This Puzzled Life is a mental health and recovery blog exploring addiction, trauma healing, LGBTQ experiences, humor, and the strange moments that shape us.
“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.
“Silence is the oldest accomplice of violence. And Mississippi has been silent for far too long.”
-This Puzzled Life
Light the charcoal, y’all. Because my ancestors are pacing the porch tonight. I can feel them in the humidity, the cicada buzz, and in the way the air gets thick right before a storm. They’re whispering. Tapping their feet. And shaking their heads the way old Southern aunties do when they’ve had enough of the foolishness. And Lord knows Mississippi has given us more than enough foolishness wrapped in Bible verses. Dipped in denial. And served with a side of “the South will rise again” delusion.
Because let’s tell the truth. The “Christian” community down here loves to shout about sin until it’s time to call out violence against Black bodies. Then suddenly everybody’s quiet. Clutching pearls. And humming hymns like silence is salvation. They’ll condemn a teenager’s skirt length before they condemn a system that keeps killing Black people. They’ll preach forgiveness while refusing accountability. They’ll talk about “God’s love” while ignoring the blood on their own soil. And I’m done pretending that’s holy.
Mississippi has always been a place where racism isn’t just a belief. It’s infrastructure. It’s policy. It’s tradition. It’s the foundation poured into the dirt generations ago. And too many folks still treat it like sacred ground.
And now, again, violence has come knocking at the doors of Black families. Again, the state government refuses to investigate. Again, accountability disappears when the killer is white. Again, we are told to “wait for the facts.” While the facts are buried under good ol’ boy politics and backroom handshakes.
A one-year-old Black baby was shot and killed by a white officer over diapers. Let me say that again. A baby died because a grown man with a badge felt threatened by diapers.
A Black teenage boy was found dead under mysterious circumstances. And instead of answers, we get a cover-up thicker than Delta mud. Evidence missing. Stories changing. Officials shrugging like a child’s life is just a paperwork inconvenience.
And now, a Black woman found hanging from a tree in 2026. And the state wants us to believe it’s anything other than what it looks like. Mississippi has a long, violent history with Black bodies and trees. We know what this is. We’ve seen it before. Our ancestors saw it before. And the silence from leadership is louder than any confession.
This isn’t coincidence. This isn’t isolated. This is a pattern, a legacy, and a sickness that Mississippi refuses to treat because too many people benefit from the infection. And let me tell you something. I’m old enough now to stand up and say it plainly. I’m old enough to fight for marginalized groups which include Black folks, brown folks, Indigenous folks, immigrants, and anyone who doesn’t fit the whitewashed mold Mississippi keeps trying to force us into. I’m old enough to say that I’m proud that I didn’t buy into the racist ideology that some of my own family members still cling to like it’s heirloom china.
I broke the cycle. I chose humanity over heritage. I chose truth over tradition. I chose justice over comfort. And if that makes me the black sheep at the family reunion, hand me the potato salad because I’ll graze in the pasture with pride. I’m proud to say I’m not like them. Not molded by their fear. Not shaped by their hate. Not carved into the same brittle statue of “tradition” they keep worshiping like it’s holy. I’m proud to say I crawled out of the same Mississippi clay. And still managed to grow in a different direction. And it was one that didn’t twist my roots around racism and call it heritage.
If rejecting their ideology means I lose my seat at the family table, then pull the chair out from under me. If refusing to swallow their silence means I’m no longer welcome in their church pews, then let the hymns echo without me. If choosing humanity over hypocrisy means I have to walk away from religion entirely, then I’ll walk away barefoot. Head high and unbothered.
Because I refuse to be loyal to a system that kills Black children and calls it “procedure.” I refuse to be loyal to a state that covers up Black death and calls it “ongoing investigation.” I refuse to be loyal to a community that sees a Black woman hanging from a tree and calls it “unfortunate.” I refuse to be loyal to people who hide behind scripture while ignoring suffering. I refuse to be loyal to any ideology that demands my silence while it destroys lives.
Mississippi may be built on racism. But I am not. Mississippi may cling to its racist past. But I do not. Mississippi may worship its own mythology. But I refuse to kneel. I am not like them. I will never be like them. And if breaking away from their beliefs is the cost of protecting my soul, integrity, and humanity, then that’s a price I’ll pay in full with no regrets.
Let them keep their “South will rise again” fantasies. I’m rising in a different direction. One they can’t touch. Can’t claim. And sure as hell can’t control. That’s my mic drop. And I won’t be picking it back up. Thanks for reading! What are your thoughts?
Affirmation: I honor my ancestors by refusing to repeat their pain. I stand in truth. I stand in courage. And I stand in love even when I stand alone.
“Healing is messy, hilarious, and inconvenient. And sometimes smells like essential oils.”
-This Puzzled Life
Light the charcoal. Sprinkle the sage. Because today we are diving into the chaotic swamp of Coping Skills I Learned on Social Media. And according to the internet, all my trauma can be cured with a mason jar, a deep breath, and a girl named Moonbeam who lives in a van and sells chakra stickers on Etsy. Now with a special guest appearance from my therapist. She has thoughts, feelings, and possibly a migraine because of me.
I used to think coping skills were things you learned in therapy from trained professionals with degrees and clipboards. But no. Social media said, “Move over, licensed clinicians. We’ve got influencers with ring lights.” Suddenly my For You Page became a spiritual Walgreens. One swipe: grounding techniques. Next swipe: breathwork tutorials. Next swipe: “Put lavender oil on your forehead and tell your inner child she’s a baddie.” And listen. I tried them all. Because I’m nothing if not committed to healing. And also easily influenced by people who speak in soft voices and have plants.
Social media told me to ground myself by naming five things I can see. So, there I was. Mid-anxiety spiral whispering, “A lamp. A cat. Another cat. A third cat A pile of laundry judging me. Did it help? Honestly yes. Because halfway through, Piper knocked over a cup. Coco screamed like a banshee. And Tinkerbell tried to eat the sage. Suddenly my anxiety had competition.
2. Breathwork (aka: Hyperventilating, but make it mindful)
Every influencer says the same thing, “Just breathe.” Ma’am I’ve been breathing. That’s the one thing I’ve consistently done since birth. But I tried the 4-6 method. Inhale for 4. Exhale for 6. Repeat until calm or until you pass out. And wake up spiritually refreshed.
At one point I inhaled so dramatically I sounded like a Victorian woman about to faint on a chaise lounge. Piper walked in and asked, “Are you okay or are you summoning something?” Honestly, both.
3. Lavender Oil Girl
There’s always one girl. She’s on every platform. She has perfect skin. A soft voice. And a house that looks like a Pinterest board.She says things like, “Lavender oil cured my generational trauma.”Ma’am my generational trauma is from the south. It has roots. It has acreage. It has a porch. Lavender oil is not strong enough.But I dabbed it on my wrists anyway because I’m weak and easily influenced. Did it cure my trauma? No. Did it make me smell like a Whole Foods aisle? Absolutely.
