This Puzzled Life is a mental health and recovery blog exploring addiction, trauma healing, LGBTQ experiences, humor, and the strange moments that shape us.
“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.
“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.
“Sometimes the only thing keeping me from losing my already lost religion is two Oklahoma women yelling about petty grievances.”
-This Puzzled Life
Light the charcoal. Sprinkle the sage. Invoke the ancestors. Preferably the messy ones. The ones who show up wearing house shoes. Clutching a gas‑station fountain drink. And whispering, “You’re gonna wanna sit down for this one.”
Because today, we gather in the sacred, humid, mosquito‑infested, spiritually charged arena to praise. Roast. And spiritually hydrate the chaotic holiness that is the I’ve Had It Podcast. The only place where two white liberal women from the red MAGA plains of Oklahoma have somehow built a sanctuary for every exhausted blue‑dot soul trying to survive in a country where people still proudly drink out of Stanley cups like it’s a personality trait. Let me set the table like MeeMaw used to that is loud. And with sweet tea strong enough to dissolve enamel.
Jennifer Welch and Angie “Pumps” Sullivan aren’t just podcasters. They are the patron saints of Petty Grievances. The matriarchs of Messy Liberation. And the spiritual mothers of every liberal woman trapped in a red state. While trying not to throat‑punch someone at the grocery store.
Jennifer, the sarcastically blunt atheist queen, speaks with the kind of clarity that only comes from years of saying, “No, actually, that is stupid” out loud. She’s the type of woman who could walk into a revival tent. Sneeze. And accidentally deconstruct someone’s entire theology. On a side note I’ll also say that she is an Olympic level Pickle Ball Champion like we’ve never seen before in the history of the world.
Then there’s Pumps. Lord help us all. Pumps is a recovering evangelical, the HBIC (Head Beaver In Charge), the teeny weenieologist, the MeeMaw Meat Curtains because she is much older than Jennifer. And apparently the patron saint of Asexuality in the Bible Belt. Her last sexual encounter was somewhere around 1,000 days ago. And Jennifer multiplies that number tenfold with each episode until the math starts giving Old Testament genealogy. We’re approaching, “And on the 40,000th day, Pumps rested.”
And presiding over this circus of holy chaos is Kiley. The beautiful lesbian gaytriot producer who keeps the entire operation from combusting. She’s the glue, the duct tape, the Queer Logistics Coordinator who ensures Jennifer and Pumps don’t accidentally start a small fire while recording. She produces the hilarious fuckery with the precision of a woman who knows exactly how chaotic these two can be.
As a white liberal sarcastic woman myself from the red MAGA state of Mississippi, these ladies have become my emotional support podcast. They take the isolation of wanting equal rights for everyone. While surrounded by neighbors who think democracy is optional. And turn it into a family. A loud, hilarious politically petty family that supports all marginalized groups and stands up for democracy. Despite the red hatred swirling around them.
And let me tell you. And their nicknames for politicians? Baby, they speak fluent Southern shade. People like Donald “Cankles McTaco Tits” Trump, Moses Mike Grindr Johnson, the late Lindsey “Lady” Graham, “Big Titty” Bryon Knoem, “Smokey-eyed sociopath” JD Vance, “Lyin’” Ted Cruz, Flamboyant Jesse “Lady” Waters with Fox News, Natalie “The Bunny Boiler” Harp, Markwayne “Booster Box” Mullin, and others. I heard that recently they both spoke with Mitch “Dead Not Dead” McConnell for twenty minutes from his life support rehabilitation unit. They roast public figures with the same energy my Aunt Linda uses when she says, “I’m not saying she’s trashy. But she does own a leopard‑print Bible cover.”
They expose the closetocracy, the folks who legislate against the very community they enjoy on weekends, with surgical precision and the comedic timing only two women who have truly had it can deliver. Are they crass? Yes. Do they speak my language? Absolutely. Do they have a low tolerance for stupidity? Honey, they have a negative tolerance.
And Pumps, sweet Pumps, if she would stop vaping like she’s trying to summon a Civil War ghost, Jennifer might finally unclench. And if she would please stop pooping in Styrofoam cups like she’s conducting a science fair project, the online audience would stop peeing on ourselves from laughing. Get it together, Pumps. At least the saggin’ dragons are secured.
