it is excruciating for Whumpee. Burning, convulsing, screaming, the repair of flesh coming with fire or electricity or the burst pop scatter of darkness from every synapse rupturing with over-stimulation

A resurrection spell that brings Whumpee back from death but it’s like dying in reverse, shaking and gasping and horrible, so wretched and miserable all over again

Bloodletting to save Whumpee from poison or infection. Toeing the line between bloodloss and dying from whatever toxin needs to be drained

Trying spell after spell to reverse a curse or hex. Whumpee so beaten and abused by magic their body just shuts down or violently rejects it all

Whumpee with the power/affinity/etc to heal fast but practically goes comatose in the meantime. Caretaker fretting as Whumpee sleeps and can’t be roused for hours or days at a time until their wounds seem to heal on their own

Whumpee with the power/affinity/etc to heal fast but it’s like they’re dying. Maybe Whumpee fights off wounds the same way they would the flu, their body getting so feverish and sickly every time they get hurt. Maybe the energy of healing drains Whumpee entirely, leaving them all sweaty and limp and lifeless

Whumpees with the power to heal immediately on the surface but feel the pain indefinitely

Whumpee who can heal so fast they're used for organ harvesting, cut open and ripped apart again and again and again

Herbal concoctions used to make powerful healing potions that taste putrid, forced down Whumpee’s throat as they choke and struggle, too out of it to really fight back

Concoctions that save Whumpee from fatal stab wounds but feel so bad. Poultices and salves that burn or ache, tinctures that make them so restless and disoriented they dream about such horrible things while Caretaker wipes sweat off their brow

Caretaker having to soothe and look after Whumpee as they give them dose after dose of something that makes them feel terrible. Maybe it’s the only thing keeping them alive, but Caretaker feels guilty all the while

Drugs that promote healing but have a whole slew of side effects. Anxiety, heart palpitations, overstimulation, allergic reactions, horrible withdrawals after Whumpee heals

Whumpee’s wounds getting better in every physical way but they just feel so much worse

[chronicbitchsyndrome]

i honestly think that a lot of the "mental illness doesn't make you violent or say/do extremely harmful things" stuff would be mitigated if we didn't treat "doing a violence" or "doing harm" as automatic panic buttons that call for the immediate ostracization and unpersoning of the harm-doer in question. like i think it's pretty inevitable that traumatized people are going to do really bad and harmful things to each other when our nervous systems are activated, and that psychotic people are going to do really bad and harmful things to each other when our realities frame it as necessary, and i don't think we'll ever get anywhere with how we categorize and treat mental illness on a broad societal level as long as we keep acting like those are irreparable evil actions that only truly fundamentally Evil, Bad mentally ill people will do.

like i think social focus on the rupture-repair cycle in casual relationships and friendships might go a long way to repairing how we socially handle violations of trust and violence that stem from trauma+psychosis. and i think the focus being on what is needed to make sure someone stays in community with the people around them is a much better framework than how we can punish them or keep them away from the people they hurt. and like, yes, sometimes there is literally no way to keep someone in community, to be clear, i am fully aware of that.

i also think a lot of the long-term trauma and abuse patterns that stem from mental illness behavior patterns... are about the power the mentally ill individual holds. like, having an abusive psychotic parent isn't inherently traumatic because they're psychotic, it's because the role "parent" in society gives them complete and utter power and control over you, and you can't pursue healing and repair with someone who has complete control over you. you can only escape and cut them off to avoid future trauma. and addressing those hierarchical roles of power, removing entirely them where possible and mitigating what power they do have, would do a lot in the long run to prevent trauma and abuse stemming from behavior patterns categorized as mental illness--much more than focusing on unpersoning and isolating the perpetrators of harm imho.