#institutionalized abuse

[immortalvipers]

Ponder Your Way, Find Your Key

It is about time that children trapped in emotionally abusive environments take charge and bombard Child Protective Services (CPS) and demand change. CPS is incompetent and extremely unlikely to actually take charge in situations of emotional neglect. There are times where they even succumb to the manipulation of the abusers and deem the children as the problem. As people with personal experiences, we do not recommend turning to CPS if you are being emotionally abused. A post on Reddit phrased it beautifully. Click here for the link. While emotional abusive is important for CPS to take seriously and genuinely help the victims reach their goals, we highly suggest reading the comments on the post. It is valuable information to consider while fighting for childrens rights. There are plentiful discussions of possible solutions. Such as CPS workers to take extensive studies on emotional abuse and how the abusers are expert manipulators.

(the links to that research are included in the post)

As pointed out in the screenshot above, the abusers are helped to see their own actions and be enlightened to change their ways. However, the likelihood of redemption is depressingly low. The parents who refuse to change their ways in continuing occurrences need to be held more accountable. Many, many forms of emotional abuse are institutionalized. This needs to change. While you have every belonging to feel upset and enraged to fight for your progression, be wise in the steps that you will take to achieve It, but do not succumb to mental deterioration that comes your way. You are worth fighting for.

[keeper-of-all-the-random-things]

Bleeding for Gold, pt 2

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3

CW: restraints (standing cuffs), blood, bruises, beating, noncon (non-sexual), knives, institutionalized abuse. Please let me know if I missed anything.

.....

Day 26

The office is different than Ian expected, warm and inviting.

At the front desk, Ian inquires after Spencer.

The secretary types into their computer.  “I’m sorry,” they say.  “He’s currently with a client.  May I take a message?”

“I’ll wait,” Ian says.

“It may be a while.”

“Fine.  I’ll wait.”

Ian sits in a velvet armchair.  Three minutes pass.  He gets up.

“What does it mean to be his client?” he asks.

The secretary gives a big sales smile.  “Being a client here allows you to safely explore all parts of yourself so you can discover your truest self.”

“Right.  So.  What does that mean?”

“It all depends on you.”  The secretary continues smiling as if they are delivering life-altering information.

“What office is Spencer in?”

“He’s new, so technically he doesn’t have an office yet.  His workspace is downstairs until he gets a promotion.”

Ian nods and heads towards the stairs.

“Sir, you can’t interrupt the meeting!”  The secretary calls but makes no move to stop Ian.

Ian doesn’t break his stride.  He follows the stairs two flights down until he reaches a hall lined with brightly painted doors.  It feels like stepping into a nursery or grade school with its die cut labels and vague motivational posters hanging between the rooms.

Ian stands awkwardly at the bottom of the stairs until a uniformed woman appears.

“First time here?” she asks.  “Who were you matched with?”

“Spencer …”

“He’s already with someone at the moment, perhaps we could -”

“We’re together.  I was running late.  I’m sorry.”

“Of course, of course.  Life happens.  We’re glad you could make it.”  She adopts the same sales smile as the secretary.  “Last door on the right, Mr. …”

Ian is already walking away.

He stops at the scarlet door at the end, knocks once, and enters without waiting for a response.

And he freezes.

Spencer is in the center of the room, cuffed wrists pulled high above him by a chin attached to the ceiling.  Deep cuts and multi-colored bruises cover his torso.  His shirt is neatly folded in the corner.

“ - the hell is this?”  A wiry man appears from behind Spencer.

“I was going to ask the same thing,” Ian says.

“Ian?”  Spencer  looks around, eyes bleary.

“I still have an hour left,” the client says.  “I was promised full privacy.”

“What are you doing?” Ian asks as the client presses his hand into a purple bruise on Spencer’s side.

“I’m within my rights,” the client says.  He presses deeper, and Spencer groans.

“Stop!” Ian protests.  “You’re hurting him.”

“Yeah.  That’s sort of the point.”  The client scoffs.

“Ian, just leave it,” Spencer says quietly.  “Please.”

“Spencer …”

“You heard him.  Leave.”  The client puts his hands on his hips.  “This is a private session.  If you want a turn, you can pay for time like everyone else.”

Ian longs to tackle the man and show him how he really feels.  Instead, he clenches his fists at his sides.

“Where are the keys?” he says, stonily calm.

The client tilts his head.  “Keys to what?”

Smug bastard.

“To the cuffs.”

“Not here.”  Smirk.

Ian does hit him then, one swift jab to the face.