4. The Cold-Water Trick
“Put your face in ice water to reset your nervous system.” I tried it. I dunked my whole face in a bowl like a Labrador retrieving a tennis ball. Did it help? Yes. Because for 30 seconds, I forgot every problem I’ve ever had.
5. My Therapist’s Opinion (aka: The Professional Sigh Heard ‘Round the World)
Now let’s talk about my therapist. She’s a woman with the patience of Job. The stamina of a kindergarten teacher. And the facial expressions of someone silently asking God for strength. When I told her I’d been practicing coping skills I learned on social media, she blinked three times. Which is the clinical equivalent of buffering and said, “Okay, let’s unpack that.” Which is therapist code for, “Lord, give me the strength not to laugh. Cry. Or quit my job.”
I explained the grounding, the breathwork, the lavender oil, the ice-water face dunking, and the inner-child pep talks. She nodded slowly like someone watching a toddler proudly show them a macaroni necklace. Then she said, “I’m glad you’re trying things. But maybe let’s add some skills that don’t involve drowning yourself in a mixing bowl.” Honestly? Fair.
So, what have I learned from social media coping skills? That healing is a buffet. Take what works. Leave what doesn’t. Laugh at the rest. Grounding helps. Breathwork helps. Lavender oil smells nice. And that girl on TikTok who cured her generational trauma? Good for her. My ancestors said I need something stronger. Like therapy, boundaries, hydration, and maybe a nap that lasts from now until next Tuesday.
But the truth is. If it brings you peace, even for a moment, it counts. Healing doesn’t have to be perfect. It just has to be yours. Mic drop. Lavender-scented, but still a mic drop. Thanks for reading! I hope you had a good laugh. Have you noticed any other random social media coping skills?
Affirmation: I am grounding. Breathing. Healing. And laughing my way through the chaos one lavender-scented coping skill at a time.
“My inner child isn’t healed. She’s fermented. Armed. And ready to defend the peace I never had.”
-This Puzzled Life
Light the charcoal. Sprinkle the sage. Warn the neighbors. Tell the ancestors to buckle up and grab the holy water. My inner teenage child is not healed. She is fermented. Rebellious. Allergic to unbalanced rules in a way that should probably be studied by scientists. Or at least documented for future generations.
She’s not pickled. Not preserved. Not gently marinated in therapeutic insight. Fermented. Like Appalachian moonshine brewed in a bathtub behind a Dollar General. She’s the kind of inner child who, if you say, “Don’t touch that,” will absolutely touch it while maintaining unbroken eye contact just to prove a point. She is the spiritual embodiment of a teenager who got grounded and said “Bet.” And then climbed out the window with eyeliner too dark and a plan too bold.
And from that bubbling vat of defiance, spite, and ancestral side‑eye rose her. My main protector. Equal parts guardian angel. Petty deity. Rabid raccoon. And one who keeps a sword in her purse “just in case the Lord sends a sign.” A back‑alley swordfighter with a vendetta. And a loyalty so fierce it could bend metal.
Today we’re talking about the one who meets a perceived threat with a blade in one hand and a laugh full of venom. Sometimes she has the personality of a pit viper. Sometimes she has the comedy that makes you dribble pee. And always, she has the full support of three generations of ancestors already rolling up their sleeves.
My inner child didn’t heal into a soft, glowing cherub. She fermented with headphones too loud. And a moral compass that points directly toward, “I said what I said.” She is allergic to hypocrisy. She breaks unbalanced rules on sight. She will defy you simply because you thought you had authority. And she’ll do it with a smirk.
That fermented teen spirit is the raw material my protector was forged from. The one who shows up like, “If you try to control us, I will absolutely climb out the window and join a biker gang.” She is loyal. She is vicious in the name of safety. She is the first to meet a threat with a sword in her hand. And a laugh that sounds like a demon gargling sweet tea. And she is me.
She bubbled. She brewed. She aged like ancestral sauerkraut left too close to the summer sun. And from that fermentation rose her again. She who steps forward like, “Oh, you thought you were gonna hurt us? I’ve been waiting for enrichment.” Loyal. Hilarious. Headstrong in a way that makes therapists sigh. And ancestors clutch stress balls. She is the spiritual equivalent of a possum with a PhD in boundary enforcement.
She is absolutely the one you want on your side. Because if you’re on the other side, she will meet you at dawn with a laugh that sounds like a snake hissing through a megaphone. She is just the version of me who survived childhood by turning into a mythological creature with emotional brass knuckles.
Let me introduce her properly. She will replicate whatever energy you lead with. You want respect? Lead with respect and accountability. You want chaos? You’re cooked. That’s her specialty. And she won’t hesitate to use it in whatever situation presents itself. She’s the part who wakes up before the sun. Stretches her shoulders and says, “If anybody tries us today, I’m ready to ruin their lineage.” She could be violent. But that’s not her first choice. She’s efficient. She can escalate. But she also finishes. And she declares war with a smile.
Examples of Her Energy
Example One — Someone raises their voice at me. She appears like a Pokémon evolution and says, “We can use our words. Or we can use our ancestors. Choose wisely.”
Example Two — Someone tries emotional manipulation. She pulls out a sword she absolutely did not have a moment ago and whispers, “I’ve been waiting for this side quest.”
Example Three — Someone disrespects my boundaries. She summons the ghost of Big Mama. Who materializes holding a wooden spoon and a tax bill from 1974.
Her Loyalty Is Biblical to those where the connection is solid and not wavering. She defends me and the underdogs of society with the intensity of a Southern grandmother guarding her potato salad recipe. She stands in front of me like, “If you want her, you gotta go through me, the ancestors, and three generations of unresolved trauma.” And honestly? That’s love. That means sometimes I’m just trying to buy cat litter at Walmart and she’s like, “Why is that man looking at us? Should I brandish the sword?” And I respond with, “No. He’s comparing prices. Put the sword back.”
My ancestors watch all this from the spiritual balcony like they’re at a family reunion talent show. Some cheer. Some pray. Some sip sweet tea and say, “Well at least she’s not boring.” And one ancestor, my sassy nannie, always yells, “Let her cook!” That’s the one my protector listens to.
Healing is beautiful. Growth is powerful. But sometimes the inner child doesn’t heal into a soft, glowing fairy of emotional regulation. Sometimes she ferments into a battle‑ready guardian with a weapon in one hand and generational trauma in the other. Sometimes she becomes the protector who says, “We are not repeating cycles. We are breaking them with flair.” Sometimes she becomes the part who will square up with a shadow, a memory, a stranger, or a poorly worded email. And sometimes she becomes the reason my therapist has to pause. Take off her glasses and says, “I’m gonna need a minute.”
