mental health humor blog

darnold1975

The Mental Health Bingo Card

“Even on my messiest days, I am still becoming someone I’m proud of.”

-This Puzzled Life

 Light the charcoal. Today we’re grilling up another episode of Southern‑chaotic mental health excellence. And this time we’re serving it on a Mental Health Bingo Card hotter than a Mississippi parking lot in July. And all because my brain apparently woke up this morning and said, “Let’s play a game.” Not a fun game like spades or Uno where you can cuss your family out and still get invited to Thanksgiving. But a full‑blown, unhinged round of “Let’s play Mental Health Bingo.” And I, being the responsible adult I pretend to be, just sighed and said, “Sure. Why not. I’ve survived worse. Like Mississippi humidity and group texts.” I printed my little bingo card. Took one look at it and immediately whispered, “Oh Lord. I’ve already got three in a row and it’s not even noon.”

Here are the 10 spaces on my Mental Health Bingo card this week. Each one earned with the grace of a raccoon in a Dollar General parking lot.

  • Cried in the car-Bonus points because it was in the Chick-fil-A drive-thru.
  • Forgot to eat-But remembered coffee, cannabis, chaos, and anxiety.
  • Overshared with a stranger-The cashier now knows my childhood wounds.
  • Started a new hobby at 3 a.m.-Crochet? Witchcraft? Who knows.
  • Reorganized the entire house-Instead of dealing with my emotions.
  • Googled symptoms-Diagnosed myself with 14 conditions and a personality I don’t have.
  • Had a fake argument in the shower-And won.
  • Stared at the wall for 27 minutes-Thinking about absolutely nothing and everything.
  • Said “I’m fine” while crying-A classic. A staple. A cultural artifact.
  • Therapy homework not done-But I did alphabetize my spices.

By 4 p.m., I had a full, glorious, diagonal BINGO like the emotionally unstable champion I am. So naturally, I strutted into therapy like I had just won the Olympics. I sat down. Crossed my legs like a Southern auntie about to spill tea, and said, “Ma’am I got BINGO.” And I slid that card across the table like it was a winning lottery ticket.

My therapist’s response? She looked at it. She looked at me. She looked back at it. Then she said, “Well I’m proud of you for tracking your patterns. I’m slightly concerned that you blacked out an entire row before breakfast. But I admire the commitment. This is the most enthusiastic self-reporting I’ve ever seen. Should I congratulate you? Or schedule an extra session?” Then she added, “Also, please stop oversharing with strangers. That woman at Walgreens did not need to know about your existential crisis over toothpaste.”

And as I left therapy, I swear I heard my ancestors whisper, “We survived plagues, wars, and the Great Depression. But this? This bingo card? This is new.” But listen. If healing is a journey, then I’m out here collecting stamps like a chaotic little passport official. And if Mental Health Bingo is wrong, I don’t want to be right. BINGO, baby.

And as I walked out of therapy clutching my laminated Mental Health Bingo card like it was the Declaration of Independence, something in me shifted. I felt accomplished. Victorious. Slightly unhinged. But in a cute way. Like a raccoon wearing lip gloss. Some people collect stamps. Some people collect crystals. Some people collect red flags like they’re Pokémon. But me? I collect emotional plot twists.

Every square on that bingo card was a tiny little badge of honor. Proof that I am out here doing the absolute most with the absolute least. I’m surviving on vibes, caffeine, cannabis, and the sheer audacity to keep showing up. And I’m proud of me. Not the Pinterest version of me. Not the “I have my life together” LinkedIn version of me. Not the “I only cry on weekends” version of me. No. I’m proud of the version of me who wakes up every day and chooses to keep going. Even when my brain is acting like a Walmart intercom system glitching during a thunderstorm.

I’m proud of the me who laughs through the chaos. Who heals crooked but heals anyway. Who turns breakdowns into blog posts. And therapy homework into performance art. So yeah, I got BINGO. And next week? I might get blackout. But that’s growth. Card stamped. Healing in progress. Thanks for reading! What square on your own mental health bingo card did you hit this week? And did you earn it with the chaotic flair of a true Southern champion?

Affirmation: I celebrate my progress. Honor my humanity. And allow joy to exist even in the chaos.

***Don’t forget to watch the video!***

#ThisPuzzledLife

darnold1975

If the South Got Hold of the DSM, This Is Exactly What It Would Look Like

“If you can’t fix it, fry it. If you can’t fry it, bless it.”