“Ian, please stop.”

The client keeps smiling.  “No, no.  By all means, keep going.  This could be more fun than I thought.”

Ian steps back, more to spite the client than for Spencer.

“Let him down.”

The client laughs.  “For the next hour, in this room, I’m in charge.  And he’s not getting out of here until I decide I’m done.”

“I’m not going to leave without him.”

“Don’t worry,” the client says, deeply condescending.  “He’ll make it home to you.”

In any other context, those words could have been reassuring.  But the client pulls a thin knife from his pocket and waves it in Spencer’s direction.

“We have business to finish,” he says.  He adopts a thoughtful look.  “You can stay, under my conditions.”

Ian clenches his jaw.

“If you stay quiet, I’ll be gentle.  Otherwise, I’ll have to call security and then your friend and I will have some real fun.”

Wordlessly, Ian nods and moves between the client and Spencer.  He is close enough to feel Spencer shiver when the client runs his hands across Spencer’s back.

Then it begins in earnest.

Spencer cries out as the client slides his knife through his skin, smaller hurts made worse with open palmed slaps and full bodied punches.

Ian bites his tongue to keep from lashing out at the client.

The client doesn’t seem to tire.

Ian absorbs each blow that Spencer takes until Spencer’s cries turn to whimpers and Ian is the only thing keeping him upright.

Finally, the client stops.  He comes around into Ian’s line of sight.

Ian doesn’t move for fear of jostling Spencer.  He only glares at the client’s self-satisfied smirk.

“It’s been fun,” the client says.  “Could make it official next time.”  He reaches into his pocket and tosses a set of keys at Ian’s feet.  “Sign up.  I’ll see you again.”

He gives Spencer one last smack before he leaves.

…..

Ian drives them back to the apartment in silence.

Spencer refuses help to clean himself and to tend to his wounds.  He passes out on the couch and sleeps deeply all afternoon and all night.

Ian doesn’t sleep at all.

[whumpwizard]

Whumptober2022 Day 13: Can't Make an Omelette Without Breaking a Few Eggs

Sometimes, Eadwulf was an idiot. Astrid would say it was all the time that he was an idiot, but he maintained that it was only sometimes.  Like now.  Now, he was most definitely being an idiot. He knew the bone was fractured, he could feel it every time he swung his sword and the blinding, white-hot pain shot up his forearm into his shoulder.  Every time he tried to block, and his vision went fuzzy around the edges as his body threatened to collapse.  He was sure that the only thing keeping him upright was the residuum that coursed through his veins, and the years of pain that he had already endured.

Of course, Astrid saw him suffering. Saw his wide strikes and his barely-there parries. And he saw her seeing it. His face flushed, knowing the sort of punishment he’d be in for when this ended. When the traitors before them were dead, their house burned to the ground, and mysterious, incriminating note was left behind telling of their hard farming season and inability to go on any longer. When all that was done? Astrid would have Wulf’s head.

But now was not the time to worry about that. Now, he had to focus on the screaming in his bones and the screaming in front of him, and remember which one was more important. A fracture could wait. The good of the Empire could not.

Wulf cut down the man in a single stroke.  Picking up the coward’s blade, he stalked over to the young man fighting Astrid. He couldn’t be any older than seventeen, a strapping young thing who was fighting, dying to save his parents, and losing.  Wulf tightened the grip on the sword, and felt the pain shoot up again. He thought about how the boy in front of him would collapse under the pain, would buckle, screaming, crying out for help because it hurt so badly.  And he would be right to, of course. It hurt like a bitch.  The boy’s father had been strong, and quick to grab a weapon, and Wulf had paid the price. But Wulf wasn’t buckling or crying.  He wasn’t even bending. 

He had felt this pain a thousand times, in the basement with Trent. Sometimes it had been at the hands of his master, breaking and setting and re-breaking every bone in his body, so he knew what every single one felt like. Other times it had been by Astrid, learning to do the same. After all, there’s only one way to learn how to break a bone, and only one to learn how to fight through it. The back and forth had lasted many gruelling months, and every time Wulf hadn’t been able to help but feel some relief.  Bren…broken, unstable, Bren, had avoided this. Had avoided the pain.

If he hadn’t maybe he’d have been stronger. Maybe he wouldn’t have broken.  After all, here you stand, stronger than ever.

The voice in his head sounded like his Master, like Trent.  And he knew it was right. Wulf was still standing, still fighting, thanks to every second of pain he had endured. Every second of it that he had inflicted on Sassa, she too, got stronger. He had needed this. This was the very moment that he had needed it for.