These women have been my morning oxygen for over a year. They are my people that are hilarious. And, at times, inappropriate. Unfiltered. Compassionate. And petty in all the right places. If you’re a prude. Easily offended. Or still clinging to conservative Christianity where some Christians use scripture as a mascot for cruelty, this is not your ministry.
But if you’re like me a blue dot in a red state. A queer person whose family can’t quite figure out acceptance. Or someone who needs laughter more than judgment. These ladies feel like home. They are the family I needed. The humor I craved. And the reminder that democracy is worth fighting for even when surrounded by folks who think Jesus rode a dinosaur. And if island living as a blue dot in a red state is what it takes, then baby, I’ll take my new family without question.
So let me say this with the full force of my ancestors, my sass, my trauma, my cats, and my last functioning nerve. The I’ve Had It Podcast isn’t just entertainment. It’s survival. It’s community. It’s the comedic resistance movement for every marginalized person living in a state where Hobby Lobby aisles are filled with people who think equality is a threat to their throw pillows.
Jennifer, Pumps, and Kiley have built a refuge for the tired, the queer, the liberal, the fed‑up, the chronically sarcastic, and the spiritually dehydrated. They’ve given us permission to laugh at the absurdity of our political landscape. To call out hypocrisy with humor. And to find joy in the middle of a country that feels like it’s being run by people who failed eighth‑grade civics. And who ate boogers and glue but never outgrew those behaviors.
I will be a loyal gaytriot as long as these ladies are around. I will follow them into the trenches of democracy, petty grievances, and Pumps’ colon‑control journey. I will take this island living. This blue dot existence. And choose my new family without hesitation.
Thank you, ladies, for your humor, your compassion, and your unapologetic refusal to tolerate bullshit in this tumultuous time. You are the laughter that keeps us fighting. CACAW!!!! Mic dropped. Floor cracked. Humidity rising. Ancestors hollering, “That’s Right, Baby!” Thanks for reading! Please tune in every day to the I’ve Had It podcast for political news with lots of humor.
Affirmation: I honor my truth, humor, identity, and my chosen family. I choose joy. I choose community. And I choose to laugh loudly. Even in the places that try to silence 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.
“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.
“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 days my mental health is held together by snacks, spite, and the sheer terror of having to explain myself to another human being. And honestly, that’s more stability than most systems offer.”
-This Puzzled Life
Light the charcoal. Sprinkle the sage. Let the ancestors clock in because I’m about to say something that requires spiritual PPE. Welcome back where the tea is hot. The coping skills are lukewarm. And the bar for institutional competence is lying somewhere under my therapist’s couch next to a rogue fidget cube and three generations of dust bunnies.
That’s the only proper way to open Things I Trust More Than the Current Administration: Mental Health Edition. The moment I even think about federal decision‑making and mental‑health infrastructure in the same sentence, my spirit guides start passing around clipboards like, “Everybody hydrate. This one’s gonna be long.” The energy gets so chaotic my coping skills start unionizing. My weighted blanket files a grievance. Even my therapist’s office plant, dead since the Bush administration, leans in like, “Girl, you good?”
And yet here we are. Gathered in this sacred digital sanctuary. Ready to name every ridiculous, raggedy, unexpectedly reliable thing that still manages to show up for my mental health more consistently than the systems allegedly designed to support it. Pull up a chair. Grab your emotional support beverage. And let’s begin this wellness séance.
Let me tell you something right now. As a lifelong member of the “I’ve been in therapy long enough to qualify for tenure” community, I have developed a sixth sense for nonsense. I can smell chaos before it even clocks in for its shift. I can hear a red flag rustling in the wind like a Confederate reenactor’s polyester uniform. And I can taste when a system is about to disappoint me.
If surviving American bureaucracy has taught me anything, It’s that my mental health journey has been held together with prayer, Post‑its, and the sheer willpower of every exhausted clinician who has ever said, “Let’s circle back to that. “And yet, even that feels sturdier than whatever the federal decision‑making process is doing right now.