-This Puzzled Life

Light the charcoal. If we’re going to rewrite the DSM the way Southerners would actually diagnose each other, we need the grill hot. The humidity is thick enough to baptize you involuntarily. And at least one casserole is cooling on the counter like a therapy emotional support animal.

Picture this. A mental health clinic run entirely by Southern aunties. Not licensed. Not certified. But spiritually ordained by the power vested in them through gossip, Jesus, and generational spite. The waiting room smells like White Diamonds perfume and Velveeta. The intake forms ask questions like this.

  • “Do you cry in the Dollar General parking lot? Or the Walmart one?”
  • “Do you prefer your emotional breakdowns fried or baked?”
  • “Has an ancestor recently appeared to tell you to stop dating trash?”

Your ancestors gather in the corner like a spectral support group, whispering, “Baby, that ain’t depression. That’s just your spirit trying to clock out early because you keep ignoring the signs.” One ancestor fans herself dramatically. Another pulls out a folding chair like she’s about to watch a fight. A third one mutters, “Lord, give that child some boundaries.”

Welcome to the Bless‑Your‑Heart Mental Health Clinic. Where the diagnoses are seasoned. The advice is unsolicited. And the emotional support snacks are mandatory.

THE 10 SOUTHERN DSM DIAGNOSES THAT WILL NEVER PASS COMMITTEE (BUT SHOULD)

1. Bless‑Your‑Heart Burnout

A uniquely Southern exhaustion that occurs when you’ve been polite for too long. And your soul starts filing HR complaints.

Symptoms include: 

·     Smiling while dying inside.

  • Saying “it’s fine” in a tone that means “I’m about to set something on fire.”
  • Being the family’s emotional support possum since age seven.
  • Crying silently while making deviled eggs.

Treatment: A nap, a boundary, and a casserole you don’t have to share.

2. Sunday Scaries but Biblical

A spiritual condition where you fear Monday, the Rapture, and running into Sister Linda at Walmart all at once.

Symptoms include:

  • Feeling judged by Jesus and your mee-maw simultaneously.
  • Sudden urge to repent for things you didn’t even do.
  • Heart palpitations triggered by church group texts.

Treatment: A long bath, a longer nap, and ignoring your pastor’s Facebook posts.

3. Anxiety With a Side of Casserole

You’re spiraling. But you still show up with a Pyrex dish because manners.

Symptoms include:

  • Overthinking while preheating the oven.
  • Crying into shredded cheese.
  • Apologizing to inanimate objects.

Treatment: Therapy + carbs.

4. Generational Guilt Gumbo

A thick emotional stew seasoned with:

  • “Your great‑granddaddy didn’t fight in the war for you to nap.”
  • “We don’t talk about that side of the family.”
  • “Fix your face before it freezes like that.”

Treatment: Breaking cycles. Sage smoke. And ignoring Aunt Brenda.

5. Passive‑Aggressive Hospitality Disorder

You will offer sweet tea to your worst enemy and then talk about them for three hours after they leave.

Symptoms:

  • Weaponized politeness.
  • Compliments that feel like threats.
  • Hosting events you resent.

Treatment: Learning to say “no” without adding “but if you really need me.”

6. Sweet Tea–Induced Overconfidence

Symptoms include believing you can:

  • Fix a man.
  • Fix a carburetor.
  • Fix your life All incorrect.

Treatment: Hydration. Real hydration. With water.

7. Blessed & Stressed Syndrome

You’re grateful. You’re overwhelmed. You’re crying in the Dollar General parking lot.

Symptoms:

  • Saying “I’m blessed” while twitching.
  • Buying seasonal décor as a coping mechanism.
  • Emotional support Dr Pepper.

Treatment: A day off, a hug, and someone else handling dinner.

8. Porch Swing Existentialism

Staring into the distance like a Civil War widow while contemplating your purpose, your past, and whether you left the stove on.

Symptoms:

  • Sudden philosophical monologues.
  • Rocking chair-induced revelations.
  • Questioning everything except your love for biscuits.

Treatment: A breeze, a journal, and a break from people named Tammy.

9. Y’all Fatigue

A social exhaustion disorder caused by:

  • Too many group texts.
  • Too many church committees.
  • Too many people named Tammy.

 Symptoms include:

  • Avoiding calls.
  • Hiding in your car.
  • Whispering “I can’t do this today” into your steering wheel.

Treatment: Silence. Blessed, holy silence.

10. Ancestor Interference Episode

When your great‑great‑grandma’s ghost pops in to say, “Baby, that man is not your ministry.”