He raised the sword as he approached the young man, and swung it down at his back.  His attention had been on Astrid, so he hadn’t seen it coming.  He barely let out a whimper as he crumpled to the ground.

“I had him.” Astrid said, glaring at Wulf with eyes sharper than her daggers.

“I know. But I had time to spare and I want to finish this. You have the note?”

“Ja.” She pulled out the folded-up piece of paper, already forged in the father’s writing.  Wulf nodded, and silently began piling the bodies in the home.  He grunted as he tried to pick up the father’s corpse, but just as he got a good hold, his arm gave out.

“Fuck!” Wulf shouted, trying to readjust his grip. Before he could, Astrid was on him.

“You idiot.  I fucking knew you had hurt yourself. Go pin the damn note while I do the bodies.”

“Sassa I-” Wulf started, still trying to hold the body as it fell out of his failing arm.

“Halten.” Astrid ordered. Wulf dropped the body and took the note.  He wasn’t sure if it was the adrenaline crashing or his Glyph Chant fading, but the pain was more insistent now. Even just holding his arm at his side hurt, and he did his best not to lift it as he placed the note at the base of the tree. He tried to clench his fist, to prove to himself he could still fight the pain, but as soon as he tried to, he let out a groan of pain.

“Schiesse.” he hissed, just as Astrid walked up behind him.

“Come, we will get you a cleric.” she said.  If he listened very, very closely, he could almost hear pity and tenderness in her voice. But only barely. “You should have let me take care of them as soon as you broke it.” Astrid went on as Wulf joined her on the walk back to their horses. The house began to smoulder as they walked away, Astrid having set the fire. By tomorrow? It would be ash.

“Ja, well, I had him, and I had your guy too, so it was fine. I am fine.” he countered, knowing full well it was bullshit. He couldn’t even use the arm to mount his horse.

“You are not fine. What if it had broken entirely, hm? Beyond the help of a cleric? Then where would we be. Now shut up and let’s go.” she ordered, kicking her horse off. With a grunt of pain, Wulf did the same.

Every jolt and jostle of the horse’s movements was agony, until they reached Ikithon’s estate. Dismounting made him feel like he was about to pass out. And worse? Ikithon just…smiled at him. Smiled his awful, terrifying smile and asked if they had been successful.    

“The old man had a bite.” Wulf said, hoping to just joke off the injury.

“Eadwulf was an idiot, Master.  He fractured his arm, and continued to fight, jeopardizing the mission.”  Astrid stood at proper attention as she gave her report, as always.  “But…we were successful sir. By tomorrow the Müllers will be no more. Nor will their traitorous ties be uncovered.”

“Good. Very good.” Master Ikithon said, motioning for them to join him inside.  The two followed as he continued to speak. “And Eadwulf…” he started. Wulf could feel Astrid glowing with a bit of smug pride, knowing the shit he was about to receive. “Very good. Your strength and resilience, as always, is an asset to the Empire. See a cleric, and rest for the night.”

Wulf could feel the heat reaching his cheeks. The blush of pride and recognition.  He was right. He had been strong. He could fight through any injury or any defeat, for the good of the Empire.  He, even broken, was stronger than the steel of any sword.  This was proof of that. This pain that he suffered would only temper him further.  His only regret was that it had gotten to him at all. That he had succumbed in any way. That had been Wulf’s failure. That was where he was weak, really.

[yardsards]

tired of everyone on here reducing icepick joe down to haha funny stabby man

like i DO like the jokes and memes, don't get me wrong, but like

there's SO MUCH to his character and he really does tie into goncharov's main themes

like. we're told early on the he was put into a mental institution as a young man due to his breakdown and inconsolable grief at losing his older brother giorno (who was his only living family and basically a father figure to him!)

wherein he was mistreated and was HEAVILY IMPLIED to be scheduled for a lobotomy before he escaped. (in fact, some interpretations say he actually received and survived the lobotomy, citing his manner of speaking and his lack of impulse control. but that's a whole separate discussion because i can honestly see both sides)

and then he turns to a life of crime because that's basically the only option he had left, after being deprived of so many opportunities in his youth (and the fear of being caught and involuntarily institutionalized again)

and him eventually leaning into the role of "violent madman" that the world thrust onto him for showing signs of mental illness in a way that was nonviolent, but was loud and inconvenient and impossible for those around him to simply push away.

and him taking his rage out at the same world that not only killed his brother but forced him to undergo years of psychiatric abuse and basically dehumanization

