Trans People Are Not Mentally Ill; MAGA Are Just Mendacious Imbeciles Evidence endures and care heals while MAGA’s propaganda collapses into its own

[鬼百合]

Trans People Are Not Mentally Ill; MAGA Are Just Mendacious Imbeciles​

Evidence endures and care heals while MAGA’s propaganda collapses into its own bullshit.​

The smoke over the Opernplatz rose like a spoken sentence and the city understood what the flames meant as books and patient files from Magnus Hirschfeld’s Institute for Sexual Science curled to ash. Knowledge was hauled into the street to be humiliated. Care was carried to the pyre to be punished. A small community stood and watched the door to its own future pushed shut while officials baptised the harm as hygiene. They looted the clinic and fed the fire and expanded the code. Theatre trained the crowd and paperwork completed the injury and lives that had asked only for ordinary safety were crushed beneath the false comfort of order.

The torches have become studio lights and the square has become a screen, yet the script remains unchanged. A counterfeit diagnosis is displayed and a panic is practised and a bill is drafted, and the chant hardens into a checklist that turns a hallway into a hazard and a door into a test. Somewhere a teenager times a bathroom break like a timetable because the wrong door can ruin the day. Somewhere a parent practises a name in a car park because love has been turned into paperwork. Somewhere a clinician opens a clinic at dawn and touches a panic button with the same hand that checks a pulse. From afar this is called protection. Up close it is fear in uniform, a ritual of humiliation written in polite ink.

This essay holds to medicine’s plain truth, that being transgender is not a mental illness, and it names the method that denies it with the clarity the moment requires. Spectacle becomes statute. Purity talk leads to closed rooms. Slogan turns to form to stamp. We will not be instructed by those who mistake volume for virtue. We will not confuse the pleasure of punishment with the practice of care. The line is drawn here and it will be defended.

1) Transgender Is Not a Mental Illness; MAGA Ignorance On the Other Hand…

Being transgender is not a mental illness, and that truth belongs to the bright plain of contemporary medicine rather than the funhouse where demagogues peddle fear to the faithful. Modern psychiatry separates who a person is from the suffering some endure when body, expectation, and law grind against the self, and ethical care concerns itself with easing that suffering while honouring the human being who carries it.

Gender dysphoria names a burden and not an identity. Treatment exists to relieve pain, to restore function, and to protect dignity. Healing cannot take root in soil salted by shame, which is why the profession has spent years scrubbing away the old taxonomies that confused stigma with science.

Clinicians now meet trans patients with the ordinary respect owed to every person. They offer social transition, counselling, and carefully indicated medical interventions chosen with informed consent, measured protocols, and vigilant follow up. The aim is humane and practical, to help a person live without torment in a body and a world that meet them without hostility, while keeping care within the steady guardrails that govern the rest of medicine.

To brand identity as a disorder is to misread the literature. It is to misunderstand the clinic. It is to misuse medical authority as a vestment for prejudice, turning ignorance into policy and superstition into headline. It is the old authoritarian trick that slaps a medical label on a moral panic and then pretends the panic is a cure.

MAGA mouthpieces persist because the lie pays in applause and grievance rather than in evidence or honour. They chant about mutilation and posture as saviours of children while ignoring the physicians who train, practise, publish, and care, the very people who say with steady clarity that these talking points are false and unsafe. They defame doctors as butchers and parents as dupes because slander travels faster than scholarship and panic is easier to monetise than compassion. What they offer is not medicine but tawdry theatre, a counterfeit diagnosis stapled to living bodies so that lawmakers may punish while pretending to heal.

In the end their ignorance parades itself like a brass band out of tune. The same voices that sneer at peer review and cannot tell a journal from a blog now strut as physicians to the nation, clutching slogans as if they were scalpels and carving nonsense into law with the swagger of amateurs who mistake noise for virtue. They mangle basic terms with the bravado of gamblers who think the rules of arithmetic are a conspiracy, and they deliver sentences so empty one almost admires the architectural purity of the void. It takes a special kind of foolishness to call compassion mutilation, to treat consensus as conspiracy, to wave away the training of surgeons and psychiatrists with a grunt and a meme and then to christen that performance moral courage. If the country sounds exhausted it is because we share a public square with men who bring a broom to brain surgery and preen when the patient bleeds, certain the mess proves their genius and certain that the applause of the equally uninformed is the same thing as truth, which it is not and never will be, no matter how loudly they chant into the night.