So, here’s to her. To the protector. To the fermented inner child. To the sword‑wielding. Ancestor‑backed. Chaos‑certified guardian who keeps me alive. Safe. And laughing.
And if anyone ever tries to hurt me again? She will rise from the depths like a spiritual tax audit and saying, “You picked the wrong system today.” Thanks for reading! And Praise Be To Teenage Protectors!
Affirmation: I honor the parts of me that survived. I honor the protector who rose from the chaos. I am safe. I am whole. And my fermented inner child is a force of nature.
“Some prayers lift the spirit. Others just lift the eyebrows.”
-This Puzzled Life
Light the charcoal. Sprinkle the sage. Hide your children, your casseroles, and your common sense. Because what I witnessed at that unfortunate local Mississippi event wasn’t a prayer. It was a theological Nascar crash. And every angel in heaven refused to file the insurance claim.
Picture it. A field full of red hats bobbing like a colony of patriotic mushrooms. The air thick with humidity, Axe body spray, and generational resentment. A folding table sagging under the weight of mayonnaise‑based salads. And a speaker system held together with duct tape and denial.
Then he stepped forward. The Chosen One of the Red‑Hat Prayer Circle. A man built like a refrigerator with opinions. A man whose shirt had more eagles than the actual sky. A man who looked like he’d been baptized in Monster Energy. He grabbed the microphone like he was about to drop a mixtape called “Gospel of the Grievance.”
He clears his throat like he’s about to summon the Holy Ghost, the founding fathers, and the HOA board all at once. And then. Lord help us. He opened his mouth.
What came out was not a prayer. It was not a blessing. It was not even a coherent sentence structure. It was a spiritual Yelp review written by a man who thinks the Holy Trinity is God, Country, and Bathroom Legislation. Then he begins The Prayer. The one that made the angels file HR complaints.
“Heavenly Father. We come before you today under this blessed Mississippi sun. Which you made hotter every year to punish the radical left for their wickedness.
Lord, we know that every single problem in this world can be traced back to them. The hurricanes? The liberals. The price of eggs? The liberals. My gout flaring up last Tuesday? Father God, that was the liberals too.
And Lord, we thank you that our sins don’t count. Because we carry the “Jesus Warranty.” We swipe it like a rewards card. We sin. We repent. We sin again. And you just keep stamping that little heavenly punch card. But the liberals, Lord? Unforgivable. They are the real ones on the predatory registry. Not all the republicans. But that’s none of my business, Father.
Lord, we thank You that here in Mississippi, we stay focused on the things that matter most like genitals, bathrooms, and our loyal governor who kneels so faithfully before the Orange Messiah. He bends the knee so hard, Lord, he’s got calluses shaped like patriotism.
Father, we lift up the windmills to you. Those demonic pinwheels of destruction. They’re out there slaughtering birds. Driving whales insane. And screaming so loud they give people cancer. Lord, we know the whales are acting up because they can’t handle the noise. They’re liberals at heart, Father. Sensitive. Emotional. Always protesting something.
And Lord, we rebuke the immigrants who are coming here to eat our dogs and cats. We know this because someone’s cousin’s neighbor’s Facebook post said so. And that’s good enough for us.
Father, protect us from the left trying to make everyone gay and transgender. They’re out here handing out pronouns like coupons. Even though they say that pronouns are in the English language. And that’s also a hoax. Next thing you know, my truck’s gonna identify as a Prius.
Lord, we thank you for the brave idea of firing nuclear weapons into hurricanes. We know it would’ve worked if the deep state hadn’t interfered. We thank you for the tariffs on penguins, Father. The money is pouring in. We don’t know where from. But it’s pouring in.
We thank you for answering our prayer about gasoline. It’s the lowest it’s ever been. Even though the sign says otherwise. But we don’t read numbers. Lord numbers are liberal. We thank you for the funds for the Pedophile Patio at the White House. We don’t know what it is. But the liberals said it’s bad. So, it must really be good. And that’s enough for us.
Lord, we ask You to bless our crosses. Which absolve us of all wrongdoing. We wear them proudly, Father, even when we’re screaming at cashiers or crashing Grindr. Not that we’ve ever crashed Grindr. That was the liberals.
And Father, we rebuke the rumors about ladybugs we may or may not have contracted from Lindsey “Lady” Graham. We don’t have them. We’ve never had them. We don’t think. That’s the liberals’ fault too. Lord, we pray for this nation. We pray for our bathrooms. We pray for our genitals. We pray for our Orange Messiah. And we pray that you continue to forgive us instantly while holding everyone else accountable forever. In your holy, conservative, red‑hat‑approved name we pray. Amen.”
As the final “Amen” echoed across the field. Bounced off the port‑a‑potties. Ricocheting through the humidity. And startling at least three confused squirrels. I realized something profound. This wasn’t a prayer. This was a confession disguised as patriotism. A spiritual tantrum. A theological meltdown. A holy‑ghost‑free revival sponsored by conspiracy theories and lukewarm potato salad.
The red‑hat faithful walked away feeling forgiven. Justified. And spiritually moisturized. Not because they’d repented. But because they’d shouted loudly enough to drown out their own guilt. Meanwhile, the rest of us stood there blinking like we’d just witnessed a raccoon steal a wedding cake.
If delusion had a megachurch, this prayer would’ve been the keynote speaker. If hypocrisy had a hymn book, this prayer would’ve been track one. If nonsense had a national anthem, this prayer would’ve been sung at every football game.
And here’s my final word. May we all be delivered from prayers that sound like Facebook comments. May our humor stay sharp. Our queerness stay loud. And our spirits stay unbothered. And may the next local event have better food, better theology, and fewer polyester hats. Thanks for reading! And thank you for your attention to this matter. Praise Be To Allah!
Affirmation: I stand rooted in truth, humor, and queer resilience. No amount of red‑hat chaos can shake my spirit or dim my brilliance.
“If the 80s didn’t kill me. Your opinion definitely won’t.”
-This Puzzled life
Light the charcoal. If we’re gonna talk about the 80s, we need smoke, drama, and at least one angelic visitation from a Southern Baptist church lady clutching a casserole. And whisper‑praying for our souls.
I had barely struck the match when Piper strutted in like she was auditioning for RuPaul’s Drag Race: Feline Edition. Coco followed. She was rolling her eyes so hard she saw her own brain. Tinkerbell arrived last. She was carrying the emotional weight of someone who lived through dial‑up internet. And refuses to talk about it.
Piper: “Mama, tell us again how y’all used to chase the mosquito‑spraying truck like it was the ice cream man.”