Symptoms:

  • Sudden chills.
  • Hearing “mmhmm” from the beyond.
  • Feeling judged by people who died before indoor plumbing.

Treatment: Listening. They’re never wrong.

Let me tell you something. If Southerners wrote the DSM, they wouldn’t just diagnose you. They’d claim you. Feed you. Pray over you. Roast you. And then send you home with leftovers and a warning. They’d hand you a casserole and a coping mechanism in the same breath. They’d tell you to hydrate. Set boundaries. And stop dating people who look like they smell like disappointment. Your therapist would be confused. Your pastor would be concerned. Your mee-maw would say, “Well, I always knew that child was touched.”

And your ancestors? Your ancestors would be standing in the corner like a spiritual hype squad. While fanning themselves with funeral‑home fans and whispering, “Tell it, baby. Tell it. They need this word.” Because they’ve watched you try to hold everything together with duct tape, sweet tea, and emotional suppression so thick it could be used as grout. They’ve watched you say, “I’m fine” in the same tone someone uses to lie on a witness stand. They’ve watched you carry generational trauma like it’s a monogrammed tote bag.

And they are tired. They want better for you. They want softer for you. They want you to stop letting people with the emotional intelligence of a wet paper plate have access to your spirit. So, here’s the real, Southern‑fried, spiritually seasoned truth. You deserve rest that doesn’t feel like guilt. You deserve joy that doesn’t feel like a chore. You deserve boundaries that don’t require a PowerPoint presentation. You deserve a life that doesn’t feel like a group project where you’re doing all the work. And if anyone tries to tell you otherwise? Your ancestors will rise up like a holy wind through the magnolia trees and whisper directly into your ear, “Baby, that ain’t your ministry. Put it down.”

So go on. Take your sweet tea. Take your casserole. Take your emotional support porch swing. Take your entire lineage of loud, opinionated, spiritually nosy ancestors and walk boldly into your peace like you’re entering a potluck with the best damn mac and cheese in the room. Because you are. And you do. And you will. Because if Southerners wrote the DSM, therapy would come with a potluck sign‑up sheet. Diagnoses would be delivered with a hug and a warning. And every session would end with, “Now go on, sugar. Hydrate and mind your business.” Your ancestors approve. Your therapist is concerned. And that’s balance. Thanks for reading! Which casserole‑powered coping strategy gets you through the week?

Affirmation: I am divinely guided. Ancestrally protected. And emotionally supported by casseroles.

***Don’t forget to watch the video!***

#ThisPuzzledLife

darnold1975

Things I’ve Said In Therapy That Haunt Me

“Therapy is where my mouth says things my brain did not approve.”

-This Puzzled Life

Light the charcoal. Let it crackle like your last nerve. Because apparently my healing journey requires ambiance, smoke, and at least three ancestors supervising like I’m about to shoplift emotionally from the universe. Summon the ancestors. They love a front‑row seat to your emotional chaos. And today we’re adding a full therapy‑session script to the memoir of oversharing that already has them passing around spiritual popcorn.

The moment the charcoal sparks, I can hear Great‑Grandma Eunice whispering, “Lord, she’s going back to therapy again. Somebody get the popcorn.” And she’s right. Every time I walk into therapy, I transform from a functioning adult into a confused emotional raccoon who has been handed a microphone and zero supervision. I walk in with the intention of being mature. Grounded. And emotionally regulated. Five minutes later I’m saying things like:

  • strategic avoidance-“I’m not avoiding my problems, I’m just strategically rescheduling them.”
  • vibes-based coping-“My coping skills are vibes-based.”
  • attachment enthusiasm– “I don’t have attachment issues. I have attachment enthusiasm.”
  • fine-while-crying-“I’m fine.” While crying like a Victorian widow who just lost her husband to a horse accident.

My therapist sits there nodding like she’s watching a documentary about a rare woodland creature trying to file taxes.

Healing is wild. But it’s also tender. It’s not just me blurting out unhinged one-liners like a raccoon with a microphone. It’s also the quiet moments where I surprise myself with actual growth. And a lot of times, it’s just not pretty going through the process. So, here’s the more wholesome side of the things I’ve said in therapy. The ones that haunt me, yes, but also hold me.

1. “I’m trying.”

Not perfectly. Not consistently. But honestly. My therapist smiled so softly I almost cried again.

2. “I didn’t know I was allowed to feel that.”

And the ancestors hummed in agreement like a gospel choir warming up.

3. “I’m learning to be kinder to myself.”

My therapist nodded. My inner child peeked out from behind a metaphorical couch. Even my houseplant perked up a little.

