You Aren’t Broken
Your Reality Has Been Staged All Along: They Flip The Scripts Whenever They Like
Here’s a myth I’d like to bury: Medical diagnoses are not discoveries. They are inventions. Agreed upon by panels. Debated into existence.
One decade it’s a disorder. The next, it’s a lifestyle. Then it’s a spectrum. Then it’s a marketing campaign with a commercial and a pill.
None of it is rooted in truth though. It’s rooted in poison.
It’s built on consensus. Power. Pathology as profit.
It shifts constantly so you never notice the trick—that your pain was never meant to be healed. Only named. Branded. Neutralized.
You think diagnosis is care.
You think labeling is relief.
You think having a word for your suffering is the same as being seen.
But that’s the lie.
Diagnosis is not about understanding you. It’s about managing you.
Stripping your mystery. Flattening your story.
Making you legible to the machine.
Especially if you’re too slow. Too sensitive. Too loud.
If you collapse, if you cry, if you rage, if you stop producing—you will be given a name. And with that name, a cage.
The system does not want you well.
It wants you explained. Because what it cannot explain, it cannot own. And what it cannot own, it fears. So it calls you disordered.
It is not healing you. It is sorting you.
And yes—this was done in the name of God. But not the God I come from. Not the God of Israel.
Not the God of the prophets.
Not the God of the broken made whole.
No. This is the god of this world.
The one who says the weak must be weeded out.
The one who says the vulnerable are liabilities.
The one who calls the mirror defective when it reflects his cruelty too clearly.
That god is collapsing—and I’m not here to be diagnosed. I’m here to dismantle.
You think it’s new because the font changed.
Because the doctors smile now.
Because the coats are white instead of black.
But this system—this god—has always been about elimination. Refinement. Control.
They call it hygiene still.
Racial hygiene. Mental hygiene. Ethnic hygiene. Personal hygiene.
It’s the reason why you don’t want to take their showers.
They said they were cleansing the world, making it safe, making it better.
But what they meant was: We are removing what makes us uncomfortable.
We are removing the evidence of what we cannot understand, cannot own, cannot fix.
The disabled, the fragile, the violated, the unruly, the unproductive—they have always been the target. The ones to study and experiment on.
In every era, in every society, the names changed. But the mission didn’t.
The psychiatrists who stood beside the ovens were not fanatics. They were professionals. They signed death orders with diagnosis codes. Permitted grace or relocation by assignment.
They said:
This child is uneducable.
This woman is too hysterical.
This man cannot be trusted with freedom.
This one is not worth the resources it would take to keep them alive.
That’s called medicine.
That’s called public health.
When the war ended, they didn’t vanish.
They changed their language.
They published papers.
They got jobs in the institutions that still stand today. And their children—their blood—it is still running the system.
You want to pretend you’re far from it.
That it was a glitch in history. A horror someone else would have stopped. And once the good guys came in, it was over.
But I am telling you now: It is not history. It is present.
It is in Your hospitals. In Your textbooks.
In your insurance claims and your quiet dismissals and the way you tighten when someone doesn’t behave as they should.
It is in your bones.
Because you are the descendant of the ones who survived it. And survival was not neutral. Survival meant compliance. Survival meant silence. Survival meant absorbing the logic of the machine and calling it civilization. But I am not here to help you sleep through it.
I am here to wake the blood.
How does that feel?
You want to be innocent. You want to say, “That wasn’t me. That was them.”
You want to draw a clean line between your hands and theirs. But your comfort is proof of proximity.
Your immunity is inheritance.
You think waking up means learning what happened. It doesn’t.
It means recognizing what you carry. What was passed down in silence, in instinct, and in law.
What your body was built to ignore. What your system was built to perpetuate. Because the monster didn’t disappear.
He became your mentor.
Your curriculum.
Your subtle voice of reason that whispers:
“They’re being dramatic.”
“They’re just not trying hard enough.”
“Some people are just broken.”
You didn’t invent those thoughts. You inherited them. And now they live through you, until You choose to exile them.
To wake the blood is to feel everything they trained you to shut down.
It is to tremble.
To remember.
To know, in your marrow, that your name is stitched to history’s wound.
That you are not a spectator to this system—you are its living continuation. And that means, you have a choice.
You can protect the bloodline. Or you can rupture it. But you cannot do both.
You don’t need therapy. You need to repent.
You don’t need healing. You need to return.
You don’t need another diagnosis, another name for your pain, or another soft lie that says, “This is just how your brain works.”
You need to know the truth: You are carrying the blood of those who engineered hell on earth.
And you are still living inside their systems.
Still worshipping their gods.
Still protecting their logic.
You call it progress.
You call it science.
You call it medicine.
But it is genocide with a human face.
It is sterilization rebranded.
It is madness renamed.
It is spiritual death with a billing code.
And I am not here to comfort you. I am here to confront you—because your spirit belongs to Me, and I want it back.
Not as a metaphor. Not as a mood. Not as some vague higher self. As Me—the real, living God in form.
The One they killed. The One they tried to erase by turning prophets into patients and miracles into pathologies.
I Am not a concept. I Am the Messiah. And I Am telling you: There is no recovery inside their system. There is no healing in the hands of empire.
If you want to be free—truly free—you will have to renounce everything they taught you. Your training. Your diagnosis. Your pride. Your comfort. Your neutrality.
You will have to return to Me without defense. And when you do—you won’t just heal. You’ll remember:
Who you were before they named you.
Who you were before they broke you.
Who you were when I first sent you.
That remembering will cost you your false life, but it will assuredly give you back your soul.