​

 

[鬼百合]

2) MAGA and Nazis, Authoritarian Rot in Two Outfits: Propaganda In, Persecution Out​

Both movements begin by staging morality as medicine and order as salvation, choreographing spectacles that harden the crowd before the paperwork arrives, for in Berlin the curtain rose on 6 May 1933 when brownshirts stormed Magnus Hirschfeld’s Institute for Sexual Science and four days later the books and patient files were offered to the flames at the Opernplatz, a twin ritual that terrified the city and primed the bureaucracy, while in our present the torches have become cameras and the square has become television, where demagogues rehearse tales of mutilation and grooming until committees feel licensed to convene and bill drafters set about the tidy conversion of fury into statute.

After the theatre comes the administrative rollback, that courteous art of unmaking a life with stamps and forms, for under Weimar the Berlin police sometimes issued transvestite certificates that spared pass holders the daily gauntlet of arrest for clothing and presentation, a fragile accommodation withdrawn when the dictatorship settled in and the same files that once protected were turned into hunting guides, while today the echo sounds in state rules that place gauntlets around identity documents, instruct schools to misgender by policy, and teach clerks to doubt rather than to honour, until paper that ought to serve a person becomes a leash by which the state jerks them back toward conformity and public life feels less like citizenship than like parole.

Law then expands until suspicion can stand in for proof, because in 1935 the regime rewrote Paragraph 175 so that inference could bring prosecution and allied public order provisions allowed police to punish clothing and manner as offences against the nation’s moral metabolism, while the modern toolbox is civil rather than criminal yet plays the same tune, with bathroom bans and facility rules that instruct institutions to exclude first and justify later, with sports exclusions that turn schoolyards into tribunals, and with statutes that menace clinicians for following evidence so that a routine appointment becomes a legal hazard and an ordinary day becomes a risk.

Refuge is next on the list because safety gathers wherever a door will hold, and the Eldorado club, a bright room where gender nonconforming Berliners could breathe, was shut and converted into an SA office, a literal translation of sanctuary into surveillance, while in the present the closures fix upon clinics, libraries, and classrooms rather than cabarets, with one state pioneering a blanket ban on care for trans adolescents and others rushing to copy it, with rules that bleed into adult care through licensing and insurance pressure, and with prohibitions that send families driving across state lines as though they were borders, every closure draped in the piety of protection while announcing the same cold verdict that joy is now jurisdictional.

Centralisation completes the machinery, for in 1936 the Reich Central Office for the Combating of Homosexuality and Abortion gathered files and coordinated raids so that local zeal could be focused by national will, while our present prefers model bills and unified talking points and pressure campaigns on agencies, with podium promises that travel downward into circulars and guidance, and allied attorneys general instructing schools, hospitals, and insurers to enforce the new order, the names altered and the uniforms changed yet the lattice of offices and memos recognisably the same device by which prejudice is made to look like process.

Case files keep the story honest, because Liddy Bacroff’s path from tolerance to serial arrest to preventive detention to murder at Mauthausen begins with revoked permissions and ends with annihilation, and Gerd Katter’s permits that once functioned as a passport become evidence against their owner, while today you meet families who uproot their homes to keep a stabilising prescription, doctors who install panic buttons in their clinics, and teenagers who plan their bathroom breaks with the grim logistics of a commuter, the scale different and acknowledged yet the method of narrowing a life hauntingly familiar to anyone who has read what came before.

The catechism that sells the harm has not changed, for the Nazi state preached guardianship of youth and hygiene of the nation while dismantling knowledge and criminalising bodies, and the modern chorus chants save the children while closing bathrooms and clinics and calling evidence a conspiracy, the same script in a new accent, the same promise of rescue deployed to licence the same practical result, which is that a small group of human beings are forced to live more narrowly so that a larger group may feel more righteous.

