I woke her up with my healing journey—and a side of sarcasm.
She blinked real slow.
Like a cat in the sun.
Like someone experiencing inner peace while I was reliving my own psychological demolition derby.
Except… peace wasn’t happening.
Sleep was.
And the only person in that room choosing to lose consciousness… wasn’t me.
I was mid-sentence.
Mid-tear.
Mid-trauma-narrative arc worthy of a docuseries.
And then—snore.
Not metaphorical. Not imagined.
A real snore.
Tiny. Soft. Almost sweet.
Like healing was ASMR and she’d tapped out to dreamland.
I said her name.
She jerked like someone caught scrolling Tinder during a baptism.
Then tried to recover with:
“That’s actually a mindfulness technique. I was deeply listening with my body.”
I said:
“Cool. My body just reenacted ‘Saw IV’ and yours took a f*cking nap.”
Look—I get it.
My trauma’s exhausting.
It’s got more twists than Inception and fewer resolutions than your average soap opera.
But this was Therapist. Number. SEVEN.
Seven.
That’s enough for a sitcom pilot and a group discount.
By that point, I’d had more therapists than orgasms.
And honestly? Both left me saying, “Was that it?”
That moment taught me something crucial:
👉 Don’t spill your soul to someone whose self-care plan includes zoning out during emotional carnage.
👉 Never trust a professional who thinks dissociation is a treatment plan.
She called it mindfulness.
I call it a nap attack mid-crisis.
And when I left that session?
I didn’t just stop seeing her.
I stopped auditioning for emotional relevance.
Because I am not boring.
I am not broken.
I am not your f*cking bedtime story.
I’m a whole genre now.
With sequels.
And goat merch.
So if you can’t stay awake for my healing?
You don’t deserve the encore.
Therapist #7 was the last to snooze.
Now I only perform for conscious audiences.
Therapist #7 Fell Asleep During My Breakdown
I cried. She snored. I waved a hand, She drooled a bit. Ain’t therapy grand?
Called it “grounding,” said “stay still.” Sis was napping through my will.
She missed my spiral, missed my scream, But I found punchlines in the dream.
Now I vent in rhyme and meme, And charge by nap, not self-esteem.
—The Funny Phoenix, billing by the snore
