WebMD: Making sure I panic in alphabetical order.
It started with a headache.
Which became chest tightness.
Which became sobbing quietly while holding a cracker like it’s the last piece of my will to live.
So naturally, I did what any emotionally mature adult would do:
I Googled it.
Because why seek therapy when you can consult the internet’s panic portal for free?
First result?
Cancer.
Second?
Scurvy.
Like, 1700s pirate scurvy.
Apparently I need citrus and a plank to walk off this breakdown.
Third result?
“Unresolved trauma presenting as systemic inflammation.”
So basically:
Congratulations. You’re not broken—just highly flammable.
But then…
Way down on page 7 of my doom scroll,
buried between a vitamin ad and a chakra blog,
was a comment.
Anonymous.
Posted at 3:47 a.m. from a phone that probably had a cracked screen and zero battery left.
It read:
“I think I’m just… tired of everything.”
And I sat there like:
Holy sht. That’s it. That’s the scan. That’s the MRI. That’s the fcking bloodwork I couldn’t afford.
It wasn’t my lungs.
It wasn’t my spine.
It wasn’t even the 14 cups of coffee I’d had instead of food.
It was me.
My body throwing gang signs for “please log out of this reality.”
Diagnosis?
- Chronic Overgiving.
- Rage Fatigue.
- Compassion Collapse Syndrome with a side of “no one listens unless you yell.”
No prescription.
Just vibes.
And maybe a 30-minute cry in the car while screaming along to a breakup anthem that isn’t even about you.
So now?
Now I don’t trust WebMD.
I trust that girl in the comments.
Because she didn’t say I was dying.
She said I was living through some unlivable sh*t.
She didn’t tell me to hydrate—
She told me I wasn’t crazy.
And in this late-stage-capitalism-mental-health-apocalypse?
That’s the most accurate diagnosis we’re ever gonna get.
Final result?
Emotionally inflamed.
Existentially allergic.
And healing out loud with a goat bleating in the background like,
“Yeah, same.”
I Googled My Symptoms. It Said ‘Girl, Same’
I typed in pain, despair, and stress,
Google blinked back, “you’re a f*cking mess.”
No diagnosis, just a sigh,
And memes that made me wanna cry.
Turns out I’m a walking thread,
Of trauma tips the internet fed.
So now I scroll, relate, repeat—
And post my breakdown on the beat.
—The Funny Phoenix, WebMD certified in chaos