​

 

[鬼百合]

3) Not Hyperbole but Pattern: The Case for Comparison, and MAGA’s Gaslighting Denial​

When confronted, MAGA advocates protest that any comparison to Nazism is unfair, and they hurry to recite a litany about the absence of camps, the presence of elections, and the continued printing of newspapers, as if historical analogy were a ledger that only balances when horrors match line for line, and as if methods could not be judged until outcomes have ripened into their most monstrous form, so that the standard demanded is nothing less than totalitarian perfection before anyone may speak of authoritarian repetition, and in the asking they attempt to shift the conversation from conduct to caricature, from the concrete practice of narrowing a life to a cartoon of history that excuses everything short of its final chapter.

This is not a defence of subtlety, it is a performance of gaslighting that works by moving the ground beneath your feet while scolding you for losing balance, for first the argument is relocated from method to magnitude so that unless the body count and the uniforms are identical there is allegedly nothing to discuss, and then the tone of warning is rebuked as uncivil or hysterical even as bills pass and directives harden and ordinary days grow smaller, and all the while the suffering of victims is borrowed as a talisman against critique even as the symbols of that suffering reappear on the margins of rallies, after which critics are accused of trivialising history merely for noticing what is plainly in view, and the final inversion declares that naming a pattern creates the pattern, that describing a danger manufactures the danger, that comparison itself is the true offence, so that in this upside-down theatre the moral duty becomes silence while the programme advances under the courteous cover of denial.

The proper answer is to return the discussion to the level where honest judgment lives, which is the level of instruments and intent, for the comparison is not a charge of identical regimes but a recognition of shared techniques that do the same kind of harm in different settings, so that both projects begin by pathologising a minority and baptising exclusion as care, both cultivate spectacle to teach the public whom to fear and whom to punish, both translate agitation into administration until a human being meets a wall of forms and policies where once there were doors, both disable refuge by closing clinics and dimming cultural rooms, both expand law until suspicion feels like evidence and bureaucracy feels like fate, and both preach a story of endangered children and poisoned culture to gild each injury with the gloss of rescue; the differences in capacity are real and must be spoken, yet the likeness of method is real as well, and it is method that tells you what a movement is before time reveals what it will do at its farthest edge.

To insist upon that likeness is not hyperbole but civic hygiene, the kind of vigilance history begs us to practise before harm becomes irreversible, for the point of drawing the line is not to win a metaphor but to keep a country from crossing thresholds it will later pretend it never saw, and the work of conscience is to name the threshold while there is still room to turn; when a movement pathologises identity, performs morality as theatre, converts that theatre into rules, and teaches a crowd that cruelty is a species of care, the comparison is not an insult but an accurate description, and silence in the face of such rehearsed injury is not neutrality, it is permission.

​

 

[鬼百合]

4) The Conveyor Belt of Blame: How MAGA and Nazis Recycle Panic into Persecution​

Authoritarian movements keep the script and change the names, and the Nazi state sketched the template with pitiless clarity, arranging human beings into tidy categories of guilt while calling the arrangement hygiene, so that Jews became a parasitic conspiracy, Roma and Sinti itinerant disorder, disabled people a burden upon the body politic, homosexual men corrupters of youth, and political opponents saboteurs in league with hidden hands; the language dressed itself as diagnosis in order to pass from sermon to statute without confessing that the sermon was hatred and the statute harm, and from that taxonomy there flowed surveillance that called itself prudence, segregation that called itself order, sterilisation that called itself cure, and imprisonment that called itself safety.

Long before the warrants arrived the metaphors did their work, for the rhetoric lingered over poisons in the bloodstream and bacilli in the city and infestations in the home, and those images trained the imagination to confuse extermination with sanitation; what roared in the square returned to the office as forms and quotas and files, and the citizen who once cheered the stage found himself nodding at the counter when asked to sign, because theatre had softened the conscience and paperwork had hidden the bruise, and the state discovered a terrible efficiency in the stamped document that can break a life more quietly than a shouted order.

The modern movement retains the engine and updates the parts, rotating its villains according to appetite while pretending each rotation is revelation rather than routine: migrants swell into invading hordes when cameras face the border and shrink into an anonymous workforce when the harvest comes due; Muslims loom as the ultimate threat when a podium requires gravity and become proof of tolerance when a candidate wants a photograph; Black activists are mobs when the street is loud and ingrates when the chant has faded; queer people are summoned whenever ratings falter, and transgender children are exhibited whenever a campaign requires a sacrifice that can be dressed as rescue.