Me: “Baby, that was our version of aromatherapy.”
Coco: “So you willingly ran toward poison?”
Me: “Yes, and we called it summer.”
Tinkerbell: “Lord have mercy. Y’all were one bad decision away from a Lifetime movie called ‘Bless Her Heart: The Dana Story.’”
Piper: “Was this before or after you realized you were gay?”
Me: “Before. But the signs were there. I had a favorite Golden Girl.”
Coco: “Which one?”
Me: “Dorothy.”
Tinkerbell: “Yeah, that tracks.”
The charcoal popped. The cats stared. And I knew it was time to confess the truth. 80s childhood wasn’t a vibe. It was a survival sport.
Look, kids today have helmets, GPS trackers, and parents who Google things like “Is this safe?” We had none of that. We had vibes and the Lord’s protection. Which was honestly stretched thin. He was also busy dealing with televangelists, Reaganomics, and every Southern mama praying for her gay child without knowing why.
UNSUPERVISED BIKE RIDES
We rode bikes miles away from home with no water, no sunscreen, and no adult supervision. If you got lost, you didn’t call anyone. You just accepted your new life in the woods like a feral pioneer child.
THE MOSQUITO TRUCK
Modern kids run from danger. We ran toward it. That fog rolled down the street like a Stephen King villain and we said, “Oh goodie, free mist!”
THE SNACKS
We ate plastic‑wrapped cheese. Kool‑Aid with enough sugar to stop a grown man’s heart. Bologna that had a rainbow sheen. And popsicles that tasted like lead paint and joy.
THE PARENTING STYLE
Southern parents in the 80s didn’t “supervise.” They announced. “Be home by dark.” That was it. No follow‑up questions. No safety plan. Just vibes and Jesus.
THE GAY PART
Growing up gay in the conservative South was like being a unicorn in a deer stand. You knew you were magical. But you also knew you needed to stay quiet, or someone’s mee-maw would try to pray the glitter out of you.
Meanwhile, my cats listened to all this like they were taking notes for a documentary.
Piper: “So basically, y’all were raised by chaos and pesticides.”
Coco: “And shame. Don’t forget the shame.”
Tinkerbell: “Honestly, it explains everything.”
So yes. Every 80s kid was one bad decision away from a Lifetime movie plot. We survived poison fog. Unsupervised adventures. Snacks that violated FDA guidelines. And Southern Christianity’s “We love you but also don’t ask questions” energy.
Let me tell you something right now. Standing here in my Mississippi kitchen with three judgmental cats and the ghost of every Southern church lady who ever side‑eyed my existence hovering over my left shoulder like a passive‑aggressive guardian angel.
We, the 80s kids, should not be alive. Not metaphorically. Not spiritually. I mean biologically, medically, scientifically, and according to every modern parenting blog written by someone named Brittany who packs organic snacks in BPA‑free containers.
We were raised in an era where seatbelts were “optional suggestions.” Bike helmets were “for the weak.” And the mosquito truck was “community enrichment.” We were one bad decision away from starring in a Lifetime movie titled “Bless Her Heart: The Dana Chronicles” or “Raised By Pesticides” or “Southern Gay Survival Story.” Take your pick.
And while we were out there inhaling poison fog like it was Chanel No. 5, our Southern Christian parents were inside praying hedge‑of‑protection prayers so thick they could’ve been used as insulation. Not that they knew what we were doing. They thought we were “playing outside.” Ma’am, we were reenacting Lord of the Flies with bicycles and no adult supervision.
Meanwhile, I was also quietly navigating the spiritual obstacle course of being a gay kid in the conservative South. Which meant I was simultaneously dodging mosquito fog, emotional repression, and Sister Linda’s unsolicited prophecy that “the Lord has a special plan for you.” And he did. It involved glitter and sarcasm.
And now? Now we’re grown. We pay bills. We raise kids. We have opinions about grout. We have survived everything from Reagan to dial‑up to purity culture. To the fact that our childhood snacks were made of 40% petroleum byproduct.
My cats watched me deliver this sermon like I was testifying in the Church of Chaotic Upbringing.
Piper: “Mama, you’re not just a miracle. You’re a franchise.”
Coco: “Honestly, you should’ve come with a warning label.”
Tinkerbell: “Or a Lifetime contract.”
And here’s the mic‑drop truth. The gospel according to every 80s kid who lived through the fog, the freedom, the foolishness, and the fundamentalist fearmongering. We just didn’t survive the 80s. We outlived the 80s. We walked through the valley of mosquito spray and came out moisturized. We endured the shame, the chaos, the bologna with the rainbow sheen, and the Southern Christian guilt that could crush a lesser mortal. We are the chosen ones. The anointed. The pesticide‑kissed prophets of resilience.
So, if anyone tries to tell you you’re “too much,” just smile sweetly. Bless their heart and remember, “You survived an entire decade that tried to kill you with fog machines, sugar, and Jesus.” They can’t handle you. They’re not qualified to handle you. You are a walking Lifetime movie with better hair and boundaries. Charcoal still burning. Cats applauding silently in judgmental solidarity. Thanks for reading! How do you remember the 80s?
Affirmation: I am resilient. I am fabulous. And I survived the 80s. Nothing can stop me except maybe gluten.
“Our childhood wasn’t supervised. It was witnessed.”
-This Puzzled Life
Light the charcoal. Bless the yard. We’re summoning the spirits of a generation raised on asbestos, sugar, and unmonitored chaos. A generation that survived childhoods so reckless they now qualify as folklore. Welcome to Growing Up in the 80s: A Survival Guide for the Barely Supervised. It’s where the toys were weapons. The adults were tired. And the safety standards were “Godspeed, child.” Get comfortable while we take a stroll through the hilarity of growing up Gen X in the 1980s.
Playgrounds: Where Childhood Went To Die.
The playground wasn’t a place to have fun. It was a government‑approved death trap. The metal slide? Forged in the fires of Mount Doom. By noon it was hot enough to brand cattle. You’d climb up. Sit down. And immediately lose three layers of thigh skin. And the equipment? Not equipment. Artifacts. One day a giant industrial truck tire would just appear. No explanation. No installation. Just a 400‑pound rubber monolith that rolled off an 18‑wheeler and onto the playground like, “Here. Climb inside this tomb and see what happens.”
I cannot end this part without mentioning the merry‑go‑round. It was a device clearly invented by someone who wanted to test the limits of the human skull. This wasn’t the cute, slow, musical carousel at the mall. No. This was a rusted metal centrifuge powered entirely by children with no impulse control. You’d hop on. Hold the bar with sweaty little hands and pray. The moment the older kids grabbed the rails and started running, you were no longer a participant. You were payload.