Pull up a chair. Grab your emotional support beverage. And let’s talk about all the things big, small, and unhinged that I trust more than the folks allegedly steering this ship.
1. The coping skills handout they gave me in 2009 that said, “Try breathing.”
If breathing was going to fix my life, it would’ve done it by now. But you know what? That little laminated sheet has never lied to me, ghosted me, or changed its story mid-sentence. It just sits there, quietly suggesting oxygen like a supportive aunt.
2. The hospital blanket that feels like it was woven from recycled Brillo pads.
Scratchy? Yes. Comforting? Weirdly, yes. And it’s more reliable than any federal plan I’ve seen in the last decade? Tragically, yes again.
3. The therapy office plant that has been dead since Obama’s first term.
That plant has seen things. That plant has heard things. And that plant has never once pretended it was going to “circle back.”
4. The group therapy participant who always says, “I’m not sure if this is relevant,” and then drops the most relevant thing anyone has ever said.
That person is the backbone of America. That person deserves a medal, a parade, and a lifetime supply of fidget toys.
5. The antidepressant that took six weeks to kick in and then said, “I’ll give you 12%.”
Twelve percent is still more than I’ve gotten from some institutions. Twelve percent is practically a stimulus package.
6. The crisis hotline hold music.
Is it soothing? No. Is it confusing? Yes. Does it at least show up? Also, yes. That’s more than I can say for some systems allegedly designed to “serve the people.”
7. The therapist who says, “Let’s unpack that,” knowing full well we’re about to open a suitcase from 1997.
Do I trust them? Absolutely. Do I trust the government to fund mental health care with the same enthusiasm? Let me just go ahead and laugh in Southern.
8. The mood tracker app that keeps asking if I’m “thriving.”
No, sweetheart. But I appreciate your optimism. And optimism is more than I’ve been handed by certain national infrastructures.
9. The weighted blanket that feels like it’s trying to smother me into emotional stability.
At least it’s trying.
10. My own intrusive thoughts.
Say what you want about them, but they’re consistent. They show up on time. And they don’t pivot their messaging halfway through the fiscal year.
And that concludes today’s testimony from the Church of High Copays and Low Patience. May your paperwork be accepted on the first try. May your therapist stay in‑network forever. And may your coping skills rise up like a well‑funded program. Because we all know the actual programs won’t.
May your coping skills be sturdy. Your boundaries be fortified. And your therapy bills be mysteriously covered by a benevolent universe. May every system that claims to care about mental health actually prove it with funding, access, and compassion. And may you always trust yourself more than any institution that has ever made you fill out the same form 14 times. The real administration is the one inside your head. And that cabinet meeting is already wild enough.
At the end of the day, my ragtag mental‑health toolkit with half vibes, and half stubbornness still shows up with more reliability than any administration that can’t streamline a single form. I’ll keep trusting my weighted blanket. I trust any system that doesn’t need three committees and a prayer to approve a budget. Even my intrusive thoughts have a better attendance record than the folks running the show. Amen, Ashe, and may the next fiscal year treat us better than the last. That’s the real plot twist I’m praying for.
Affirmation: I am doing the absolute most with the absolute least. And I’m still managing to shine.
“My healing isn’t linear. It’s a Southern backroad with potholes, detours, and at least one possum giving me side‑eye. But I’m still driving.”
-This Puzzled Life
Light the charcoal. Sprinkle the sage. Today we’re not just cleansing the room. We’re cleansing the entire diagnostic chart that tried to play me like a two‑for‑one special at the Discount Trauma Mart. We’re also cleansing the medical chart, the family gossip line, and the entire Southern belief system that still thinks “nerves” is a diagnosis. And “just pray on it” is a treatment plan.
Dual diagnosis is that special Southern casserole of “mental health condition” baked together with “substance use disorder.” And it’s served piping hot with a side of unsolicited advice from people who haven’t been to therapy since Clinton was in office. It’s the moment life says, “Surprise! You’re not just juggling one thing. You’re juggling two flaming batons while the universe yells, ‘Smile, sweetheart!’”