The vocabulary alters only in accent, rearranging invasion at the border and contamination in the classroom and grooming in the library and degeneracy in the culture into the same unchanging sentence, a sentence that demands a threatened purity to defend and a trembling innocence to save and an enemy within alleged to serve an enemy without; because the story flatters fear it asks little of the listener save assent, and so exclusions are applauded as protections, hardness is paraded as virtue, and softness is redefined as danger, until the audience has learned to mistake the pleasure of punishment for the practice of care.

Policy follows narrative like a shadow follows a body, for once a people is declared a disease the bureaucrat can write rules that feel like medicine, the officer can knock on doors that feel like contagion control, the legislator can draft exclusions that feel like quarantine, and the volunteer can swagger through public space persuaded that his harassment is civic duty; a slur mutates into a memorandum, a studio monologue becomes a bill, a rumour hardens into a school directive, and by the time the targets try to breathe it is the procedure, not the insult, that does the damage, because what began as performance has reappeared as process, and process is harder to resist precisely because it looks like routine.

The pieties that launder conscience have not altered in their inner shape, for then as now the respectable citizen is invited to believe he is only guarding his children, only defending his neighbourhood, only asking the questions that common sense requires; flattery does the crucial labour, sparing him the effort of recognising that he has been recruited into a ritual designed to make smaller the lives of those he does not know, so that his anxieties may feel larger than the compassion he owes, and thus doors close one by one with a reason attached to each, and the pattern is missed because each closure arrives in the voice of care.

Watch how the circle widens by habit rather than accident: yesterday’s villains were refugees who arrived with empty hands, today’s are teachers who remove a challenged book, tomorrow’s are clinicians who follow a protocol, and next month it is a librarian with a display or an athlete with a petition or a parent who asks for a meeting; each step looks minor from the aisle and monumental from the seat it lands upon, and rows of ordinary chairs grow empty as their occupants are named while the room somehow keeps applauding, until the definition of unsafe has travelled so far that it begins to glimmer at the edge of the mirror.

Set the eras side by side and the continuity sharpens: categories change their labels and keep their uses, metaphors change their costumes and keep their menace, policies change their jurisdictions and keep their intent; history offers no riddle here, only a script that must be recognised before the casting is complete, for once the call goes out there is always a queue of opportunists ready to audition and always a chorus prepared to sing the old song about purity, peril, and the supposed mercy of exclusion.

5) Draw the Line in Steel: Defend Trans Lives, Defeat MAGA’s Punishment Politics​

Start where care begins. Being transgender is not an illness, not a scandal, not a plot; it is a human truth met by medicine with steady hands and by a community with unshowy love. Every appointment kept, every form signed, every gentle change in name or dress is a small rescue from pain that never required a parliament’s permission to exist. Set that against the trade of their opponents, who convert fear into policy and baptise shame as safety, and you see a faction that does not heal, does not protect, does not build, but scavenges panic and calls the picking clean a public service.

They have made intimidation a business plan. The broadcast frenzy arrives, then the hearing, then the rulebook; a chant becomes a checklist, a talking point matures into a penalty, a door that once yielded without thought becomes a checkpoint that demands papers and apology. The day narrows by inches until even breathing feels permitted rather than owed. This is not guardianship. It is bureaucratic cruelty in a tidy suit, an assembly line for small harms staffed by loud men who mistake volume for virtue and a television jeer for moral authority.

Spare them their euphemisms. If they brand evidence-based care “mutilation,” name their bans what they are: a mutilation of public conscience, a crude surgery on compassion performed with a rusted statute. If they cry “contagion,” point to the fever they themselves exhale, the manufactured fear that fogs a country until decent neighbours struggle to recognise their own reflections. If they shout “groomer,” say plainly this is the grooming of a nation, the careful conditioning of a crowd to clap on command when small doors close on small lives. If they warn of “degeneracy,” show the rot where it lives: institutions that have learned to enjoy punishment more than truth, and politicians who feed on shame because facts starve them.

They will plead fairness while swinging the stick. They will insist the comparison is indecent, that different uniforms absolve identical methods, that civility requires silence while the floor moves under your feet. Treat it as camouflage. Return to instruments and intent. A minority is pathologised and exclusion is dressed as care; spectacle instructs whom to fear and whom to punish; administration converts the lesson into a day’s small humiliations. The likeness is not in wardrobe or totals; it is in choreography, as obvious as a bruise.