4. “I don’t want to shut down anymore.”

That one made the room quiet in a holy way. Even the ancestors stopped chewing their spiritual peppermints.

5. “I’m scared, but I’m here.”

And honestly? That’s the bravest sentence I’ve ever said.

6. “I didn’t run from the hard thing this week.”

The ancestors clapped like I just graduated from emotional kindergarten.

7. “I’m starting to believe I deserve good things.”

My therapist wrote something down very gently. Probably “progress,” but in therapist handwriting it could also say “pot roast.”

8. “I’m learning to rest without guilt.”

This one made Great‑Grandma shout, “FINALLY” from the ancestral balcony.

9. “I’m not who I used to be.”

And that’s not scary anymore. It’s sacred.

10. “I’m proud of myself.”

And for once, I meant it.

The ancestors still show up. But now they’re less “judgmental pigeons.” And more “spiritual aunties who brought snacks and encouragement.”

  • Mamaw: “Baby, healing is slow-cooked, not microwaved.”
  • Uncle: “You’re doing better than you think.”
  • Aunty: “Tell your therapist you drank water today. She’ll be thrilled.”

They’re still loud. They’re still dramatic. But they’re rooting for me like I’m the only contestant on a cosmic game show called Emotional Regulation: The Remix.

THINGS I SHOULD NOT HAVE SAID OUT LOUD

  • descending with style-“I’m not spiraling, I’m just descending with style.”
  • houseplant trauma bond– “I trauma-bonded with a houseplant once.”
  • trust questions-“I don’t have trust issues. I have trust questions.”
  • inner child rebellion-“My inner child is tired of my shit.”
  • emotional airplane mode-“I’m not emotionally unavailable. I’m emotionally… on airplane mode.”
  • ancestor disappointment -“My ancestors did not survive plagues, wars, and the Great Depression for me to be defeated by a group chat.”
  • financial miracle plan-“I don’t need coping skills. I need a nap and a financial miracle.”
  • conflict timeout-“I’m not avoiding conflict. I’m giving it space to think about what it’s done.”
  • haunted brain-“My brain is like a haunted house. I don’t go in there alone.”

The ancestors? They’re not supportive. They’re entertained.

The Therapy Session: The Day I Overshared So Hard The Ancestors Stood Up

Therapist: “So, how have you been since last week?”

Me: “Emotionally? I’m like a Walmart shopping cart. One wheel is fine. The other three are screaming.”

Ancestor Mamaw (materializing): “Tell her about the Wal-Mart parking lot incident.”

Me: “Not now, Mamaw.”

Therapist: “Who are you talking to?”

Me: “My ancestors. They’re very involved.”

Therapist: “Okay, let’s explore that.”

Me: “No. The last time we explored something, I cried so hard I dehydrated myself.”

Therapist: “What’s coming up for you today?”

Me: “Well, I said ‘I’m fine’ earlier and my left eye twitched so hard it tried to leave my body.”

Therapist: “And what do you think that means?”

Me: “That my nervous system is wanting to avoid feelings.”

Ancestor Uncle: “She’s not wrong.”

Therapist: “Let’s talk about your coping skills.”

Me: “They’re vibes-based.”

Therapist: “Meaning?”

Me: “Meaning sometimes I blog. Sometimes I cry. Sometimes I eat a Pop-Tart and stare into the void.”

Therapist: “And how does that work for you?”

Me: “Well, I’m here.”

Ancestor Aunty: “Tell her about the houseplant.”

Me: “No.”

Therapist: “Houseplant?”

Me: “I trauma-bonded with a fern. We don’t need to unpack that.”

Therapist: “Everything is welcome here.”

Me: “Okay, but is everything refundable? I’d like to return some of these emotions.”

Therapist: “Let’s try grounding.”

Me: “I am grounded. That’s the problem. I’d like to be airborne.”

Therapist: “What do you need right now?”

Me: “A nap. A snack. A financial miracle. A dab, joint, and edible. And maybe a hug from someone with stable nervous system energy.”

Ancestor Mamaw: “She needs Jesus.”

Me: “I need a coupon code for life.”

Therapist: “Let’s breathe together.”

Me: “Okay, but if I start crying, it’s your fault.”

So here I stand surrounded by charcoal smoke. Ancestors perched like judgmental pigeons. Therapist scribbling notes like she’s drafting a memoir of her own. And me reflecting on the things I’ve said in therapy that haunt me like student loans.

