Because sobbing in silence never went viral.
I’ve done the “healthy coping.”
The quiet tears. The deep breathing.
The self-help books with watercolor covers and zero f*cking relevance.
I even bought a Himalayan salt lamp.
It judged me softly for three months, then died like my last relationship:
glowy at first, then useless when I needed it most.
You know what didn’t help?
- Crying in the shower like a therapy commercial
- Writing letters I never sent to people who never deserved my spelling effort
- Eating blueberries because “they help your mood”
Yeah, so does rage-laughing at my entire trauma arc while shoving popcorn in my face at 2am.
Because one day I realized…
If I can’t laugh at it,
I’m gonna drown in it.
And I don’t have the lung capacity for that kind of bullshit.
So I started snorting at my pain.
Not healing—heckling.
I laughed in the courthouse lobby when my ex’s lawyer called me “unstable”
and I said,
“You should see my fanbase.”
I cracked a joke during a panic attack and survived it.
Twice.
I turned rock bottom into a comedy special with tip jars.
And guess what?
Laughter worked.
Pain’s still here.
It just doesn’t get the mic anymore.
Now it sits backstage, bitter as hell,
while I tell jokes about it to strangers who whisper,
“Holy sh*t, that’s me.”
So if laughing at pain is wrong?
Then call me guilty.
Call me dangerous.
Call me the goat-whispering, mic-dropping, serotonin-dealing chaos clown you didn’t know you needed.
Because silence didn’t save me.
But laughter?
That f*cker carried me all the way here—
smudged eyeliner, cracked voice, standing ovation and all.
If Laughing at Pain Is Wrong, I’m Not Living Right
They said “too much,” I said “more laughs.”
Poured giggles into shattered halves.
Grief’s a clown in full disguise—
With eyeliner sharp enough to slice.
So I chuckle through the mess I mend,
And wear my pain like glitter trend.
If this is wrong, don’t make me right—
I’ll live and laugh through every night.
—The Funny Phoenix, laughing where it hurts the most