(like seriously, how do SO MANY people miss the connection between him using an icepick as a weapon and the concept of an ICEPICK lobotomy)

which. yknow. ties heavily into the film's theme of people being pushed to society's margins and forced into a life of crime, instead of given the help they desperately needed

and then like.

his fucking death scene. he tries to put a stop to the cycle of senseless violence, taking the fall for andrey, telling michailov that *he* was the one who killed luciana

him kneeling down and allowing michailov to bash him through the skull with his very own icepick. it's more lobotomy symbolism; dying from the very thing he spent his whole life running from. further driving home the film's themes of repeating cycles and futility

and then, to drive it all home, that sacrifice didn't even end up stopping the cycle of violence! because andrey viewed joe as basically an older brother (mirroring joe and giorno) and tried to get revenge on michailov for killing joe.

like. come on.

[compassionatereminders]

And to those who don't know, Paris Hilton was a victim of the Troubled Teen Industry in her late teens and spent literal years in horribly abusive institutions based on hard labor where the conditions LITERALLY killed people. So when she did her "lol I don't need to know what work is because I'm pretty" or whatever later on as a young adult, that was mainly because she wasn't ready to face that trauma publicly because she was literally forced to work her fucking ass off in the most literal physical sense of the word for years

[exilley]

We should start saying child rights are human rights the same way we say trans rights are human rights. They are two sides of the same coin. Young people are dehumanized and stripped of autonomy in the process of being reduced to a capitalist marketing fad that fetishizes youth, they are legally defined as being their guardians' property, they are institutionalized by an ineffective and hostile education system from the ripe old age of five years old, barring which there exist limited (if any) legal protections for children who are homeschooled, and socially they are demeaned and stereotyped as stupid, reckless, and ignorant, weaponizing the parable of Underdevelopment to conflate adolescence with negative personality traits (i.e. bioessentialism). It's dystopic how much our society sidelines and renders kids invisible!!! Of course kids want to be grow up and be taken more seriously if their environment does nothing but devalue their existence, and of course you'd want to go back to being a child as an adult if being an adult has been defined to you as a symbol of cruelty and apathy.

[rebellum]

I feel like... Perhaps... Arguing that transphobia is defined by murder and that anything other than murder doesn't even matter... May NOT be conducive to fighting for trans rights.

Like... people want the right to exist as they are. They want to have access to hrt and surgeries and prosthetics. People want access to clothes that fit them and reflect how they want to be seen. People want access to medical care (eg. Getting screened and treated for sex-based forms of cancer can be impossible if you have the "wrong" sex listed to receive those tests). People want to be respected and treated well. People want to not be sexually assaulted and beaten and abused. People want to have access to housing and jobs, and the protection to not lose those things for being trans. People want access to shelters for homeless people or survivors of domestic abuse. People want name changes.

Acting like all of those things don't matter because at least they weren't murderered by an individual (and instead die of suicide or state violence, or survive and suffer) isn't okay.

[icannotgetoverbirds]

I am no longer consumed by bloodlust!

[xxlovelynovaxx]

Okay I know this is referring to a very specific phenomenon but takes like this still PISS ME THE FUCK OFF. Screenshot below.

STOP FUCKING MAKING OTHER PEOPLE'S EXPERIENCE OF AND APPROACH TO THEIR ILLNESS ABOUT YOU.

Screenshot end.

[Image ID: two screenshots of a tumblr post which reads: ive been on tumblr a long time and i remember when everyone said "oh don't romanticize mental illness" and it was agreed that doing that was gross and a good way to kill people indirectly

but somehow we've come full circle and there are people who legit defend their right to be anti-recovery there are people who don't want to get better and spread the idea that you can't get better as if it's gospel and it's fucking frightening to me bc nobody seems to want to say "hey? this is toxic and untrue and is your disease speaking, and it's not something you should accept."

and i feel like every recovery post gets about 500 of these people saying "this isn't something that will work" "cool karen i'm depressed" "maybe it worked for you but it won't work for other people" and that's... just... im so sorry if you're 15. i'm sorry if you're in high school and watching grown adults tell you it doesn't get better. that nobody says that with time and help and patience the world stops being so heavy, that accepting your illness as a fact is one thing but accepting it as the only way to be is just wrong, that you can learn to live with it and still find some degree of "happy".... if i had seen this shit back when i was ... oh god starting at 12 when i was already self-harming .... i think i'd have actually honest-to-god killed myself. not a joke, not a funny tumblr punchline, i would have actually just killed myself.