Dual diagnosis is like waking up every day in a body that’s running both a Windows 95 operating system and a bootleg Sims expansion pack that keeps crashing. It’s trying to heal your brain while your brain is actively filing HR complaints against itself. It’s the emotional equivalent of trying to fix the roof while the house is still on fire. And the HOA is sending you letters about your grass height.
And it’s that moment when life looks at you and says, “Oh, you thought you were dealing with one thing? Hold my sweet tea.” It’s the psychiatric equivalent of a potluck where anxiety brings a casserole. Depression brings a Bundt cake. And addiction shows up empty-handed but somehow leaves with all the Tupperware.
And the world? The world acts like you’re being dramatic. And the wild part? People act like you’re being dramatic. “Have you tried drinking more water?” Ma’am, I have two diagnoses doing synchronized swimming in my amygdala. Hydration is not the plot twist that’s going to fix this. “Have you tried yoga?” Ma’am, I have two diagnoses doing the electric slide in my frontal lobe. Yoga is not going to stop this internal block party.
Beneath the jokes, dual diagnosis is real, heavy, and often misunderstood. People think it’s chaos. But it’s actually survival. It’s resilience. It’s learning to hold two truths at once like “I’m struggling and I’m still here.” It’s learning to treat yourself with compassion even when your brain is acting like a committee meeting where everyone is yelling and nobody brought notes. It’s learning to say, “I deserve care.” “I deserve treatment.” “I deserve to be taken seriously.” And most importantly, “I am not a punchline. I’m the whole damn story.”
Down here in the Deep South, dual diagnosis gets wrapped in a layer of cultural seasoning nobody asked for. Aunt Linda whispers like you’re contagious. Cousin Ray offers you a beer because “you look stressed.” And the church ladies add you to the prayer list without asking. Right under “traveling mercies” and “unspoken.” Meanwhile, you’re just trying to survive the day without your brain throwing a surprise block party.
Dual diagnosis in the South also means navigating stigma with the grace of a cat on a freshly mopped floor. You’re trying to get help. Half the town thinks therapy is witchcraft. And the other half thinks medication is a moral failing. Meanwhile, you’re over here doing the emotional equivalent of rebuilding a transmission with a butter knife and a YouTube tutorial.
Dual diagnosis awareness is about reclaiming your narrative from the people who oversimplify it. Misunderstand it. Or try to shame you for it. It’s about saying, “Yes, I’m dealing with two things at once. And I’m still out here living. Healing. And occasionally thriving like the chaotic miracle I am.” And yet, here we are. Still showing up. Still healing. Still lighting the charcoal and sprinkling the sage like we’re about to summon the ancestors and the insurance company.
Dual diagnosis doesn’t make you broken. It makes you bilingual in battles most people will never understand. And if anyone tries to minimize your experience? Tell them this, “Baby, I’m not dealing with too much. You’re just underestimating my capacity.” Thanks for reading! And keep searching for answers.
Affirmation: I honor every part of my journey. The messy, the miraculous, and the medically complicated. All of it proves I’m stronger than the storms I’ve survived.
“Psych units may be chaotic. But at least my bitching is organized.”
-This Puzzled Life
Light the charcoal. Sprinkle the sage. Somebody hand me a fan because the level of petty I’m about to describe requires ventilation. Psych units don’t just have pettiness. They cultivate it like a community garden complete with tomatoes, basil, and grudges. And if I’m going to talk about it, I need every ancestor, archangel, and neighborhood stray cat on standby.
These places run on a spiritual cocktail of fluorescent lighting, lukewarm coffee, and the kind of petty that could power a small city. The spirits already know what time it is. We’re about to enter the only place on Earth where adults will fight over a graham cracker, a blanket, and who gets to sit closest to the fake plant in group therapy. Especially the kind that shows up wearing non‑slip socks and asking if you’ve “completed your feelings journal for the morning.” Buckle up. We are about to revisit the life of the unhinged.
Let me tell you something right now. Nobody does pettiness like a psych unit. Not your auntie at Thanksgiving. Not your ex who still watches your Instagram stories from a burner account. Not even the Southern church ladies who can bless your heart into a coma. Psych units are the Olympics of Petty. Gold medal level. International competition. And sponsored by “Clipboards & Consequences™.
