48. I Tried to Get Help. They Offered Me Coloring Books.

So I colored. Outside the lines. Then burned the page and built a website.

I walked into the mental health system holding trauma by the leash.
It was frothing at the mouth, dragging me by the ankle, and whispering,
“Color me surprised, btch.”*

They gave me a workbook.
A lavender-scented mood tracker.
A worksheet titled “What Emotion Are You Feeling Today?”
with exactly zero boxes for “Rage that could power a small city.”

“Let’s try some breathing techniques,” they said.
Ma’am, my nervous system is in Morse code.
Your butterfly inhale isn’t reaching the battlefield.

I asked for a lifeline.
They handed me a f*cking Crayola.

So yeah, I colored.
I made the trees bleed.
I gave the house abandonment issues.
I made the clouds spell “Help” in passive-aggressive cursive.

And when they said,
“Great job staying inside the lines,”
I said,
“Oh, honey—those were never my lines.”

Because this isn’t art therapy.
This is art warfare.

While they were handing out glitter glue and trauma pamphlets,
I was writing a survival manifesto
on the back of a napkin in a waiting room that smelled like vanilla and despair.

They wanted compliance.
I gave them chaos with captions.

They wanted quiet coloring.
I gave them a narrated series of emotional crime scenes
with a goat voiceover and a tip jar.

Now I don’t just “cope.”
I co-opt.
Their weak-ass solutions became launchpads for my sarcasm empire.
Their worksheets?
Wall art.
Their crayons?
Ritual tools.
Their silence?
A punchline.

Because when the system hands you a coloring book,
but your trauma has teeth—
you don’t stay inside the lines.
You turn them into a stage.
You write the captions yourself.
And you charge admission.


I Tried to Get Help. They Offered Me Coloring Books. 

I asked for tools, they gave me crayons, 

Told me to doodle out the demons. 

So I sketched the meds, the bills, the pain, 

And drew a goat flipping the game.

Now I color outside every rule, 

And shade my trauma in jewel-tone cool. 

They gave me art—I gave them fire. 

This page is ash, this phoenix higher.

—The Funny Phoenix, drawing outside the DSM lines

Colorful jukebox-style tip jar labeled "JOKES

Put a Dollar in the Juke (Joke) Box

This Whirld runs on punchlines and petty cash. Tips help fund emotional damage with a comedic twist. Humor kept me alive—now it pays the therapy bills. Every dollar helps. Every laugh heals. Or at least distracts. So, if you’ve ever laughed out loud, felt seen, heard, or just temporarily less insane (you're welcome) thanks to Christy, consider:

👉 Throwing a buck in the trauma jukebox to keep the jokes flowing.
👉 Supporting a sad clown with a sarcasm addiction

Because laughter might be free — but keeping the lights on sure isn’t.

Laugh cry overshare funniest thing that ever happened to you when you were losing your s***–go.

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-The Funny Farm-

About Us

If this place sparked something in you—or just made you feel a little less alone while mentally spiraling—drop a tip in the flame fund. I built this place while burning out. Now it runs on caffeine, survival grit, and scrolls of half-sane truth.