i'm saying this right here and right now to the adults on this site. if you for any reason shoot down positivity that's causing no harm - you might have indirectly worsened someone else's condition, and you should try and do better in the future. if you find it necessary to tell people "recovery is a lie", you need to do better. i know everyone has different circumstances, but i also know that mental illness behaves in such a way that everyone thinks they can't recover. if you feel like you should be spreading the Word Of Relapse, you are causing toxic language to be normalized and you need to do better.

im team "cool karen ive got depression and that means i'm going to try this because i've got to try something" i'm team "romanticize recovery" i'm team "it isn't working now but it might in the future and it's worth staying to find out” im team “hey this didn't work for me but it might help somebody else out"

fuck guys it shouldn't be an unpopular opinion to say "i don't want any of you to die". /end ID]

Stop denying the autonomy of mentally ill and mad people and saying "this is just your mental illness speaking and if you think this you need to be forced to recover for your own good"!!! You're a huge fucking ableist if you do this! It's something I've fucking accepted because constantly fighting against it was causing me MORE HARM than learning to live as a person with mental illness, fuck off!

Some people genuinely can't recover! Get this, some people have MORE SEVERE mental or physical illness than you. How is this fucking different than saying "[medication] or [treatment regimen] made my MCAS/POTS go into complete remission, so why are you still experiencing anaphylactic episodes despite trying every possible intensive treatment/med?"

(I try to only use examples I have personal experience with whenever possible to avoid unintentional ableism. This one is especially apt though as depression and most mental illnesses are not an acute injury, but rather a chronic illness. Remission is possible for some people. At least currently, a "cure" isn't, and recovery is usually closer to management than complete healing. Ofc not all injuries can heal either, but I think it's more apt to compare apples to apples here.)

Also, depression isn't the only mental illness, double fuck off!

Get this, I know my own needs and my own brain and my own illness better than you, triple fuck off!

Like yes, don't shit on positivity posts. In the same way anti-recovery posts aren't for everyone, if a recovery positivity post isn't for you, just move on. Filter or block if you need to.

That being said, there's a difference between positivity posts and posts that say "recovery/this aspect of recovery is mandatory". That kind of "positivity" IS causing harm. Stating "hey this isn't mandatory for recovery and recovery itself is optional, do what helps you most even if that means remaining mentally ill" isn't fucking "spreading the Word of Relapse".

Also "maybe it worked for you but it won't work for everyone" is quite literally not an attack and CERTAINLY not anti-recovery. There isn't a single recovery tool on the PLANET that will work for everyone. That's just a fucking fact.

All I can think of when I see this is that OP probably reblogged that post that basically said "you need to brush your teeth, if you don't you're harming yourself and are therefore a Bad Person, and if you can't, you can actually and are basically just refusing to recover out of laziness I mean because you're not trying hard enough I mean because you don't want to and your poor mental health is basically therefore your fault." Because yes, that was the implication of that post.

Refusing to acknowledge that people can be disabled enough BY ANY ILLNESS to not be able to recover isn't actually helping mentally ill people.

Like, even setting aside that I literally romanticize my mental illnesses as a healthy coping mechanism (signed off on by my therapist, in case you only believe people certified by the oppressive institution known as psychiatry), even setting aside that I have mental illnesses that can't be cured and that I don't want treated in part or in whole (I don't want meds or therapy for my schizophrenia, I only want to achieve functional multiplicity with my DID, as examples)...

It's not "spreading the idea that you can't get better" to acknowledge that SOME people can't get better. First of all, fucking curate your own online experience. Second of all, me saying I will never live without severe anxiety, as one example, is exactly the same as me saying I'll never be able to navigate the world without a mobility aid. It's fucking acknowledging my material reality. It's better for ME to stop wasting all my energy on the stuff that I either fully can't do or that hurts me to try to do and focus on what PERSONALLY makes my quality of life better, even if it makes me MORE ILL.

Finally, even if someone CAN recover, they don't fucking owe you that! There is no moral imperative for them to recover! If them choosing to continue to be mentally ill (by which this post only means depression, but even then), is triggering to you, that's a fucking you problem.

Give people the tools to recover, but forced recovery is inherently a form of violence because it violates a person's autonomy! Why don't you focus on building a society where the social conditions responsible for a good portion of depression are simply gone instead of yelling at mentally ill disabled people on the internet who make choices about their own illness that you don't like?

And stop fucking saying "if you make a decision I disagree with, it's your mental illness speaking and you're not actually capable of recognizing that or of making your own decisions (and therefore need "rescuing")"!!!