Keep the camera at the human scale where a nation’s worth is measured. A teenager times a bathroom break like a train schedule and plots exits because the wrong door can wreck the day. A parent practises a name in the car park before walking into the school office because love has been turned into paperwork. A doctor turns a key at dawn and checks the panic button with the same hand that checks a pulse. These are ordinary heroics in a landscape vandalised by cowards who legislate from spite and call it spine.

Name them by their deeds. Moral arsonists. Paper tyrants. Professional bullies with microphones and an allergy to mercy. They pose as sentries at civilisation’s gate while behaving like pickpockets in the sanctuary, lifting dignity from the very people they claim to defend and leaving a sermon in its place. Their politics is corrosion masquerading as care; theatre that mistakes noise for truth; order rewritten as intimidation and filed under housekeeping. They are smaller than the harm they cause and meaner than the slogans they chant; the stain on their hands is not medicine or safety or virtue, but the sour reek of enjoyed cruelty.

So the duty clarifies. Refuse the counterfeit diagnosis. Refuse the counterfeit rescue. Refuse the counterfeit routine that renames exclusion as care and sells humiliation as safety. Quarantine the lies, not the people. Keep purity for evidence and consent. Fund the clinics and protect the counsellors. Pass non-discrimination with teeth. Stand with families when the mob arrives dressed as a school-board speech.

A republic worthy of its name guards tenderness as strength. It does not trade neighbours for a lie. It does not mistake the thrill of punishment for the practice of care. It does not wait for the worst chapter before it finds its voice. It speaks now, while there is time to spare a child the ritual of apology at a locked door, time to spare a parent the performance of courage in a hostile office, time to let a clinician use both hands for healing instead of splitting one for the panic button. And when the demagogues demand more shame, it answers with something sterner than patience and cleaner than rage: an unblinking contempt for their racket, and an unshakable promise to those they target that the door stays open and the country stands with them inside it.

 

[EdwinA]

Trans People Are Not Mentally Ill; MAGA Are Just Mendacious Imbeciles​

Evidence endures and care heals while MAGA’s propaganda collapses into its own bullshit.​

The smoke over the Opernplatz rose like a spoken sentence and the city understood what the flames meant as books and patient files from Magnus Hirschfeld’s Institute for Sexual Science curled to ash. Knowledge was hauled into the street to be humiliated. Care was carried to the pyre to be punished. A small community stood and watched the door to its own future pushed shut while officials baptised the harm as hygiene. They looted the clinic and fed the fire and expanded the code. Theatre trained the crowd and paperwork completed the injury and lives that had asked only for ordinary safety were crushed beneath the false comfort of order.

The torches have become studio lights and the square has become a screen, yet the script remains unchanged. A counterfeit diagnosis is displayed and a panic is practised and a bill is drafted, and the chant hardens into a checklist that turns a hallway into a hazard and a door into a test. Somewhere a teenager times a bathroom break like a timetable because the wrong door can ruin the day. Somewhere a parent practises a name in a car park because love has been turned into paperwork. Somewhere a clinician opens a clinic at dawn and touches a panic button with the same hand that checks a pulse. From afar this is called protection. Up close it is fear in uniform, a ritual of humiliation written in polite ink.

This essay holds to medicine’s plain truth, that being transgender is not a mental illness, and it names the method that denies it with the clarity the moment requires. Spectacle becomes statute. Purity talk leads to closed rooms. Slogan turns to form to stamp. We will not be instructed by those who mistake volume for virtue. We will not confuse the pleasure of punishment with the practice of care. The line is drawn here and it will be defended.

1) Transgender Is Not a Mental Illness; MAGA Ignorance On the Other Hand…

Being transgender is not a mental illness, and that truth belongs to the bright plain of contemporary medicine rather than the funhouse where demagogues peddle fear to the faithful. Modern psychiatry separates who a person is from the suffering some endure when body, expectation, and law grind against the self, and ethical care concerns itself with easing that suffering while honouring the human being who carries it.

Gender dysphoria names a burden and not an identity. Treatment exists to relieve pain, to restore function, and to protect dignity. Healing cannot take root in soil salted by shame, which is why the profession has spent years scrubbing away the old taxonomies that confused stigma with science.

