I want to help people who feel like me because I don’t want ANYONE to feel like I do. I want to talk to them, even give them a hand to hold if they need it. I don’t want to fucking give them medication and talk about their symptoms; I want to talk to them about their feelings, what’s hurting them, and how I can help. I admire psychiatrists a lot and, hell, I take medication, too. But I want to more directly help people who will be still in a place where they can benefit from “talk therapy”. I’d rather be less than rich and helping people, than above-and-beyond financially secure but not satisfied with what I’m doing.
So basically, I think I’m going to work towards a degree in Psychology….
because I change my mind every week lolz and I’m crazy
“Originally, in the 20s and 30s, the stereotype of someone who was schizophrenic was the housewife who was sad and withdrawn, and would not do her duties as a housewife; would not do the housework. This was the typical case of schizophrenia. And then, in the 60s, something shifted. The actual criteria for schizophrenia shifted. A lot of psychiatrists and hospitals and police were encountering young, angry black men who were part of the civil rights movement. Who were part of the riots – the uprisings – in the Black Power movement. Who were angry. Who were perceiving a conspiracy of power against them, that was called paranoia. They would see it is white privilege, but it was called paranoia. And so we actually see the diagnositc criteria for schizophrenia change. So now you have anger and paranoia and hostility being included as criteria, whereas 30 years before they hadn’t been. Because the stereotype has changed. So there’s a way in which the DSM and the perspectives of the psychiatrists and the doctors who were giving these diagnoses is thoroughly politically constructed, and thoroughly dependent on the culture and context that they’re within.”—
for anyone interested in reading more about how schizophrenia moved from being a diagnosis assigned to white, middle-class women to one used to pathologize and institutionalize noncompliant black men in the 1960s, jonathan metzl’s the protest psychosis: how schizophrenia became a black disease is a good place to start. i have a PDF scan of it, too — just ask.
I’m doing a pretty rotten job of saving myself. Supposed to be my own savior, right? Well, I’m also my worst enemy, and the enemy’s got some pretty bomb weaponry right now, and I’m being shot into the ground.
let’s all take a minute to stop and think about how Hagrid gave Harry his homemade birthday cake, told him how much he looked like his parents, and fed him sausages before he even started to explain that he was a wizard
let’s stop to think about how his absolute first priority was to let harry know that he was loved and cared for
Honestly can’t wait for the 50 shades movie to normalize the manipulation of lower-level female employees. Can’t wait for the new wave of “consent is sexy” banners on the cover of cosmo. Can’t wait for teen girls to think that a controlling relationship is romantic. Can’t wait for sexualized violence to become increasingly mainstream. And most of all, I can’t wait for BDSM to be labeled a feminist revolution.
“We always think the thing we need to transform everything - the miracle - is elsewhere, but often it is right next to us. Sometimes it is us, ourselves.”—Jeanette Winterson, Why be Happy When You Could be Normal?
emotional abuse is when someone does something to hurt you, and when you express your feelings, that you’re upset, they turn it around to be something you did to hurt them and they force you to apologize for it, and your feelings, like always, are rendered invalid and silenced, forever damaging the ability to trust others with your feelings because they always are used against you.
this is important because so many people don’t know this
i want a relationship but i want them to be like a friend to me, i dont want the relationship to be all about kissing, making out and sex i just wanna hang out with them, and go places, and just have fun wherever we go
“He took my face in his hands, and it was a different kiss than it’s ever been. I didn’t feel like a light that he was crowding toward anymore, like a street lamp, or even like a moon. I felt like we both had the sun inside of us. Our own ways to stay warm.”—Ava Dellaira, Love Letters to the Dead