But I screamed. Then published. Then printed T-shirts. Then built a damn goat empire.
They keep calling it “broken.”
Like it tripped over a loose wire.
Like if we just donated more crayons to a crisis center, it might fix itself.
Nah.
This b*tch was architected—
Blueprinted by apathy. Streamlined by red tape.
Like Amazon Prime for emotional decay.
You think I slipped through the cracks?
I WAS ESCORTED.
Pushed with a clipboard. Labeled “complicated.”
Given a pamphlet, a pill, and a password that never worked.
They told me to be honest.
So I was.
And they flagged my chart.
Said I was “non-compliant.”
Translation: I asked questions with receipts.
Here’s what they don’t want you to know:
It’s not a system of care.
It’s a paper shredder with an empathy sticker.
Try surviving trauma with no insurance.
Try finding a therapist who doesn’t call burnout “bad attitude.”
Try explaining to a psych eval that being funny is not mania, it’s f*cking defense.
They act confused when you’re exhausted.
But they designed it that way.
To tire you.
To tame you.
To table your truth until you forget what it was.
But I didn’t forget.
I wrote it.
With ink that bled out of my own damn nervous system.
I turned every microaggression into microcontent.
Every denied appointment into merch.
Every “you’re overreacting” into a hoodie that says:
“I Reacted. You Just Didn’t Listen.”
Now?
I’ve got shirts.
Memes.
Courses.
A mental health brand built from the bones of their failures.
You want inspirational quotes?
Try this:
“If you’re gonna gaslight me, at least buy the lighter.”
Because while they were diagnosing my defiance,
I was capitalizing my clarity.
And when they said,
“You should be grateful for what the system does offer,”
I said,
“Cool. Can I Venmo the gratitude? Or should I print it on a mug?”
This isn’t a pity party.
It’s a business model.
Built on rage.
Backed by data.
Fueled by every f*ck I no longer give.
So yeah…
The system works.
Just not for us.
But I do.
And so does the goat.
And together?
We’re gonna make their quiet bleed-out very. very. loud.
The System Isn’t Broken. It’s Designed to Bleed You Out Quietly.
They said, “Oops, glitch.” I said, “Nah, plan.”
This maze was built to eat the man.
I screamed, I bled, I wrote it down—
Now my pain’s a protest in a gown.
This site? My shout. My neon “NO.”
They profit off what makes us low.
But I sell shirts now. Wrote a play.
Turned their abuse into my payday.
—The Funny Phoenix, flipping the system off in font size 72
