(© TheFunnyFarm.online — Transmission from The Living Whirld — Redacted Edition)
💬 Opening Transmission — For My Eyes Only
There’s a version of me that never makes it online.
Not the glitchy poet or the snarky survivor.
Not the one with punchlines or playlists.
The other one.
The one who wakes up wondering if I died two years ago
and this is just muscle memory playing it out.
This isn’t a confession.
It’s the stuff that doesn’t fit the format.
The trauma with no aesthetic.
The ache that doesn’t rhyme.
The kind of pain that makes even other survivors look away
because it doesn’t perform correctly.
This isn’t a quote for your moodboard.
It’s what happens after the broadcast cuts out.
🕳 I. The Truth That Doesn’t Trend
Here’s something I never say in public:
I don’t know who I am when I’m not performing survival.
When I’m not curating collapse.
When I’m not funny or profound or useful.
Sometimes I wonder if I made my trauma marketable
just so people would stop ignoring it.
Sometimes I miss the old pain —
not because it was better,
but because it gave me a reason to exist.
Sometimes I think healing stole my identity
and left me with peace that’s too quiet to live in.
📉 II. What Recovery Actually Feels Like
Everyone wants the before and after.
No one wants the during.
The during is silent.
The during is disgusting.
The during is:
- Googling “how to feel something real” at 3:12AM
- Staring at an unread message for three days
because answering means pretending again - Crying in the produce section because a plum
reminded you of the year you stopped eating
Healing is not brave.
Healing is mechanical.
It’s showering when your body feels like a crime scene.
It’s trying to trust touch again
and recoiling from your own goddamn hand.
It’s naming your joy and watching it flinch.
🧩 III. The Ugly Parts of Survival
I didn’t grow.
I adapted.
And not gracefully.
I burned bridges I now miss like oxygen.
I lied to people who loved me because telling the truth
would’ve made them leave faster.
I said, “I’m fine,” so many times
it became a self-erasing spell.
I’ve ruined relationships because I didn’t know
how to be loved without performing brokenness.
I’ve said “I love you”
just to make someone stay long enough
to prove I still mattered.
I’ve looked at a bottle of pills
and thought, not to die — just to slow the spinning down.
I’ve imagined the funeral,
but never the recovery party —
because no one throws one of those.
Because “better” is boring
and pain gets more clicks.
🧠IV. Mental Health as Masquerade
The thing about posting about mental health
is that eventually you become the account,
not the person.
You’re expected to be articulate
about breakdowns while still in one.
People DM you like a priest.
They tell you your honesty saves them.
But you start wondering:
Who saves the honest?
You want to log off,
but now you’re someone’s proof of life.
So you perform being human
even when you feel like a ghost
stuck in a highlight reel
of curated collapse.
🚫 Closing Transmission — Redacted for Public Safety
This doesn’t go on a sticker.
This won’t sell the book.
This won’t get quoted at someone’s graduation.
This is the part I keep hidden
because it doesn’t uplift, doesn’t empower,
doesn’t end with a lesson.
No transmission.
No broadcast.
No end signal.
Just this:
I’m still here —
but because the alternative felt like too much.
đź•ł Hashtags Redacted
#Don’tTagThis
#Don’tSaveThis
#Don’tPretendYouUnderstand
#ThisOneWasNeverMeantToBeReposted
(© TheFunnyFarm.online — Entry Not Found)