They’d spin that thing so fast your soul would leave your body and hover above the playground like, “Welp. This is how we meet Jesus.” If you lost your grip? You were slung off in a blaze of glory. Bouncing across the gravel like a loose hubcap on I‑10, while collecting rocks, dirt, and possibly a mild concussion.
And the adults? They didn’t intervene. They didn’t slow it down. They didn’t even look concerned. They’d just shrug and say, “That’s why you hold on tighter next time.” Meanwhile, the teachers assigned to playground duty were spiritually absent. You could be actively being decapitated. And they’d shout from across the field,“ If you’re bleeding, go to the office!”
Lawn Darts
Lawn darts were literal spears marketed as toys. You’d throw them into the sky and pray they didn’t come down in your skull. Parents watched from lawn chairs. And were drinking Tab and saying, “Be careful!” As if that would stop a 2‑pound metal projectile from piercing your femur.
Halloween: The Budget Was $3 and a Prayer
Our costumes were plastic trash bags with a picture of the character printed on the front. And a mask that smelled like melted crayons and carbon monoxide. The eye holes were never aligned with actual human eyes. So, we trick‑or‑treated like drunk raccoons bumping into mailboxes.
And the horror movies? Low‑budget masterpieces. Special effects made from ketchup packets and someone’s uncle’s old Halloween wig. But we watched them anyway. Because we were latchkey kids with no adult supervision. And a VCR that ate tapes like a hungry goat.
The Rotary Phone: A Weapon, A Workout, A Trap
Kids today will never know the terror of dialing a friend whose number had multiple 9s in it. You’d start dialing at 3 PM and finish sometime around dusk. And that phone cord? It could stretch from the kitchen. Through the living room. Out the front door. Down the driveway. And halfway to the neighbor’s house. Then it would wrap around your body like a boa constrictor with a grudge. And would drag you to the floor while your mom yelled, “Don’t you dare hang up! I’m talking to Aunt Sarah.”
Cigarette Smoke Everywhere
The 80s smelled like nicotine, Aqua Net, and generational denial. Restaurants had “smoking” and “non‑smoking” sections separated by a single fern. Airplanes had smoking sections. Hospitals had smoking sections. Your pediatrician? He’d walk in with a cigarette and say, “Your lungs sound tight.” Sir, I wonder why.
Tv Antennas
If you wanted to watch cartoons, someone had to climb onto the roof. Usually a child. Your dad would yell, “Turn it a smidge!” All while you clung to the chimney like a tiny lineman in a lightning storm. You would say, “Is it better now?” And they would reply, “No, you made it worse!” You were one gust of wind away from meeting Jesus.
Cereal With Enough Sugar To Stop A Hummingbird’s Heart
Our cereal wasn’t “part of a balanced breakfast.” It was diabetes in a box. The milk at the bottom turned into neon syrup that could power a small generator. And the commercials promised superpowers, speed, and happiness. They were all lies, but delicious ones.
Riding In The Back Of Pickup Trucks
Seatbelts? Not in the back of a truck. We’d bounce around like human popcorn. While our friend’s dad took corners at 40 mph. We waved at strangers like we were the Grand Marshals of the Unsupervised Children’s Parade.
Public Pools
Swimming in an 80s public pool was already a gamble. Public pools were cloudy cauldrons of mystery. You couldn’t see your own legs. The bottom was a rumor. And the smell of chlorine could peel paint off a Buick. You’d inevitably bump into something and pray it wasn’t a Band‑Aid or a rogue diaper.
But every now and then, the universe would spice things up with a code‑brown catastrophe. You’d be dog‑paddling through that murky soup. When suddenly the lifeguard, a sunburned 16‑year‑old, who hadn’t cared about anything all day. And would rather die than get in the water. Would suddenly come alive. They’d blow their whistle like they were signaling the end times, waving their arms, and screaming, “Everybody Out! Everybody Out Now!”
And then you’d see it. Floating. Majestic. Unbothered. A lone turd drifting across the surface like it was the captain of its own ship. And charting a course straight through the deep end. Kids would scatter. And they were climbing out of the pool like panicked wet cats. Slipping. Screaming. And traumatized. Moms would grab their children like they were rescuing them from a burning building. And the lifeguard? They’d stand there. Whistle still in their mouth. And staring at the water like, “I don’t get paid enough for this.” We didn’t have sharks in pools. We had floaters.
Mosquito Trucks & Ice Cream Trucks
Southern summer evenings in the 80s had two sacred sounds. The jingle of the ice cream truck. And the low, ominous rumble of the mosquito truck rolling through the neighborhood like a mobile cancer dispenser. The mosquito truck would creep down the street. While spraying a thick, white fog of chemicals so potent it could kill a roach at 50 yards. And what did we do? We ran toward it.
We’d get two steps from the bumper. Arms outstretched. And inhaling that cloud like it was the breath of life itself. Kids today have essential oils and organic bug spray. We had government‑issued carcinogens and the lung capacity of Olympians. We’d dance in that fog like feral woodland spirits. Coughing, laughing, and probably shaving five years off our lifespan. While our parents stood on the porch waving like, “Y’all stay where we can see you!”
And then. The moment the fog cleared. The ice cream truck would appear like a reward for surviving the chemical baptism. We’d sprint toward it. Pockets full of sweaty quarters. Ready to buy a popsicle shaped like a cartoon character whose eyes were always crooked. And whose flavor was “red.” Poison cloud, then ice cream. A perfect system.
Stranger Danger Training
Our entire safety curriculum was, “Don’t get in a van.” That was it. Then they’d send us outside for 10 hours with no supervision, no sunscreen, and no water bottle. We roamed the neighborhood like feral raccoons with bikes. And helping ourselves to anyone’s yard that had a visible garden hose.
No YouTube, No Cell Phones, No Dollar Tree
My 10‑year‑old hears this and acts like I grew up in the prehistoric era. Back in my day, if you wanted to learn something, you had to ask a grown‑up (who might lie). Ask a friend (who would definitely lie). Or check the encyclopedia (which was older than your grandma). And Dollar Tree? Didn’t exist. If you wanted cheap toys. You had to wait for a gas station to put something on clearance. Usually because it had faded into a new color.
The Satanic Panic: Southern Edition
The South in the 80s was convinced the devil lived in rock music, Dungeons & Dragons, black clothing, and Halloween, Oh, and anyone who didn’t go to church three times a week. You couldn’t even be friends with a Methodist without someone whispering, “Don’t you go sellin’ your soul now.”
Big Hair Bands
Men wore eyeliner, leather pants, and hair so teased it could block a doorway. Nobody questioned it. We said, “This is masculinity. This is art. This is culture.” And then there was R&B. Those songs were so sensual you needed birth control just to listen to them. You’d be nine years old hearing lyrics that made you blush and wonder if you needed to talk to a priest.