And the wildest part? The staff and the patients are in a silent, unspoken petty war at all times. It’s like a nature documentary narrated by Morgan Freeman: “Here we observe the patient refusing to participate in group therapy because the therapist said, ‘good morning’ with the wrong tone.”
Breakfast on a psych unit is not a meal. It’s a spiritual exam. You ask for two sugars? They give you one. You ask for a spoon? They hand you a spork like you’re being punished for past lives. You ask what the eggs are made of? They say, “Don’t worry about it,” which is exactly when you start worrying about it.
And the patients? Oh, we’re petty right back. Someone refuses their meds because the nurse said their name wrong by half a syllable. Someone else declares a hunger strike because they didn’t get the “good blanket.” Which is the one that feels like it’s been washed fewer than 400 times.
Psych unit bed assignments are the closest thing we have to Old Testament conflict. Two grown adults will absolutely fight over who gets the bed closest to the window like it’s beachfront property. Someone gets moved rooms and immediately acts like they’ve been exiled from the kingdom. They say, “I’m not unpacking. I’m staging a protest.”
Group therapy is where the petty becomes performance art. Someone refuses to share because “the energy is off.” Someone else overshares because they know it makes the therapist uncomfortable. Someone proudly announces, “I’m only here for the snacks” and means it. And the group leader? Smiling sweetly while spiritually flipping everyone off.
If you’ve never seen adults negotiate shower times like they’re drafting a ceasefire agreement, you haven’t lived. People will take 47‑minute showers out of spite. “Forget” their towel so they can walk dramatically down the hall. Complain someone used “their” shampoo even though it’s the hospital’s and smells like citrus‑flavored despair.
And then you discover the shower has no curtain. Not a flap. Not a panel. Not even a nostalgic bead string from the 70s. You step into that shower like you’re entering a baptism you did not sign up for. The water pressure is either a gentle mist that feels like someone exhaling on you. Or a fire‑hose blast that could strip paint off a Buick. Meanwhile, staff strolls by doing “wellness checks” like, “just making sure you’re safe!” Ma’am, I am safe. Emotionally? No. Physically? Barely. Spiritually? Absolutely not.
Mindfulness group on a psych unit is its own brand of comedy. The therapist dims the lights (as much as fluorescent bulbs allow), puts on royalty‑free pan flute music, and says, “Imagine you’re on a peaceful beach.” Ma’am, I am sitting in a plastic chair that squeaks every time I breathe. Then it’s, “Picture a calm, soothing waterfall.” Meanwhile someone is snoring. Someone is whisper‑arguing with their spirit guides. Someone is chewing graham crackers like they’re in a survival documentary. And you’re trying to “visualize tranquility” while holding a safety crayon shaped like a melted candle.
They are not crayons. These are wax‑based emotional support devices. Thick. Stubby. Unbreakable. Unsharpenable. Every letter looks like it was drawn by a raccoon wearing oven mitts. But when a Code gets called? Those colors become binoculars. Everyone leans forward clutching their little wax chunk like, “Pass me the purple one. It’s the good one.”
Psych units have one universal truth. A doctor must be called for absolutely everything. You sneeze too enthusiastically? “Hi, yes, doctor? She sneezed with intention.” Want a Tylenol? Doctor. Want a different blanket? Doctor. Want to sit in a different chair because the one you’re in feels spiritually cursed? Doctor. It’s like a fluorescent DMV where every request requires a supervisor who is mysteriously never on the floor.
And then there are the medications. Raise one eyebrow too high? “Let me page the doctor.” Ask why the eggs taste like regret? “Let me page the doctor.” Have an attitude after being woken up at 5 a.m. for vitals you did not ask for? Suddenly they’re offering you something “to help you relax.” Which is psych‑unit code for, “This will knock you into next Tuesday.” These meds are so strong they could end a world war. You wake up unsure of your name, the date, or why your socks don’t match.