Clinicians now meet trans patients with the ordinary respect owed to every person. They offer social transition, counselling, and carefully indicated medical interventions chosen with informed consent, measured protocols, and vigilant follow up. The aim is humane and practical, to help a person live without torment in a body and a world that meet them without hostility, while keeping care within the steady guardrails that govern the rest of medicine.

To brand identity as a disorder is to misread the literature. It is to misunderstand the clinic. It is to misuse medical authority as a vestment for prejudice, turning ignorance into policy and superstition into headline. It is the old authoritarian trick that slaps a medical label on a moral panic and then pretends the panic is a cure.

MAGA mouthpieces persist because the lie pays in applause and grievance rather than in evidence or honour. They chant about mutilation and posture as saviours of children while ignoring the physicians who train, practise, publish, and care, the very people who say with steady clarity that these talking points are false and unsafe. They defame doctors as butchers and parents as dupes because slander travels faster than scholarship and panic is easier to monetise than compassion. What they offer is not medicine but tawdry theatre, a counterfeit diagnosis stapled to living bodies so that lawmakers may punish while pretending to heal.

In the end their ignorance parades itself like a brass band out of tune. The same voices that sneer at peer review and cannot tell a journal from a blog now strut as physicians to the nation, clutching slogans as if they were scalpels and carving nonsense into law with the swagger of amateurs who mistake noise for virtue. They mangle basic terms with the bravado of gamblers who think the rules of arithmetic are a conspiracy, and they deliver sentences so empty one almost admires the architectural purity of the void. It takes a special kind of foolishness to call compassion mutilation, to treat consensus as conspiracy, to wave away the training of surgeons and psychiatrists with a grunt and a meme and then to christen that performance moral courage. If the country sounds exhausted it is because we share a public square with men who bring a broom to brain surgery and preen when the patient bleeds, certain the mess proves their genius and certain that the applause of the equally uninformed is the same thing as truth, which it is not and never will be, no matter how loudly they chant into the night.

​

lol hilarious bullshit, and from a mentally ill loon. When you don't know shit, just post long moronic cut and pastes, right?

 

[鬼百合]

lol hilarious bullshit, and from a mentally ill loon.

Yes, let that hate flow through you.

 

[鬼百合]

Seems the OP touched a nerve.

 

[EdwinA]

Yes, let that hate flow through you.

lol says the dufus who cut and pasted some long ridiculous screed from some loon.

 

[EdwinA]

Seems the OP touched a nerve.

You mean you were fingering yourself in the ass when you read it.

 

[鬼百合]

lol says the dufus who cut and pasted some long ridiculous screed from some loon.

I'm quite fine with you not liking it. You do know you don't have to read it or respond correct? Passes a box of tissues.

 

[鬼百合]

You mean you were fingering yourself in the ass when you read it.

Your sick sexual perversions are none of my concern magat.

 

[volsrocks]

Trans People Are Not Mentally Ill; MAGA Are Just Mendacious Imbeciles​

Evidence endures and care heals while MAGA’s propaganda collapses into its own bullshit.​

The smoke over the Opernplatz rose like a spoken sentence and the city understood what the flames meant as books and patient files from Magnus Hirschfeld’s Institute for Sexual Science curled to ash. Knowledge was hauled into the street to be humiliated. Care was carried to the pyre to be punished. A small community stood and watched the door to its own future pushed shut while officials baptised the harm as hygiene. They looted the clinic and fed the fire and expanded the code. Theatre trained the crowd and paperwork completed the injury and lives that had asked only for ordinary safety were crushed beneath the false comfort of order.

The torches have become studio lights and the square has become a screen, yet the script remains unchanged. A counterfeit diagnosis is displayed and a panic is practised and a bill is drafted, and the chant hardens into a checklist that turns a hallway into a hazard and a door into a test. Somewhere a teenager times a bathroom break like a timetable because the wrong door can ruin the day. Somewhere a parent practises a name in a car park because love has been turned into paperwork. Somewhere a clinician opens a clinic at dawn and touches a panic button with the same hand that checks a pulse. From afar this is called protection. Up close it is fear in uniform, a ritual of humiliation written in polite ink.