That's the justification used for institutionalization and psychiatric abuse.

That's the reason so many psychotic people who are not harming anyone have their psychosis forcibly suppressed via nonconsensual medication. (And quite honestly, even for those few that are causing harm, there are other options besides "lose all autonomy" and "be harmfully medicated into an approximation of a sanist concept of normalcy that is actually just drugging someone into docile compliance". Make no mistake, antipsychotics themselves are not inherently harmless and DO require informed consent. Though I am all for their usage by people who DO grant noncoerced informed consent; I'm not anti-med, I'm pro-consent.

It's not "normalizing toxic language" to literally argue for mad liberation and respecting the autonomy of mentally ill people. To say "I actually know my own self and experiences best and can therefore say this is not coming from the mental illness" or EVEN "it is coming from the mental illness, but I am still capable of making the decision to choose this anyway, because mental illness does not make me inherently incapable of consent" (yes, even if it causes the brain to be in an altered state, stop with that paternalistic bullshit), isn't something you need to "do better" about.

Fuck off.

Another thing: why do these posts ALWAYS go hand in hand with childism. It's a bunch of "15 years olds being hurt by the meanie adults who say they can't get better" and "toxic evil adults harming kids by teaching them that it's okay to make peace with being unhealthy because what's best for people isn't universal and our idea of recovery is very rigid anyway as proven by the idea that accepting your mental illness as it is isn't recovery".

I see you, 15 year olds who ARE mentally ill and are writing about mad liberation and anti-recovery and are wildly more capable and coming up with ideas in those veins that are blowing us all out of the water. For what it's worth, I'm proud of you, and my only wish for you is that you find the peace, whatever that means, that is best for you.

Just...

"if I had read this at 12 I would have actually killed myself" I'm glad you didn't, then, but that doesn't mean the sentiment shouldn't exist.

If anti-recovery isn't for you, that's fine. What's not fine is acting like it's inherently harmful and is a form of violence against every mentally ill person ever. Because many of us have been harmed by a culture that is "pro-recovery" and its logical extreme, forced recovery.

[librarycards]

For those of you who have never been forcibly confined to an underfunded and neglected asylum for the insane, allow me to educate you. I was not surrounded by rolling green lawns, patrician doctors and blue-blooded patients. I was not ensconced in a pastel-painted bedroom, complete with chaise lounges and high thread-count sheets. This was Bedlam. The constant din and commotion were worthy of a South African soccer match. The walls were covered in what looked like boogers and shit. The toilets were clogged with vomit. There were room checks every fifteen minutes, twenty-four hours a day—a flashlight beamed rudely on my face, loud knocking on the door, “Hello!” screamed at me every time I dared close my eyes. [...] Dr. J had no interest in whether or not I was working to resolve the stressors in my life, or whether I had gained the ability to re-enter society as a happy and productive member. Dr J cared only that I express INSIGHT, of which the first step—borrowed from the Alcoholics—was for me to admit that I was powerless over my disease or disorder, that my life had become unmanageable, and that only a power greater than myself, (namely: Psychiatry,) could restore me to sanity. He left. I didn’t see him again for another week.

Aishah Simone, Suicides.

[emphasis added]

[slutdge]

my brain is not on so i hope this makes sense but forced institutionalization of all kinds will never be leftist and it will always do harm like i know yall cryptolibs that get all your knowledge of leftism from memes and think you dont need to read any theory think some forms of institutionalization are ok but like. no they are not. the answer will always be compassion and rectifying the symptoms of society that, by current laws, forces someone into institutionalization in the first place. yes this includes psychiatric institutionalization. psych wards and institutions do very little to treat people, and in a lot of cases actually make them worse. youve never experienced psychiatric abuse and it fucking shows. have a nice day.

[haveyoureadthispoem-poll]

"Solmaz, have you thanked your executioner today?"

Read it here | Listen to the author read it here

Reblog for a larger sample size!

[hugheses]

So who do I need to go fight for saying you need to be in a psych ward

if yall wanna go to war i didn’t send you 🤷‍♀️ here and here. i had no interest in duking this out publicly but since she put my username out publicly and now i have weird anons in my inbox i feel like it’s fair game

in the interest of full disclosure, this is the message she scribbled over. i’m not ashamed of emailing getty images about a picture that had a glitched description/code???? that’s a very normal thing. my main issue with this person is that they took an entire long post of mine (the jack pouting one) and made it into a twitter thread without my permission or credit and then said she would delete or give me credit and then never did either. there was points where their entire twitter tl would just be stuff taken from my blog. it was very irritating and annoying and as you may know i have autism so i could have missed the mark but i thought i was pretty nice about it, if honest that it was hurting my feelings! i was willing to give her exclusive photos if she was nice! unfortunately she wasn’t and sent her friend to call me misogynistic slurs

[compassionatereminders]

I just started reading this book and it's definitely raising a very important critique of psychiatry, even as it's horrific to dive into...

