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nvm my muji order is here

Crying screaming throwing up

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"i hate greeting card holidays" well Saint Valentine is real and so is love so shut up

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knuckle tattoos that say OKAY YAY❤️

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Do you think 27 is still young?

I think 70 is young if you know how to move through the world

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A small thought for disability pride month... There's a stereotype/myth/common perception that mental health meds make people's art worse. Sometimes, it's portrayed as people being incapable of making art at all. Other times, they simply don't have anything interesting to say now that they're "happy." Some people even avoid going on meds because they worry about not being able to make art.

I want to share some pages of a comic I made during a manic episode, before I was on any proper medication.

I think this comic is very interesting, very raw and unique, but this was my attempt to be understood by other people. I made this art thinking that other people would know exactly what I meant by it. I thought this was incredibly clear, that it would communicate everything I was going through and had experienced without any ambiguity. When people didn't react how I wanted, when they couldn't parse it in the way I intended, it hurt me. Here was my best attempt to be understood, and I remained alone.

Now I'll show some comics I made after being on a mood stabilizer/antipsychotic.

You can say what you like about the artistic merit of it compared to that raw, abstract work I made before, but what matters to me is that I was actually able to connect to other people through this art. When I showed this work to people, their reaction was in line with what I intended. They saw part of me. I made it to show a side of myself I was incapable of expressing without art, and when people read it, they actually saw that side of me.

Without medication, I was trapped in my own world. I couldn't even begin to fathom how to connect to another person because we weren't using the same vocabulary. You might be "interested" or "compelled" by my suffering, but part of that interest comes from the mystery of my delirium. No matter how unique the result, it still represented a failure of intent. Learning to make art again after exiting that delirium was difficult, but I promise you it was and is worth it.

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@pharmaciacatholica

so funny that humans imagined a creature that is like a human but bigger and called it a “giant”. that’s such an uncreative name. that’s just an adjective. “it’s a giant!” “a giant what?!” “a giant… um. yeah. giant.”

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@gegengestalt

Anyone else feel like their mutuals are way out of their league? Like they follow you back and you’re just like

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Crying screaming throwing up

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the phrase ‘this is my first time being alive’ has done wonders for me recently. Yeah, I don’t know how to navigate this situation! It’s brand new to me and I’m learning on the fly, aren’t humans such wonderfully adaptive creatures?

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You're getting married to your Tumblr pfp how fucked are u

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1st person horror

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i'm fucking choking

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i am a child.

i am forced into a dress. makeup is smeared onto my face. i kick and cry and beg, but they will not stop.

i am forced to pose in front of the camera with my thighs together and hope that the makeup hides my tearstains. i must be the perfect picture of femininity; innocent, untouched.

i already have a thousand hand prints on me.

'all men are evil rapists', i am told.

i think about my friends, who are men. the men who called me every day while i was in a psychiatric hospital. the men who walked me home when i was afraid. the men who protected and cared for me, without ever expecting my body in return.

it can't be the body that makes someone evil. it can't be the presence of a penis that makes someone evil. but it can't be the identity of 'man' that makes you evil, either.

i ponder the difference between the men who raped me and the men who protected me. i decide that it depends on who the person is inside, and not on their identity.

'sit down and shut up,' they spit at me. 'the men are talking. learn your place. don't speak over us.'

'you throw like a girl.'

'you run like a girl.'

'girls can't do this. they're not smart enough.'

'girls aren't strong enough to do this.'

over and over, such sentiments are tossed at me. i bite down my anger, because women aren't supposed to yell or get angry. if i get angry, that makes me a hysterical bitch.

'women are meant to be mothers,' i am told. they beat it into me that my worth lies not in my personhood, but in the womb between my hips. it makes me feel sick and violated, just like every sexual assault has.

i am groped. i am raped. i am assaulted.

it's my fault, i'm told. i'm a temptress. my body is a vile weapon, a weapon created to tempt men into sin, a weapon that makes me a subhuman toy.

i am treated like a toy. as i am molested during my childhood, i learn that i am a toy. the anatomy between my hips has marked me as public property. i am less than human.

they keep forcing me into dresses. they keep forcing me into makeup. no amount of protesting makes it end. i grow to loathe femininity and the violation that always seems to come with it.

i come out as a trans man at fifteen.

'can't you just be nonbinary?'

'can't you just be a tomboy?'

'i don't want you to regret this.'

'i don't want you to ruin your perfect body.'

'men are disgusting. why do you want to be one of them?'

'are you sure you don't just want to be a man because you were sexually assaulted?'

i continue to be a man. my parents intentionally delay my ability to go on testosterone. by the time i am able to go on testosterone, i have already finished puberty. my body is irreversibly feminine.

people throw food at me. they call me a faggot, a tranny, a dyke. they kick me and shove me to the ground. they cyberstalk me. they post pictures of me online so that they can mock me.

a girl says to me, 'you need to learn your place,' as she calls me a faggot over the internet. she kicks me when she sees me the next day.

my boyfriend when i am fifteen is a cis man who says he is pansexual. he dismisses me when i talk about being trans, because he uses he/they pronouns and 'understands it'.

he sexually assaults me repeatedly. i am in constant distress. my distress is used as proof that i am a snowflake hysterical tranny. i am a hysterical woman who only THINKS she's a man, and i need to be put in my place. trans 'men' are all hysterical and overreactive, and my behaviour is used as proof.

my boyfriend exclusively refers to me with they/them pronouns. i tell him to use he/him. he waves his hand, dismissing my words, and says, 'they're basically the same thing'.

he tells me that he wants children. i try to ignore the sick feeling in my gut.

he only uses he/him pronouns for me after we have broken up, when he is trying to paint me as abusive. i lose my entire friend group because of it.

people keep talking down to me. when i go on testosterone, cis men try to explain that it's toxic for me, using cis man bodybuilders as an example. i try to explain how that isn't the case. they insist that 'female bodies aren't built to handle testosterone'. i try to explain to them how hormones work, and they laugh and roll their eyes.

silly girl. stupid girl. she doesn't know what she's talking about.

people continue to make fun of trans men online. our music, our art, our interests, our fashion sense, our names. i cannot help but feel dejected. all i want is to be a man, and to fit in among everyone else, but even in doing so, i stand out as a target for mockery. misogyny is inescapable, even for men.

i am seventeen years old. my worst fear comes true. i am raped and forcibly impregnated, with the intention of forcing me to detransition.

that sense of violation is impossible to truly describe.

my reproductive system was designed to become pregnant. my body will do its best to become pregnant, no matter what i want. pregnancy is an inescapable function of my body, and it makes me feel trapped and sick.

the man who raped me has turned my own body into a weapon against me. even in my body, my own flesh and sinew, i am not safe.

i miscarry. i am in agony. my womb cramps and i try not to pass out.

i enter feminist spaces. i try to talk about my experiences with misogyny.

'sit down and shut up,' they spit at me. 'the women are talking. learn your place. don't speak over us.'

all trans men have male privilege, you see, without exception. by the mere act of wanting to become a man, i have become a traitor, and i am thrown to the cis men.

the cis men, who see me as a woman that they're finally allowed to abuse. finally, they can hurt and rape and impregnate a woman, because she's one of those snowflake trannies and she needs to be put in her place.

i bite down my anger, because trans men aren't supposed to yell or get angry. if i get angry, it's proof that i'm not a man, that i'm a hysterical bitch, and that i'm a dangerous snowflake tranny seeking to mutilate children.

the sentiment is bitterly familiar.