Nature As Weaponry
We didn’t have Nerf guns. We had sticks. Sticks that became Spears, Rifles, Swords, Magic wands, and occasionally, a snake. We played cowboys and Indians, cops and robbers, and dramatic death scenes worthy of an Oscar.
Childhood Mental Health Was A Mythical Concept
If you were stressed, anxious, or overwhelmed, adults said, “Go outside.” “Stop crying.” “You’re fine.” “Kids don’t get stressed.” Meanwhile, we were out here processing trauma with a Capri Sun and a bike with no brakes.
Prank Calls
Before caller ID, we were chaos. We’d flip through the phone book. Which was an actual book. And call someone named Margarita to ask if her husband was Jack Daniels and her dog was Tequila. Or we’d call strangers at 1 AM and ask, “Do you know how to cook a blueberry pie?” And we did all this sober. Because we had to create our own fun without electronics.
Cameras
Taking pictures was a gamble. You’d take 24 photos. Wait three weeks. Pay $12.99. And discover blurry faces and closed eyes. Sometimes thumbs over the lens. A strange photobombing. Or the entire roll blank because someone forgot to load the film. There was no delete button. Just shame.
And now here we are. Veterans of the 80s. We have scars both physical and emotional. And needing therapy where we now have to process our entire lives. All while trying to survive our own children. Who now need hydration schedules, emotional check‑ins, and sunscreen applied with the precision of a NASA engineer. We watch helicopter moms circling the playground. Adjusting knee pads. Putting toddlers on leashes. And we just smile. Because we know the truth. We survived the 80s. We can survive anything. Even this. Thanks for reading! And I hope this was the brightest spot of your day. Please leave a comment about other hilarious things from the 80’s that we Gen X might remember.
Affirmation: I honor the feral resilience that raised me. I survived metal slides, mosquito fog, and lawn‑dart warfare. So, today’s challenges don’t scare me. I am built from grit, humor, and pure Gen X immortality.
“If the 80s taught me anything, it’s that danger builds character. And apparently more trust than modern governance.”
-This Puzzled Life
Light the charcoal. We’re about to smoke out some truth hotter than a Mississippi July with no AC and a broken ceiling fan. I’m talking about the 1980s. The era where children were basically raised by asbestos, sugar, and unregulated chaos. And somehow all ten of these hazards still feel more reliable than anything coming out of the current administration. According to what many people online joke about when comparing political frustrations to nostalgic dangers. So, buckle up. Preferably with a seatbelt that doesn’t lock. Fray. Or snap like the ones we had in ’84.
10 Dangerous Things From the 80s I Trust More Than the Current Administration
1. Metal Playgrounds That Reached the Temperature of Satan’s Forehead
Those slides would sear the skin clean off your thighs. But at least they were consistent. Predictable. Honest. They said, “Climb me and you will suffer.” And they delivered every time.
2. Lawn Darts
The 80s handed children spears and said, “Go outside.” And you know what? Those spears had more accountability than anything happening in Washington.
3. Station Wagons With No Seatbelts in the Back
We rolled around like loose produce in a grocery sack. But somehow we survived. Meanwhile, some people online say they feel like modern political decision-making is the real crash hazard.
4. The Original Easy-Bake Oven
Powered by a literal light bulb hot enough to melt a Barbie leg. And yet? Still felt safer than certain policy rollouts.
5. Tang
A powdered beverage that tasted like citrus-flavored drywall. But it never pretended to be anything else. A level of transparency many folks online wish they saw more often.
6. Those Giant Wooden Cable Spools We Used as Furniture
Splinters? Absolutely. Structural integrity? Questionable. But they held up better than some public promises.
7. Slip ’N Slides on Concrete
We didn’t have lush lawns. We had optimism and a hose. And even that felt like a more thought-out plan than some national strategies people complain about.
8. The McDonald’s Play Place Ball Pit
A microbial swamp of mystery fluids and lost socks. But at least the danger was visible. Tangible. Honest.
9. 80s Hair-Spray Clouds
We walked through enough aerosol to punch a hole in the ozone layer. But at least Aquanet never flip-flopped on its mission. It would hold that hair like your life depends on it.
10. The Sears Catalog Weight Set
Rusty. Questionable. Missing instructions. But it still felt more stable than the vibes coming out of D.C., according to many frustrated folks.
And that’s it. Ten relics of 80s chaos that could’ve taken us out at any moment. Metal slides that branded our thighs. Lawn darts that doubled as medieval weaponry. And Slip ’N Slides that were basically chiropractic roulette. And somehow, all that reckless nostalgia still feels sturdier than the national decision-making process folks online love to fuss about. If that ain’t Southern truth wrapped in neon spandex, I don’t know what is.
Let me tell you something. If surviving the 80s taught us anything, it’s that we were forged in a lawless era where children drank from garden hoses. Rode in the back of pickup trucks doing 70 on a gravel road. And ate popsicles that tasted like freezer burn and lead paint. We were raised by chaos, negligence, and whatever was on sale at K‑Mart. And somehow we still came out sturdier than the governmental circus folks keep hollering about these days.
Here’s the truth wrapped in a biscuit. The 80s didn’t pretend to protect us. They didn’t pat us on the head and say, “We’ve got this under control.” They didn’t hand us a flaming lawn dart and call it “innovative policy.” No, ma’am. The 80s looked us dead in the eye and said, “Listen, this might kill you. Good luck.” And honestly? That level of transparency feels downright refreshing compared to the current vibes.
So yes. Give me the metal slides, asbestos ceiling tiles, the unregulated fireworks, the neon‑soaked danger, the questionable snacks, the ozone‑destroying hair spray, and the Slip ’N Slide that doubled as a chiropractic emergency. At least those threats were honest. At least those hazards didn’t smile in my face while tripping me from behind.
And if that stings, light the charcoal. Because truth always cooks hotter than the grill. Now excuse me while I go pour myself a glass of sweet tea strong enough to dissolve a spoon. And pray for the strength of an 80s kid who survived Tang, lawn darts, and Reaganomics. Because apparently we’re gonna need it.Now pass me the charcoal. I’ve got more truth to smoke out.Mic dropped so hard it cracked the linoleum. Thanks for reading! What is your opinion?
Affirmation: I move through this world with the confidence of an 80s kid who survived. My resilience is vintage. My sass is eternal. And my trust is reserved for things that actually earn it.
“I didn’t grow up in the dark ages. I grew up in the spark‑a‑fire‑with‑two‑sticks era of resilience.”
-This Puzzled Life
Light the charcoal. Hide the breakables. Put Piper on airplane mode. Today my cats staged a full‑scale intervention. Not a gentle, “Mama, we have questions.” No. This was a feline congressional hearing.