Some staff walk around like they’re the TSA of mental health. And they’re ready to confiscate your emotional liquids. Some give you the “I’m tired of all y’all” look before you’ve even spoken. Some have mastered the therapeutic smile. The one that says, “I care deeply.” But their eyes say, “I clock out in 12 minutes and I’m not starting anything new.” And the tech who acts like your request for a second blanket is a personal attack on their lineage? Iconic.
There comes a moment when staff decides you’re “a little too spicy for the general population.” And suddenly you’re being escorted to the Psychiatric Intensive Care Unit known as the PICU. The PICU is not a unit. It is an ecosystem. A habitat. And a fully unhinged micro‑climate where time is fake. Socks are currency. And the air vibrates with the energy of people who have absolutely had enough.
The lighting is harsher. The chairs are bolted down with enthusiasm. And the staff has that look like they’ve seen things they can’t legally discuss. This is where someone argues with a wall. Someone else declares themselves the mayor. A graham cracker becomes a weapon of emotional warfare. And the “call the doctor” rule becomes a religion. You start to wonder if the doctor is a real person or a mythological creature who appears only during full moons and paperwork audits.
There is a very specific sound a psych unit makes right before a Code gets called. It’s too quiet. Like the ancestors are holding their breath. Then, a chair scoots too hard. A voice gets too spicy. A slipper hits the floor with conviction. And the staff looks up like meerkats who heard a twig snap. Someone yells “CODE!” with the enthusiasm of a Walmart employee announcing Black Friday. And the whole unit transforms into live‑action chaos. Patients settle in like it’s cable TV. And it’s like, “Oh lord, they done called a Code. Lemme get comfortable.” Staff sprints like Olympians. Clipboards fly. Walkie‑talkies crackle. And the therapist breathes deeply like they’re manifesting a different career.
And when it’s over? Everyone goes right back to coloring like it was a commercial break. Psych units are messy, miraculous, chaotic, exhausting, and sometimes deeply funny in ways only people who’ve been there understand. The pettiness isn’t cruelty. It’s survival. It’s humanity. It’s the tiny rebellions that remind you you’re still a person. Even when life has knocked you sideways.
Connect and Refocus assignments are the psych‑unit equivalent of being told to stand up in front of the congregation and confess your sins with a microphone that echoes. They hand you a worksheet with questions about your troubling behavior. And by the time you’re done it’s the thickness of a dissertation. The therapist says, “Just outline your maladaptive coping skills and therapy interfering behaviors.” Just? As if you’re not about to write a full academic paper on why you shut down emotionally. Overthink everything. And threaten to fight the vital signs machine at 5 a.m. And the worst part? You don’t just fill it out. You have to read it aloud in group like you’re defending your thesis before God, the ancestors, and a room full of people who just met you yesterday. You’re sitting there clutching your safety crayon while trying to sound insightful. And everyone else nods like they’re on the judging panel of America’s Next Top Trauma Survivor. It’s humbling. It’s horrifying. It’s hilarious. And somehow, it’s exactly the kind of chaos that makes psych unit bonding feel like summer camp for emotionally exhausted adults.
But there is no gamble on Earth quite like the moment they tell you, “You’ll be sharing a room.” That’s not an assignment. That’s a lottery. That’s a spiritual test. That’s a cosmic wheel‑spin hosted by the universe itself. On a psych unit, your roommate can be literally anything. The possibilities are endless. Unhinged. And hilarious in a way only people who’ve lived it understand.
Here is a few of the different types of roommates you could be paired up with.
1. The roommate that sleeps 12 hours a day but somehow still manages to terrify you. They snore like a diesel engine. They sit up suddenly at 3 a.m. like they’re receiving messages from the ancestors. They whisper things like, “Did you hear that?” No, I did NOT hear that. And I would like to keep it that way.
2. This roommate provides live commentary on everything you do. You stand up? “Where you going?” You sit down? “You tired?” You breathe? “You okay?” I am trying to exist. Please let me exist in silence.
3. This roommate has been in the unit for 48 hours and has already achieved spiritual awakening. They speak in riddles. They meditate loudly. They give unsolicited advice like, “You must release the ego. Also, can I have your pudding?”
