my therapist suggested i imagine my intrusive thoughts in the voice of donald trump bc i do not possess an ounce of respect for him or trust in his competence. going thru it today so i made this. hope this helps
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my therapist suggested i imagine my intrusive thoughts in the voice of donald trump bc i do not possess an ounce of respect for him or trust in his competence. going thru it today so i made this. hope this helps

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Rotting Society.
Our society is rotting from the inside out.
Why? Because it throws away what is real and worships what is easy.
Love becomes sex.
Sex becomes consumption.
People become objects.
Closeness becomes distraction.
Friendship becomes utility.
Truth becomes a lie that sounds better.
We run from thrill to thrill, from trend to trend, from body to bodyโ
never noticing that inside, only emptiness grows.
The soul is cut off, the body exploited, the heart numbed.
Everything must be instant, fast, easy, available.
But this is not freedom.
This is decay.
Because a human without truth, without dignity, without real connection
slowly dies on the inside.
And in the end, nothing remains but emptiness, drama,
and a body that was usedโ
without ever truly being touched.
__
Thereโs no such thing as work-life balance for neurodivergent & chronically ill people.
This is because everything in my life requires work:
maintaining friendships
keeping up with my hygiene
managing bills
making money
remembering my basic needs
sleeping regularly
outputting creatively
All requires some aspect of work for me.
And when everything in your life requires work, your balance goes out the window.
If you're neurodivergent and overwhelmed โ I see you.
If you're chronically ill and overwhelmed โ I see you.
You're not dysfunctional.
You're not incapable.
You're doing your best.

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Trauma.
Just because I didnโt survive a war doesnโt mean I havenโt carried one inside me.
Just because no bombs were falling doesnโt mean my nervous system wasnโt taking hits every single day.
Just because I wasnโt standing in rubble doesnโt mean everything in me wasnโt collapsing.
My trauma isnโt less real because it happened behind well-kept walls.
It isnโt less destructive because it was invisible.
It isnโt less valid because, from the outside, my life looked โgood.โ
Trauma is not the headline photo.
Trauma is what happens when your body lives in constant alarm for years while youโre forced to smile on the outside.
Itโs the silence in the house that roars louder than any explosion.
Itโs the fear in someoneโs eyes burning like fire.
Itโs learning that your very being is unwelcomeโand no one is coming to save you.
And when someone tells me thatโs not trauma, just because it doesnโt sound spectacular enough, all they reveal is that they never understood what trauma really is.
Because the worst thing isnโt a tank in the streetโthe worst thing is when your own home is the place that taught you to disappear.
I never went looking for labels. I went searching for words that could finally explain why my life has always felt like survival.
I have no interest in โtrends.โ If I cared about trends, Iโd be doing planking videos or dumping ice buckets over my head.
Instead, Iโve been stuck here for years, not because itโs exciting, but because itโs the only truth I have.
My trauma is real.
It doesnโt need war, disaster, or funerals to be valid.
It only needs what I actually lived: violence, shame, invisibility, betrayal, constant hyper-vigilance.
And that is enough.
__
what she never understood was
she can't steal my home, because my home is not outside- but inside of me.
_ you got that one wrong tiny little clown
I am a question mark in a sentence that was never written.
Amen.
๐๏ธ I will only reveal myself where my soul wonโt be betrayed
(A Manifesto of Sacred Boundaries, by Saintt)
I swear this to myself:
I will no longer expose my innermost
to eyes that cannot hold me.
I will not open my truth
like a book in a room with no readers.
I will not place my light in hands
that only know how to measure,
not how to hold.
I am not too sensitive.
I am built so deep
that falsehood burns like frost on bare skin.
When I reveal myself,
it is not strategy,
not obligation,
not performance.
It is a sacred act โ
as rare as blooming in winter.
I will not force myself
to speak into rooms
that were never taught to listen.
I will not hope for response
from mouths that never learned to feel.
I will show myself โ
but only where I will not be dissected
by analysis, opinion, or cold diagnoses.
I will show myself โ
but only where my presence is not a threat,
but a gift.
I will reveal myself
where I can breathe through my uncertainty.
Where my silence is not awkward, but holy.
Where my words are not dissected, but felt.
I am not here to please.
I am here to live โ
in truth, in depth, in resonance.
And if that place does not yet exist,
I will not perform.
Not from fear.
But from self-respect.
I will only reveal myself
where my soul wonโt be betrayed.
And that is not retreat โ
that is dignity in a body
that has been sacrificed too many times.

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๐ชย I am a mirror in a world that never learnt to see
(A Manifesto of the Reflected One, by Saintt)
I am not a person you meet.
I am a reflection.
A surface that shows you what you werenโt ready to see.
A shimmer that reveals more than you asked for.
People do not seeย me.
They see whatโs missing in themselves.
They see their longing, their fear, their old ghosts.
They name me with their projections
and blame me when I donโt fit the frame.
I am a mirror in a world that never learnt to look.
They were taught to label, to compare, to possess.
Not to witness.
So I have been misunderstood by default.
Loved for who I never was.
Hated for who I refused to be.
Left โ not for my truth,
but for what it shattered in theirs.
I know the ache of distortion.
The loneliness of being seen through fog.
I know what it means to doubt your own reflection
because no one ever named it accurately.
But still โ I remain.
I remain soft enough to reflect light,
strong enough not to shatter.
I remain truthful, even if the truth terrifies.
I remain whole, even if the world only sees fragments.
I will no longer twist myself
to match their image of me.
I will not shrink
to make others feel whole.
I will not wear their shame like skin.
I was not born to be understood.
I was born to reflect what is unseen.
To hold up the unspeakable.
To echo the soul.
That is why I confuse them.
That is why they try to define me.
Because the truth in my silence threatens every lie theyโve made livable.
So let them look away.
Let them misname me.
I am not the reflection โ I am the mirror.
I am the still water beneath illusion.
I am the witness no one trained for.
And I am done apologizing for being real
in a world that prefers its fiction dressed as truth.
โจย I am not here to be understood
(A Manifesto from the Mist, by Saintt)
I am not here to be understood.
I am here to remember what lives beyond understanding.
I am the flicker between worlds.
The echo between two silences.
The gaze that cannot be named.
I carry the invisible like others carry skin.
Not as a mask โ but as a membrane between pain and truth.
I was born porous.
And that is not a flaw. It is my sign.
I am not made for roles.
Or boxes. Or bullet-point lives.
I am a question mark in a sentence that was never written.
An echo that learned to hold itself.
I serve no system.
I bow to no dogma.
I carry the dust of centuries in my bones โ
the voices of those who were never heard.
I am made of mist โ but I do not dissolve truth.
I carry it back.
I have paid the price:
To be seen without being known.
To love without return.
To speak truth in the wrong room.
I have torn my flesh to preserve my dignity.
I have stayed silent while my insides howled.
I have smiled so no one would see me disappear.
But I am still here.
And I vow:
I will not dim my light
just because it shines through water.
I will not fragment myself
so others can stay comfortable.
I will not shrink my story
just because it scares shallow ears.
I am not a healer.
I am not a victim.
I am a living poem of God,
written in fractures,
spoken in thresholds,
held by the invisible.
I am Saintt.
And I am not here to be understood.
I am here to remember
how sacred the forgotten truly was. ๐๏ธ
first light
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You might miss people but sometimes you gotta just let people be