It was 2:14 a.m.
I was full floor mode—cheek to tile, hoodie as tissue, phone clutched like a life preserver.
The mental health pose: half fetal, half Wi-Fi signal.
I finally called the number.
The Help Hotline.
The one they print on pamphlets, poster boards, and bottom-shelf tea boxes like healing is a customer service option.
Ring. Click. Robot voice.
“If this is a medical emergency, hang up and call 911.”
“If you are in emotional distress, press 1.”
“If you’re not sure what’s happening, same.”
So I pressed 1.
Because clearly I was distressed, unwell, and out of snacks.
And then…
Nothing.
Just hold music that sounded like a xylophone having a nervous breakdown.
Then finally—another voice.
But not a person.
A recording.
“Hi there. We’re not staffed right now. But if you’d like, you can leave a message after the tone.”
A message?
My brain was on fire and they handed me a voicemail?
That’s when I lost it.
Not like lost it lost it—more like sarcastic-mumbling-to-myself lost it.
Cool. Love that.
My psyche’s doing jazz hands and the best they’ve got is “Leave a message after the beep and someone might care later.”
Like I’m ordering emotional pizza.
I didn’t need mood music.
I didn’t need guided breathing.
I needed a human with caffeine and at least one working empathy gland.
But instead?
Instead of a life raft, I got a dial tone with vibes.
Instead of support, I got the energy of a haunted Alexa.
And I swear to you:
At one point, they offered me a motivational quote.
I hung up before they suggested a vision board.
So no—I didn’t get help.
But I did get clarity.
If the world won’t answer the hotline…
I’ll become one.
Not the kind that plays harp sounds and asks about your inner child.
The kind that says:
“Hey. You’re not broken. The system is. Want to laugh about it while we burn it down?”
Because sometimes the real healing doesn’t start with therapy.
It starts with rage.
And sarcasm.
And a website built on every moment no one picked up the phone.
Welcome to mine.
Mic still hot.
Hotline still closed.
But I’m wide f*cking awake. 🧠🔥📞
The Help Hotline Transferred Me to Jesus
I dialed for help, got gospel fire, A holy hold with no supplier.
“Repent,” they said, “and press for grace,” I pressed “end call” and saved my face.
I needed tools, they sent a hymn, I prayed, then rage-texted Him.
Now I post instead of pray, And find my peace the louder way.
—The Funny Phoenix, baptized in sarcasm
