No, You’re Not Fixing The Mentally Ill, Dude. You’re Not Some Fucking Saint Of Redemption, So Get

No, you’re not fixing the mentally ill, dude. You’re not some fucking saint of redemption, so get over it.

Don’t act like you’re the savior of all broken souls just because you typed a few kind words on Tumblr. The truth is, people don't owe you their recovery. You can't fix someone who doesn't want to be fixed, and pushing that agenda onto others only makes it worse. Recovery isn't a neat little package wrapped in advice and support posts—it’s messy, painful, and personal. So stop pretending you're the key to someone's healing just because you slapped a 'You matter' sticker on their feed. We can see you're trying to help, but some wounds aren't healed by hashtags and self-help quotes.

They say, "Mental health professionals care about you." But do they? Or are you merely an investment—an asset for the future? Whether you become a smoker, a substance abuser, or just another weary soul suffocating under the weight of existence, you remain a cog in the machine. They care because your suffering fuels an industry—economically, professionally. Not because you, as a person, matter.

School does not prepare you for a career; it conditions you for obedience. It molds you into a well-trained servant of expectation, rewarding compliance and punishing defiance. And yet, people believe the system is built for their well-being. No, darling, it is built for its own survival. Mental health professionals care that you are alive—but not that you are living. There is a difference.

If true care were the foundation of this system, why are those who need only a little effort to heal instead confined to sterile white rooms, left to unravel further? It is not about healing. It is about preservation—preserving the cycle, preserving the economy, preserving the illusion of sanity. They do not care if you lose your mind, so long as you do not lose your pulse.

Would they call me a 'hopeless case' if I were wrapped in wealth? No. They would call it "progress," even if nothing changed. Money has a way of turning despair into "resilience." And if they did abandon a rich patient as hopeless, well—either they had exhausted every possible cent from them, or the abyss inside was simply too vast to be monetized.

It is not about humanity. It is about perception. Who cares if an 11-year-old boy carves his pain into his skin? Who cares if a 17-year-old girl trades her body for the illusion of love? Who cares if a 7-year-old is tormented by a body that does not feel like their own? Who cares if a 36-year-old woman surrenders to her hallucinations because reality is too unbearable? Who cares if a 21-year-old man is drowning in visions so vivid they become indistinguishable from truth? Who cares if a 61-year-old woman clings to the ghost of her son, longing to follow him?

The list is endless. The suffering is endless. And yet, none of it matters—not unless it becomes a headline, a viral sensation, a story fit to be consumed and discarded by the masses. Only then does the world pretend to care.

So spare me the naive platitudes. "Mental health professionals care about you!" they say. No. Most care only about keeping you just functional enough to keep the system running. After all, a dead investment yields no returns.

But who cares? I am just a dreamer, adrift in a delusion—swaying in the direction the world has already chosen for me.

And for those of you who try to 'save' those here with savior complex:

Stop trying to fix people. We’re not some fucking shattered vases waiting for your glue. We're not broken objects for you to repair with your shallow understanding of 'healing.' Our struggles are not puzzles for you to solve or wounds for you to mend with empty words. We don’t need you to put us back together in the image you deem acceptable. We're not here for your redemption complex, and we don’t owe you our healing on your timeline.