[whumpsoda]

We Search For Stolen Personhood - You’re Scared

Masterlist

cw: pet whump, vomit mention, box boy universe/bbu adjacent, Institutionalized slavery, past abuse, conditioned whumpees

——————

He was trembling. He was not supposed to tremble, to quiver, to anything of the sort. Guard dogs - attack dogs, whatever he was anymore - don’t do that.

But he couldn’t help it.

Everything was a blur. He let fall a quivering breath, chest heaving in and out as he clenched and unclenched his clammy fingers over and over, harder and harder. Sensations pounded like rocks to his head, spinning him in circles with sickly dizziness, even if he couldn’t recall ever hitting his head on anything. He was sweating, body full to the brim with heat that spilled out in juice, even when the air was a stale chill.

He clung to his companion, the two of them shoved firm into a corner instead of the bunkbeds the woman had directed them to, refusing to allow him any give inside of his restricting embrace. Prince whined, animalistic and gratting, attempting to wriggle out from his never ending grip, but Mutt couldn’t let him go. He couldn’t.

What if they hurt him?

They would, they would, they would, everyone else is bad and only master is good.

Mutt couldn’t forgive himself if they did. No one could hurt Prince except for his master, as much as he hated Prince being hurt at all, that privilege was reserved to him and only him, and those were the rules. It was Mutt’s job to enforce those rules like the good, so obedient dog he was, to protect Prince at the expense of his own safety.

He… he was a good dog, wasn’t he?

Alas, the lines of his expression were scrunched with fear, his face stuck between the nape of Prince’s neck, and several times now he’d been forced to choke away an oncoming, lingering wave of emotions, something he wasn’t supposed to have.

He could nearly feel the burn of his collar, see the dreaded remote pressed between Handler Brooks’ fingers.

Show no weakness, ‘520, ain’t that right?

Fix it.

“Show no weakness,” He whispered to himself, shoving away feelings back into the drowning abyss that was his belly, evening his face to placid emptiness. “Show no weakness.”

“Squee- Squeezing-,” Prince gasped, hand pushing off his chest, a desperate and pitiful try for air. 

Mutt weakened his grip on instant, allowing Prince to collapse in a heave of a breath. He hadn’t even realized he was clutching tighter. “S- sorry. So sorry, ‘m so sorry.” Mutt apologized profusely, so very pathetically, so very soft and kind. How could he not behave so to Prince? 

“‘S okay.” His legs tightened around Mutt’s abdomen, as well did the hold around his neck. He was scared too, and there was nothing Mutt could do to stop it beside hold him, and Prince the same.

“H- hi.” 

He whipped up to the door, wide open and leaking a path of light throughout the room, and Prince’s hair tickled his throat as he turned to gaze as well. 

There a woman stood, shaded by the brightness flooding in from behind her, hands held up before her front in a gesture that said I’m innocent. “I won’t come any closer. If you don’t want me to.” She mumbled, gravel seeping into the edges of her words, a natural rasp that stuck to her voice even when quiet.

Mutt paused, swallowing, and after a moment dared to shake his head, a movement so weak it almost went unnoticed. He’d never shook his head before, only nodded in acceptance, as it was practically the same as saying no, and pets don’t say no. 

“I just… um,” she started, studying them with uneasy fascination, “You’re scared, aren’t… aren’t you?”

No response. He didn’t know what to say. Show no weakness, the little voice in his mind that sounded exactly like his handler - only warped - told him, over and over again, keeping him perfectly silent. 

But he was scared.

He had always been infected with an overbearing sore of sensitivity, a weakness, never truly fit for his designation, for the title he got to wear.

But he was good at pretending.

My champion.

“You don’t know what’s going on.” It wasn’t a question, but rather statement of knowing, as if the stranger could possibly understand how he felt. “You, um, we’re here to help you. No hurting.” 

He gradually met her gaze with eyes that glimmered in the shining light, sparking with watered down hope. “No… hurting?” 

“Nope. No hurting. I mean you’ll maybe hurt sometimes- we all do - but, not because of us, I mean, no, none of us will hurt you.” She took a soft step forward and he froze, fingers dipping marks into Prince’s skin until he whimpered, telling him without words to release. 

