Even my trauma was too intense for their Pinterest vibes.
I didn’t come in hot.
I came in smoldering.
Like, still-smoking-from-the-last-gaslighting kind of scorched.
Hopeful, maybe.
Desperate, definitely.
Thinking: finally—a place where I don’t have to explain my existence in footnotes.
Instead?
I walked into a room that smelled like lavender, white fragility, and expired banana bread.
There was a salt lamp in the corner and a sign that said:
“Healing is a Journey — But Make It Gentle.”
Meanwhile I’m like:
Gentle? Sis, I just crawled here from the emotional apocalypse.
First group, I said “narcissistic abuse.”
The lady leading the circle physically flinched.
The guy next to her offered me a coloring book and asked if I’d tried journaling with my “non-dominant hand to access inner child grief.”
Bitch, my inner child is feral.
She doesn’t want crayons—she wants court transcripts and closure.
Week two, I opened up.
Dropped a little truth bomb about generational trauma and suicidal ideation.
Everyone went silent.
Like I’d farted in a chapel.
Next thing I know, I’m getting assigned “positive affirmations” and “gratitude practice”
while still trying not to disassociate during the icebreaker.
And then?
Poof.
Ghosted.
From a support group.
No more invites.
No “how are you?”
Just a quiet little fade-out,
like I’d tracked mud onto their vision board.
Imagine that.
Being too real for people literally holding space for trauma.
I said “This hurts,”
and they said “Could you maybe hurt less… loudly?”
So now?
I run my own damn circle.
We call it:
The Unfiltereds: Come As You Are, Leave When You’re Ready.
There’s no tea.
Just dark roast coffee and louder truths.
We scream into voids, not vision boards.
We color outside the f*cking lines.
And if someone brings banana bread?
It comes with a warning label and a side of sarcasm.
Because I don’t do pastel recovery.
I don’t want to “trust the process” if the process can’t hold me messy.
I want the group that claps for ugly truths,
laughs mid-breakdown,
and keeps showing up even when the story’s not inspiring yet.
And now?
That’s exactly who I’ve got.
Not a ghost in sight.
Just real people,
real pain,
and a support group that bites back.
I Got Ghosted by a Support Group
They hugged, they nodded, then went poof—
My trauma didn’t match their roof.
I cried too loud, I bled too bright,
Apparently pain has to be polite.
They vanished soft in pastel grace,
Left me raw in cyberspace.
So I built my own damn crew—
With fire, truth, and goats in view.
—The Funny Phoenix, founding feral friendship circles