Piper dragged a legal pad across the floor like she was subpoenaing me. Coco sat in a chair backwards like a middle‑school guidance counselor trying to relate. Tinkerbell lit a metaphorical cigarette and whispered, “Let’s begin.” And then, in perfect unison, they asked, “Mama, what was it like growing up in the 80s?”
It started like any normal morning. Piper was knocking things off shelves for cardio. Coco was judging me for existing. And Tinkerbell was staring into the middle distance like she was remembering a past life where she had fewer dependents and more emotional bandwidth.
Then Piper jumped onto the coffee table with the energy of a prosecutor who had receipts. Coco dragged a dining chair across the floor. Sat in it backwards like a youth pastor trying to be relatable and announced, “Mama we need to talk about your childhood.” Tinkerbell sighed. Crossed her paws and whispered, “Prepare yourselves. She grew up before Wi-Fi.”
The room went silent. The air thickened. Somewhere a single dial‑up modem screamed in the void. While an 8‑track tape shed a single tear. How do you explain to three modern, snack‑entitled, YouTube‑addicted cats that their mother was raised in a decade where Phones had cords long enough to lasso livestock. Music lived on ribbons that needed pencils for CPR. ADHD was treated with the “Board of Education” (a wooden paddle with tenure) Bag phones were luxury items for rich people, car dealers, and the occasional drug lord. Supervision was optional. Helmets were a myth. And childhood was basically a survival sport. And coming out as gay in the conservative South was about as safe as juggling lit fireworks in a dry barn.
So, I took a deep breath. Adjusted my imaginary shoulder pads. The emotional ones and the fashion ones and said, “Children buckle up. Mama’s about to take you on a journey through the Dark Ages.”
1. ROTARY PHONES — THE ORIGINAL TORTURE DEVICE
Piper: “So you’re telling me you had to spin the numbers? Like a wheel? Like a game show?”
Me: “Yes. And if you messed up one number, you had to start over.”
Piper: “Start over? Mama, that’s not a phone. That’s a punishment.”
Coco: “And you couldn’t text? No emojis? No memes? No sending me pictures of myself?”
Me: “Nope. You just talked.”
Coco: “Out loud? With your mouth? Barbaric.”
Tinkerbell: “Children, let her speak. She survived.”
2. CAMCORDERS — THE SHOULDER MOUNTED BEASTS
Piper: “So your parents carried around a camera the size of a microwave?”
Me: “Yes. Every dad looked like he was filming a documentary about corn.”
Coco: “And you couldn’t edit? No filters? No TikTok?”
Me: “No. You got what you got.”
Coco: “So childhood memories were raw footage?”
Me: “Exactly.”
Coco: “Unacceptable. I’m filing an HR complaint.”
3. 8‑TRACKS, CASSETTES & JAM BOXES
Piper: “So music lived on ribbons?”
Me: “Yes.”
Piper: “And you had to rewind it? Manually?”
Me: “With a pencil.”
Piper: “A pencil? Mama, were y’all okay?”
Tinkerbell: “Back in my day, we carried burdens too. I honor your struggle.”
4. SNACKS — THE WILD WEST OF SUGAR
Coco: “What were snacks like?”
Me: “Fruit Roll-Ups that tasted like edible stickers. Kool-Aid that was 98% sugar. Chips in bags so loud they could summon the dead.”
Coco: “So chaos.”
Me: “Yes.”
Piper: “I would’ve thrived.”
5. TOYS — AKA STICKS
Piper: “You played with yard debris?”
Me: “Yes. Sticks were swords, guns, wands, fishing poles, and occasionally, lawsuits.”
Piper: “Was childhood a punishment?”
Me: “No. It was imagination.”
Piper: “Sounds like poverty.”
6. OUTSIDE — THE ORIGINAL OPEN-WORLD GAME
Coco: “So you were a latchkey kid?”
Me: “I wasn’t. But many of my friends were. It was the culture.”
Coco: “No adult supervision? No check-ins? No GPS? No Life360?”
Me: “Nope. We just existed.”
Coco: “That’s not childhood. That’s a documentary on resilience.”
7. THE SATANIC PANIC — WHEN EVERYTHING WAS THE DEVIL
Piper: “So adults thought everything was witchcraft?”
Tinkerbell: “Mama, what was it like being gay back then?”
Me: “Growing up gay in the conservative South wasn’t just hard. It was dangerous. It was whispered about. Prayed over. Feared. Punished. Misunderstood.So, I didn’t come out until my 30s. Which was when I finally had safety, language, and the audacity to choose myself.”
Piper: “So you had to hide who you were?”
Me: “Yes.”
Coco: “Not anymore. If anyone tries that again, I’m biting them.”
Tinkerbell: “You bloomed late because the soil was hostile. That’s not your fault.”
And then Piper knocked over a cup because emotional vulnerability makes her itchy.
10.THE BAG PHONE — THE RICH PEOPLE FLEX
Piper: “What’s a bag phone?”
Me: “A cell phone the size of a small suitcase. It lived in a giant toiletries bag.”
Coco: “Who carried that?”
Me: “Rich people. Car dealers. Maybe a drug lord.”
Piper: “So it was a phone in a purse that only wealthy people could use?”
Me: “Yes.”
Piper: “Sounds like an Hermes collab.”
11.MENTAL HEALTH IN THE 80s — AKA ‘YOU’RE FINE, GO OUTSIDE’
Coco: “Mama, were you in therapy back then?”
Me: “No. Therapy wasn’t a thing for kids. Mental health was treated with prayer, denial, and chores.”
Piper: “What about ADHD?”
Me: “That was treated with the ‘Board of Education.’”
Piper: “What’s that?”
Me: “A wooden paddle.”
Piper: “Ma’am.”
Tinkerbell: “Corporal punishment has mostly been eliminated now.”
Me: “Back then it was Tuesday.”
12.THE PADDLE — AND YES, I GOT MANY
Coco: “Did you ever get paddled in school?”
Me: “Oh yes. Many times.”
Piper: “For what?”
Me: “Well one time me and my friends squeezed staples into tiny squares, put them on the end of pencils, and flicked them at each other.”
Coco: “Why?”
Me: “Entertainment.”
Piper: “And?”
Me: “And I misaimed and hit the football coach in the forehead with staple shrapnel.”
Piper: “Mama. That’s assault.”
Me: “It was the 80s. We called it ‘horseplay.’”
13.PENCIL BREAKING WARS — THE ORIGINAL HUNGER GAMES
Coco: “What are pencil wars?”
Me: “You’d hold your pencil and try to break someone else’s pencil with it. Champion #2 pencils only.”
Piper: “So gladiator combat but with office supplies?”
Me: “Yes.”
Piper: “I would’ve won.”
14.ERASER BURNS — THE PAIN OLYMPICS
Tinkerbell: “And what are eraser burns?”