“Stay.” Mutt snarled, a low, bellowing growl, utilizing the last of his strength to order her around as if he had the jurisdiction, but she still followed. 

“Sorry.” She whispered, hushed, ceasing her movement. Her fingers scratched at the sleeve of her bulking sweater, the area around her arm that mirrored where his own tattoo sat. “Do you… where’s your master? What happened to them?” 

His master.

The blur that was a wound of the mind reopened, just a smidge, tearing through the walls of his brain. “Don’t, don’t know, want Master, want, need Master-” He was supposed to care for him, to serve him, to protect him, he was supposed to die for him-

“Hey, it’s okay. It’s okay. Your master’s okay.” She trailed off, gnawing at her lip and itching harder at her arm.

“Rea- really?”

You’re a real idiot, mutt, and I can only guess that that’s why you signed up for this.

Did he really fucking believe her?

“Yeah, I think so. Probably.” She shrugged, biting her lip. She paused for a moment, thinking. “So… you didn’t run away, did you?”

“N- no, never run. Never run from Master, it’s a rule.” It didn’t even need to be a rule, because Mutt never had and never would even think of running, and Mutt followed the rules so very well. Where else would he go? He’d been with master ever since he finished at the facility, and he surely did not have any urge to return to there for any reason.

“Mm. I understand.” She said, and somehow, for some stupid reason, he believed it. “Do you know why you’re here?”

“No, no, sir.” Mutt didn’t know why he was answering, why he gave her any reply at all, but maybe being scared messed with you like that, like how it was to him. Scattering his thoughts and leaving him so terrifyingly helpless, in need of any possible smidge of guidance.

“We, um, well I don’t know everything, but… I guess they found you guys or something, and, um, we took you in so you didn’t have to go back to… to the facility.”

“The facility…” That couldn’t have been the only reason they wanted them. The two were high value products, that’s what his master had always said, and so the only conclusion Mutt could muster up was that these people wanted to sell them. That was only plausible.

“Yes. They would, um, re- refurbish you, and send you to a new master. Cheaper.”

Mutt detested the thought of his first time at the facility, memories coiling into a wounded ache, and the prospect of ever going back brought a foul strengthen on the fear pent up inside of him. He didn’t want any more of the white walls, and the shocking sticks, or the lumps of gray mush. He was lucky, oh so very lucky to have been bought instead of rotting there any longer.

He couldn’t go back.

She must have noticed him getting wrapped up in his thoughts, because she reached behind her, behind the wall, bringing two items into frame. “I brought you guys… I mean, you’re supposed to pick them out yourselves, but these are the only two we have right now ‘cause Isaac hasn’t gone shopping for more in, um, forever.”

“Dog… toy…?” That’s what they appeared to be, fuzzy, colorful, and stuffed like the ones his master would gift him on the most special of holidays. He wondered if they squeaked just like those did.

“Stuffed animal. They’re for you and your friend. We all get one.” She smiled, her face softening the slightest bit. “Oscar thinks they help. It… kind of does.”

Prince piped up, a shock to the ears, voice the crack of a knife slicing through butter and hitting the plate beneath it. “Thank… you.”

“You’re welcome.” She muttered, fingers pulling at the fraying strings of her top. “Anyway, you two should, um, get some sleep.”

Mutt shook his head yet again, saliva in his mouth churning like the taste of a sour candy. He’d never had candy in any form before, but somehow that’s what the stinging acid of bile slinking up to his mouth tasted like. “Can’t, can’t sleep.” He’d never talked this much before in his whole life, and each word scratched raw at his throat.

“W- why?”

“I must protect Prince.” He stated it matter of fact, just like it was. That was his duty, and Mutt was going to fulfill it.

“So, so that’s his name… okay. Well… um, you do that. I guess. G’night.” She turned to leave, but before fully out of sight she stopped. “Oh. My name’s Joey, by the way. ‘S short for Josephine.”

She left without another word.

He swallowed, again shoving down the ever so inching hiccup of confusing emotions and vomit.

All of that thinking for himself was making Mutt ill.

——————

Masterlist

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you know, if the writers really wanted black manta to have a redemption arc, they could have chosen literally any strategy besides "earlier black manta was evil (autistic) and confused so he did bad stuff, and now he's good (autism cured) and not confused and an aquaman ally"

like! It would be extremely confusing to grow up in an asylum and subject to medical abuse your whole life! But also you don't have to change his neurotype if you want him to be good now!