You ever wake up and notice something's off?
Not the usual forget-my-dream haze—but off. Like your room shifted half a degree while you weren't looking. Like the cup you always leave by your bed is now on the other side. Like your phone screen's dimmer, or the clock is slower, or something in the air just doesn't sit right.
You glance away.
Glance back.
And things move.
Not dramatically. Nothing Hollywood. Just subtle. Like reality forgot where it was supposed to be and had to improvise. You notice these glitches. These micro-failures. And the moment you say anything about it, the usual suspects start crawling out of the woodwork—
The white coats with their folders and pre-written diagnoses. The smug smiles. The patronizing tones.
They love that word.
"Delusional."
Like that shuts the door on anything deeper.
They'll smile and nod, scribble you into a box, and pretend they've done some kind of intellectual charity by reducing your world to a disorder they learned in week three of training. Meanwhile, you're living inside a feedback loop where the walls don't stay put and your voice feels like a foreign object inside your own throat.
But here's the thing:
Maybe it's not insanity but they'll sure like to call you schizo in psychiatry so you can serve the mastubatory act of reducing your experience into something they can bill, file, and farm for profit.
Maybe it's perception pulling ahead of permission. Maybe you're just too far outside their circuitry for them to plug in. And they hate that. Because if they can't map it, they can't market it. If they can't measure it, they can't bill for it.
So they gaslight you with diagnoses. Mask their ignorance with labels. Build echo chambers of peer-reviewed circlejerks to make each other feel safe while you—the one actually experiencing the anomaly—get tucked away as an outlier. A risk. A case file.
They want you to believe your clarity is madness because it doesn't serve their system.
But you've seen the things that move when no one's looking.
You remember what was broken when it shouldn't have been.
They don't want to help you heal—they want to sedate you into slow erasure.
That's the truth no one likes to say out loud.
People diagnosed with schizophrenia often have drastically reduced lifespans, not always because of the condition itself, but because of what the system does to them. The drugs, the forced compliance, the stripping of autonomy—it's not treatment, it's soft elimination. A way to dull the edges of someone they can't understand.
It's not about care. It's about control.
They'd rather quiet your voice than listen to it. Rather reduce you to symptoms than recognize your insights. And all the while, they siphon off your time, your energy, your story—feeding off you like parasites. Vampires in lab coats, drawing out years from your life while fattening their own with salaries, research grants, and polished reputations.
It's not healing. It's harvesting.
And the most dangerous part? They do it with a smile, telling you it's for your own good.
They're just basic human garbage — not worth the energy, same as most of your so-called family.
And when some smug-ass psychiatrist tries to box you up and dose you down, just stare at them like you're watching some under-evolved exhibit struggle to mimic intelligence. Think to yourself: "What the fuck is this retarded-ass animal even trying to say? Probably too monkey-brained on bad science and pharma-sponsored scripts to make a single goddamn coherent point outside of what they want their salary to be."