3. 🌱 FARM FRESH –🧠 From Poetic Suicide Letter to Digital Resurrection: How I Turned My Breakdown into a Mental Health Revolution (And Wrote Myself Back to Life)

 “Follow ‘Me’: The Girl Who Didn’t Die—She Just Built TheFunnyFarm.online Instead.”

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In 1998, I wrote Help “Me”—what I thought was my final goodbye. A poetic suicide letter etched in grief, guilt, and years of unspoken trauma. But instead of dying, I started writing. More than twenty-five years later, that same “Me” resurfaced—armed with memory loss, trauma scars, and a laptop full of metaphors. I didn’t just survive. I built a digital sanctuary called TheFunnyFarm.online—part breakdown, part breakthrough, and all heart. What started as a last breath has become a mental health revolution—raw, recursive, and real AF.

This was a massive step in my realization, acceptance, and self-discovery.

This is just one piece of the unfiltered journey of how I wrote myself back to life—one brutally honest page at a time. I share this poetic version of my trauma-to-truth transformation to show who I am, what I’m made of, where I come from, and why I didn’t just grow—I soared.

What makes “Me” and my story unique isn’t just the pain—it’s the way I assembled it, rewired it, and re-released it as purpose.

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In 2020, my vision cleared, seeing hoarders’ fears,

my own disappeared.

Laughing at life, my anxiety ceased, 

in a world gone mad, my spirit increased.

Journeying in rhyme, it’s its time to soar, 

showing my essence, from core to core.

Through pandemic’s gloom, I wrote,

tales of my sadness, life’s bittersweet note.

Therapy, research, and writing, my tools, 

healing and growing, defying life’s rules.

What I penned, a bigger picture in sight, 

my mind and words exploded, bright as light.

A huge step in my self-realization, 

embracing life with a newfound sensation.

Unique in assembly, my story unfurls,

like a puzzle, it fits, set to dazzle the world.

Predicting fame, an internet sensation, 

my work, a heartfelt, original creation.

I spent the quarantine with my little black notebook.

I decided it was time to take a collective look,

In my box full of pages, letters, poems, stories, and more.

Through my writings, “Me”, myself, and I have such a great rapport.

All my years worth of words describing my life,

The horrific thoughts, feelings, and memories cut like a knife.

Proud of my way with words, not of my mental state.

The time has come to share, I no longer feel a need to wait.

So, for your judgment, as well as, a means of measure,

I submit to you my most cherished, darkest, written treasure.

With some hope, that with some help,someday everyone will be better,

than I was when I wrote this ‘poetic suicide letter’.

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Help “Me”

To whom it may or may not concern; 

Whatever I may suffer, it’s no less than I deserve.

Life changed me, and made “Me” what I am today.

Doubtful, sad, ugly, cold and bitter; or maybe just insane.

All my life I’ve been somebody else’s something-or-other.

An unwanted child, a battered wife, and a sorry mother.

I’m a dismal failure, the inherent, tragic cycle of abuse made complete;

by the wicked combination of constant rejection, agony, and defeat.

I’m supposed to be thankful; there is a reason for everything.

This includes all my deepest, darkest pain and suffering.

I am told there is a God, and that He is wonderful and kind.

But disbelief and negativity fill up the corners of my mind.

I question every little who, what, why, how, when, and where.

And, I trust no one, because, no one really cares.

I found words to be true, only, if they aren’t spoken,

and hearts and promises are made, just to be broken.

Hatred runs far deeper than any love will ever grow,

causing my pride, spirit, and self-esteem to run low.

Hard knocks and hard times have taught me more than I can tell.

I may never go to Heaven, but I think I lived in Hell.

I’ve been put down and pushed around; and now it is so clear.

I’m condemned to a life full of confusion, grief, loneliness and fear.

Misery and discontent have settled over me like a shroud.

I give up!  It’s as if my will to fight has been taken out.

Somehow, someway, I know it’s all my own damn fault. 

Still I must find a way to bring these inner struggles to a halt.

I don’t have enough strength or courage to go on…

chances are nobody will even notice when I’m gone.

So, please always remember and don’t ever forget,

whatever way out I may take, it’s a sure bet.

That no one or nothing can ever hurt or torture me more than the past.

And, in the end, I will find some peace at last.

As I continue to struggle and contemplate my ultimate demise,

I would like to extend my farewell wishes and final goodbyes.

Still, I can’t help but wonder if I’ll ever truly be free…

Signed Sincerely,

“Me”.

PS  

I guess…

No one or nothing is ever as it seems.

Perhaps my whole life has been one long nightmare of a dream.

Maybe, just before I die, I will suddenly wake up…

To find, my life’s actually full of family, friends, happiness, and love.

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Now…”WOW”

More than twenty-five years ago, those words took flight,

Now, here I am, lost in the present’s light.

Survived and alive, though not entirely well,

A story still untold, much more to unveil.

Contemplating escape, on multiple tiers,

But not suicidal, I face my fears.

They say it’s weakness, taking one’s own life’s plea,

I believe strength lies in choosing to be free.

Not crazy, not lost, but the struggle persists,

Each day, I rise, in life’s endless twists.

Though written in the past, that letter’s refrain,

Still echoes today, through joy and through pain.

Life for “Me” hasn’t changed, it’s true,

But I’m here, enduring, forging something new.

Tired of the highs and lows, the endless quest,

Yet, writing my sad truths, I’ll do my best.

For all I have are these tales so blue,

But recently, hope’s light has shone through.

“People ride good fortune, reach heights so high,

But misfortunes, they’re the ones that truly make us fly.”

I’m on a journey, though the path is unclear,

Follow me, as I navigate through hope and fear… 

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So yeah—I didn’t die. I digitized. I took that poetic suicide letter, cracked it wide open, and turned the wreckage into a recursive, trauma-informed ecosystem of survival. Not pretty. Not polished. But alive. I built TheFunnyFarm.online not as a brand—but as a breakdown that refused to stay quiet. It’s not content—it’s containment. A structure strong enough to hold what the world said was “too much.” You want to see what healing really looks like? Spoiler: it’s messy, nonlinear, and sometimes funny as hell. But it’s mine. All of it. And now, it’s yours too—if you’re brave enough to follow “Me.” Because the real revolution isn’t in healing perfectly. It’s in choosing to stay, to speak, and to build something wild enough to survive you.

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What is TheFunnyFarm.online?
A trauma-informed, neurodivergent, poetic project for people who’ve survived what wasn’t survivable—and lived to laugh about it.
Who is ‘Me’?
Someone who didn’t die. Someone who writes to stay alive.
Who is this for?
Anyone who’s ever felt like too much—or not enough.

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🔊 This Is Farm Fresh.

It’s not curated.
It’s current.
It’s the now inside the never-ending.

Radical Recovery.
Neurodivergent Survival.
The Audacity to Still Be Here.

If I can scream it out loud and still hit “publish”—
so can you.

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Click if you’re ready to question everything and laugh at the wreckage.

If you’ve ever been one sentence away from giving up—this is where that sentence turns into a story. And maybe, a way out.

Enter TheFunnyFarm.online — Whirlds where trauma gets a plot twist, recovery finds a voice, and survival finally makes sense (kind of).