This essay holds to medicine’s plain truth, that being transgender is not a mental illness, and it names the method that denies it with the clarity the moment requires. Spectacle becomes statute. Purity talk leads to closed rooms. Slogan turns to form to stamp. We will not be instructed by those who mistake volume for virtue. We will not confuse the pleasure of punishment with the practice of care. The line is drawn here and it will be defended.

1) Transgender Is Not a Mental Illness; MAGA Ignorance On the Other Hand…

Being transgender is not a mental illness, and that truth belongs to the bright plain of contemporary medicine rather than the funhouse where demagogues peddle fear to the faithful. Modern psychiatry separates who a person is from the suffering some endure when body, expectation, and law grind against the self, and ethical care concerns itself with easing that suffering while honouring the human being who carries it.

Gender dysphoria names a burden and not an identity. Treatment exists to relieve pain, to restore function, and to protect dignity. Healing cannot take root in soil salted by shame, which is why the profession has spent years scrubbing away the old taxonomies that confused stigma with science.

Clinicians now meet trans patients with the ordinary respect owed to every person. They offer social transition, counselling, and carefully indicated medical interventions chosen with informed consent, measured protocols, and vigilant follow up. The aim is humane and practical, to help a person live without torment in a body and a world that meet them without hostility, while keeping care within the steady guardrails that govern the rest of medicine.

To brand identity as a disorder is to misread the literature. It is to misunderstand the clinic. It is to misuse medical authority as a vestment for prejudice, turning ignorance into policy and superstition into headline. It is the old authoritarian trick that slaps a medical label on a moral panic and then pretends the panic is a cure.

MAGA mouthpieces persist because the lie pays in applause and grievance rather than in evidence or honour. They chant about mutilation and posture as saviours of children while ignoring the physicians who train, practise, publish, and care, the very people who say with steady clarity that these talking points are false and unsafe. They defame doctors as butchers and parents as dupes because slander travels faster than scholarship and panic is easier to monetise than compassion. What they offer is not medicine but tawdry theatre, a counterfeit diagnosis stapled to living bodies so that lawmakers may punish while pretending to heal.

In the end their ignorance parades itself like a brass band out of tune. The same voices that sneer at peer review and cannot tell a journal from a blog now strut as physicians to the nation, clutching slogans as if they were scalpels and carving nonsense into law with the swagger of amateurs who mistake noise for virtue. They mangle basic terms with the bravado of gamblers who think the rules of arithmetic are a conspiracy, and they deliver sentences so empty one almost admires the architectural purity of the void. It takes a special kind of foolishness to call compassion mutilation, to treat consensus as conspiracy, to wave away the training of surgeons and psychiatrists with a grunt and a meme and then to christen that performance moral courage. If the country sounds exhausted it is because we share a public square with men who bring a broom to brain surgery and preen when the patient bleeds, certain the mess proves their genius and certain that the applause of the equally uninformed is the same thing as truth, which it is not and never will be, no matter how loudly they chant into the night.

​

In 1980 , the American Psychiatric Association's DSM-III added "transsexualism" and "Gender Identity Disorder" (GID) as mental disorders to classify transgender experiences

then along came WOKE and POS like you

 

[鬼百合]

A racist calling me a POS. Too funny!

 

[EdwinA]

I'm quite fine with you not liking it. You do know you don't have to read it or respond correct? Passes a box of tissues.

I read the first couple of lines, and noted it for what it is, just another polemic trying to 'normalize' severe mental illnesses, as usual for sociopaths and psychopaths.

What you're 'fine 'with is on no interest to anybody sane.

 

[鬼百合]

I read the first couple of lines, and noted it for what it is, just another polemic trying to 'normalize' severe mental illnesses, as usual for sociopaths and psychopaths.

What you're 'fine 'with is on no interest to anybody sane.

Thanks for proving the OP correct.

 

[EdwinA]

A racist calling me a POS. Too funny!

^^^A racist being a POS.

 

[volsrocks]

Trans are sick in the head just like Pedophiles and Serial Killers

Brain is fucked up...the left just gives one a pass

 

[EdwinA]

Thanks for proving the OP correct.

Thank you for verifying you're a mentally ill idiot.

 

[鬼百合]

^^^A racist being a POS.

And again proving the OP correct. Going for a third time lil snowflake?

 

[Lionfish]