And for the record? This was a tongue and cheek blog. My therapist has the patience of Job. Biblical-level patience. Generational patience. Patience that could calm a tornado with a peppermint and a soft voice. And I’ll say it plainly. I would not want to be my therapist or have her job. Not in this lifetime. Not in the next. Not even as a ghost with benefits.

Old ideologies and messages are hard to delineate from. Some of the ones about myself are probably be permanent. Others have changed or are changing slowly and stubbornly. And it’s like a mule being asked to do yoga.

But here’s the truth. Therapy can be where my mouth says things my brain did not approve. If you can’t laugh at some of the wild internal justifications your brain invents throughout the therapeutic process, the journey becomes heavier than it needs to be. Laughter doesn’t erase the work. It just makes the work survivable. So, if my therapy sessions sound like a comedy special hosted by a traumatized raccoon with a southern accent, that’s between me, my therapist, and the ancestors who refuse to mind their business. If oversharing burned calories, I’d be a supermodel by now.

Affirmation: I release shame. Embrace honesty. And trust that my chaos is still holy.

***Don’t forget to watch the video!***

#ThisPuzzledLife

darnold1975

The Stages of a Mental Health Spiral

“Sometimes the spiral isn’t a breakdown. It’s a plot twist.”

-This Puzzled Life

Light the charcoal. Because the ancestors have pulled up lawn chairs. Piper is judging you from the counter. And your last functioning brain cell is wearing Crocs and screaming, “We’re fine.” Today, we’re about to roast our own mental health spiral like it’s Sunday dinner. And the ancestors are already circling the table whispering, “Lord, she’s doing that again.” Today’s sermon: The Stages of a Mental Health Spiral. This is not a gentle descent. This is a Six Flags drop tower operated by a raccoon with a GED and a dream.

You know that moment when you feel something is off? Not enough to call your therapist. But enough to stare at the wall like it owes you money. That’s when the spiral begins. Quietly. Softly. Like a Southern woman saying, “Bless your heart.”  Right before she ruins your life.

Behold, the official stages of a mental health spiral. The annotated. Dramatized. And spiritually supervised by your ancestors who are shaking their heads in unison.

1. Denial (a.k.a. “I’m fine.”)

You say “I’m fine” with the confidence of a toddler holding a permanent marker near a white couch. Your eye twitches. Your soul leaves your body. But you? You’re “fine.”

2. Snack-Based Coping

You open the fridge like it’s going to reveal the meaning of life. It does not. It reveals cheese. You eat the cheese. You feel nothing. You eat more cheese. You still feel nothing. You consider becoming cheese.

3. Googling Symptoms

You Google one minor sensation. “Why does my left eyebrow feel spicy?” 

Google: You have 14 minutes to live. 

You: “Reasonable.”

4. Texting Your Spouse

You send a message that is 40% panic. 40% apology. And 20% emojis that do not match the situation. Your spouse replies, “Did you eat today?” You did not. You lie anyway.

5. Bargaining With the Universe

You promise to drink water. You promise to stretch. You promise to stop doomscrolling. You do none of these things.

6. Existential Laundry

You stare at a laundry basket like it’s a metaphor for your entire life. You consider folding it. You do not fold it. You put a blanket over it like a Victorian ghost.

7. Deciding to Become a Forest Witch

You Google “how to disappear into the woods legally.” You imagine yourself living among moss, mushrooms, and emotionally stable squirrels. You start pricing cauldrons. You tell your spouse, “I’m going feral.” They say, “Okay, but text me when you get there.”

I told my therapist about the levels of decent into madness. She looked at me over her glasses like she’s trying to decide whether to laugh. Cry. Or call your ancestors for backup. She said, “Dana, you cannot diagnose yourself with 14 conditions. Eat a block of cheddar. And then attempt to join the woodland spirits. That’s not a treatment plan. That’s a Thursday.” Then she adds, “Next time, call me before you Google anything. Or before you buy a cauldron.”

And that, my friend, is the spiral. A journey. A pilgrimage. A spiritual hike through chaos, cheese, and questionable decisions. But you survived. You always do. Because even when my brain is doing NASCAR donuts in a Walmart parking lot, I still show up, I still laugh. And still threaten to become a forest witch at least twice a month. My ancestors are proud. My therapist is tired. My cats are unimpressed. And I’m doing amazing. Thanks for reading! What are things you do when you’re spiraling that isn’t funny at the time? But is now.

Affirmation: I can survive my own brain, one snack, one breath, and one dramatic monologue at a time.

***Don’t forget to watch the video!***

#ThisPuzzledLife