Me: “Someone would hold your hand down and rub the eraser on your skin as hard as possible. Whoever lasted the longest won.”
Coco: “Won what?”
Me: “Respect.”
Piper: “That sounds like hazing.”
Me: “It was childhood.”
Tinkerbell: “Children were different back then.”
So yes. I grew up in the 80s. With rotary phones that spun like medieval torture wheels and doubled as cardio equipment. Phone cords long enough to strangle a small horse. Cassette tapes that needed pencils for CPR. Snacks that violated several FDA guidelines. And probably a few spiritual ones. And closets, both literal and metaphorical, that took decades to escape. I also survived pencil wars, eraser burns, chaotic childhood, the Satanic Panic, dial‑up internet, and the conservative South’s Olympic‑level repression. I didn’t come out until my 30s because the world I grew up in wasn’t safe for a gay kid. But I made it out. I made it loud. And I made it proud.
And now? I live with three cats who scream at walls. Demand snacks like they’re unionized. And interrogate me about my prehistoric upbringing like I’m a museum exhibit they did not approve the funding for. They cannot fathom a world without YouTube, Wi-Fi, or same‑day delivery. And yet here I stand, a relic of the Dark Ages. Forged in the fires of rotary phones and questionable parenting.
And somehow, this is the upgrade. Jam box blasting. Cordless phone nowhere in sight. Thanks for reading! Praise be to Gen X. What are your thoughts on the greatest decade?
Affirmation: I honor the child who survived. The adult who emerged. And the joy I refuse to apologize
“You cannot squeeze a blessing into a space it has outgrown. Ask Coco, the patron saint of Delusional Geometry.”
-This Puzzled Life
Light the charcoal. Sprinkle the sage. The household spirits are restless. The ancestors are pacing. The air is thick. And Coco has once again attempted to enter a space that was not assigned to her by God, geometry, or PetSmart. What she survived was so dramatic that Piper is drafting a press release. Tinkerbell is filling out the insurance paperwork. And the tunnel itself has filed a formal complaint with HR.
This is no longer just “Coco got stuck in her play tunnel.” This is a multi‑cat crisis. A Southern Gothic domestic emergency. And according to Tinkerbell, who already has her clipboard out, “grounds for scheduling EMDR immediately.”
Coco approached her play tunnel with the confidence of a woman who has never once acknowledged her own measurements. This is the story of a cat who believed in herself far more than physics believed in her. She strutted up to that tunnel like she was about to enter the Miss Mississippi pageant. Her tail high. Confidence higher. And stared at the entrance hole. A hole that used to welcome her with open arms. She whispered to herself, “I can still fit. I’m petite. I’m aerodynamic. I’m basically a whisper.”
The entrance was giving child’s size juice box straw.Coco was giving Thanksgiving plate after seconds. She is a child powered entirely by delusion and snacks. And she shoved her head in anyway. I turned around and saw Coco halfway in and halfway out. And looking like a busted can of biscuits trying to reenact her youth. The tunnel was screaming. I was screaming. The ancestors were whispering, “Now why would she do that?”
Piper watched from the bookshelf like a sports commentator calling a disaster in real time.
Piper: “She’s going in hot. She’s going in bold. She’s going in. Oh no.”
Coco wedged herself halfway through the front half inside. Back half outside. And soul hovering above the scene like, “Girl, why?” The tunnel made a noise that can only be described as fabric begging for mercy.
Tinkerbell, the household’s eldest stateswoman, adjusted her imaginary bifocals and delivered her verdict with the authority of a woman who has lived through several eras.
Tinkerbell: “This is what happens when you ignore portion control and physics.”
Coco tried to reverse. The tunnel tried to hold on. Piper tried to film it for the group chat.
Piper: “This is content. This is Pulitzer‑level journalism.”
Tinkerbell slapped the phone out of her paw without breaking eye contact with the disaster unfolding.
Tinkerbell: “Have some respect. This is trauma.”
Halfway in, the tunnel had already said, “No ma’am.” And Coco, powered by denial, snacks, and m audacity said, “Yes ma’am.” All while physics quietly clocked out and went home. She wasn’t just stuck. Not “a little stuck.” Not “wiggle and you’re free” stuck. She was wedged, sealed, installed like a permanent appliance. Front half inside. Back half outside. Dignity nowhere in the building. The tunnel was silently screaming like a Baptist usher fanning someone who caught the Holy Ghost.
Coco looked back at me with the expression of a woman who has made a series of choices and regrets all of them. Then she began scooting backward like a Roomba having an existential crisis. And dragging the entire collapsed tunnel behind her like a furry inchworm pulling a tent through a divorce. And then, POP. Coco shot out like a cork from a champagne bottle. She stood there, stunned, fur fluffed, dignity in shambles.
Piper: “She’s gonna need therapy for this.”
Tinkerbell: “EMDR. Immediately. Maybe a support group.”
Coco paced the living room and glancing back at the collapsed tunnel like it owed her money, rent, and emotional damages. Piper, ever the dramatist, placed a tiny paw on Coco’s shoulder and delivered her diagnosis with the gravity of a daytime talk‑show therapist.
Piper: “Sweetie, what you experienced is called a ‘somatic blockage.’ You need to process that.”
Tinkerbell, who absolutely did not have a clipboard five minutes ago, produced one anyway and began taking notes like she was preparing Coco’s case for the state board.
Tinkerbell: “I’ll call the therapist. We’ll get you scheduled for EMDR. Eye Movement Desensitization and Reprocessing. For tunnel‑related trauma.”
Coco blinked slowly, still dissociating.
Coco: “Will snacks be provided?”
Tinkerbell: “It’s therapy, not a potluck.”
And honestly, she needed it. Before this moment of post‑traumatic reflection, I had tried to help her. She had tried to help herself. And the tunnel had tried, bless its heart, to mind its business. But Coco, in her panic, began that frantic backward scoot. The one that looks like she’s trying to reverse a U‑Haul with no mirrors. The tunnel came with her. The whole thing. Like a denim skirt that’s too tight but you refuse to size up.
And that, congregation, is how Coco outgrew her tunnel. Her pride and possibly her entire sense of self. The tunnel fought. Coco lost. And we are officially filing this incident under “Lessons in Humility, Volume III.” Piper is already writing a memoir. Tinkerbell is coordinating post‑incident care. And the tunnel has filed for disability and spiritual leave. Coco is preparing to process her trauma one eye movement at a time. Because you truly cannot squeeze a blessing into a space it has outgrown. Ashes to ashes, tunnels to dust. Service dismissed. Thanks for reading! And cut back on the snacks.
Affirmation: I release what no longer fits. I honor what I’ve outgrown. And I refuse to shrink for anyone. Not even a tunnel.