4. This one will eat every single snack you have. Even the ones you hid in your pillowcase. They will deny it with confidence. They will gaslight you about your own graham crackers. They will ask for juice while drinking the juice they stole from you.
5. This roommate is entertainment. Pure entertainment. They talk to themselves, the walls, the staff, the ancestors, and occasionally the ceiling tiles. They narrate their dreams. They reenact scenes from movies that don’t exist. You don’t even need cable. You have them.
6. This roommate showers at 2 a.m. With no curtain. With the water pressure set to “pressure wash a tractor.” They come out wrapped in a towel the size of a napkin and say, “Your turn.”
7. This roommate is quiet. Too quiet. You don’t know if they like you. Hate you. Or don’t know you exist. They stare at the wall for long stretches of time. They fold their socks with military precision. They whisper to their juice cup. You respect them deeply.
8. This roommate minds their business. Sleeps in weird positions. Hisses when staff wakes them up. Eats only the snacks they like. And will absolutely sit on your bed like it’s theirs.
Psych‑unit roommates are a whole spiritual curriculum. A syllabus written by the universe. A randomized character generator with no patch notes or warning labels. And I’ve had every single type walk through that door and claim the other half of my room like they were entering a reality show.
Some were chaotic. Some were confusing. Some were plot twists. And a precious few? They became family in the kind of way only shared trauma, cold cereal, and shared “Did you hear that?” moments can create. You don’t choose your psych‑unit roommates. But sometimes the universe chooses them for you.
I’ve had the ones who snored like freight trains. I’ve had the ones who narrated my every move. And the ones who didn’t speak for three days. But somehow communicated entire novels with their eyebrows. I’ve had the ones who showered at 2 a.m. with the water pressure set to “remove barnacles.” And the ones who treated the room like a spiritual dojo. Then there were the ones who were just there. Quiet. Odd. Mysterious. Every roommate was a new chapter in the saga. Every roommate was a new lesson in patience, comedy, and survival. Every roommate was a new story I absolutely should not laugh at but absolutely do.
But out of all the chaos, characters, and all the “Lord, give me strength” moments, there are a couple of roommates who became real friends. The kind you still talk to. Still laugh with. Still send memes to about your shared psych‑unit nonsense. These are the ones who laughed with me at 3 a.m. when the unit sounded like a haunted Walmart. Shared snacks like we were in a bunker. Understood the unspoken language of “I’m fine but also not fine but also fine.” Survived Codes, guided imagery, and curtain‑less showers right alongside me. And turned the worst moments into inside jokes that still make us wheeze.We walked through the same chaos and came out with matching emotional scars and petty humor.
I wouldn’t trade them for all the money in the world. Not for a million dollars. Not for a lifetime supply of the “good blankets.” Not even for a shower curtain. Because some people come into your life for a reason. Some come for a season. And some come because the hospital assigned them to your room. And the universe said, “Y’all need each other.”
And within that roommate lottery, the prize is either peace, or a story you will tell for the rest of your natural life. And somehow? You adapt. You bond. You laugh. You survive. And you walk out with tales that sound made‑up but absolutely aren’t.
Healing is hard. Fluorescent lights are evil. And humans will absolutely weaponize a spork if pushed far enough. May your blankets be soft. Your meds be on time. And your petty be righteous. May your coping skills be strong. Your boundaries fortified. And your spirit guides remind you that sometimes the pettiest thing you can do is heal anyway.
And that is the gospel truth of the psych unit. A place so petty. So chaotic. So spiritually unhinged. That even the ancestors step back like, “good luck.” Between the curtain‑less baptisms they call showers. The guided imagery that feels like group hallucination. The safety crayons built like toddler dumbbells. And the Codes that pop off like surprise season finales. One thing becomes clear. Healing might be hard. But the comedy is free.
So, the next time somebody tries to tell you psych units are calm, peaceful places. Just smile. And let your spirit guides handle the lie. And remember, sometimes the pettiest, most powerful thing you can do is survive it with your humor intact. Thanks for reading! And, yay, for the ability to use humor as a coping skill for survival.
Affirmation: I am calm, I am grounded, and I will not let anyone with non‑slip socks ruin my vibration today.
