The Weirdest, Most Effective Mental Health Tip I’ve Heard in Years
I stumbled across a clip of a licensed counselor who shared something so simple, so absurd, and so freakishly effective that I had to pass it on.
One of her clients had been struggling with intrusive thoughts – you know the kind:
You’re not good enough.
This will never work.
You should just give up.
You’re a fraud.
Her coping mechanism?
She started hearing those thoughts… in Donald Trump’s voice.
You know… that smug cadence. Arrogant tone. Strange emphasis on random syllables.
“As soon as I hear my intrusive thoughts in HIS voice, I don’t want to listen anymore. If that idiot told me I was a fraud, I’d keep pushing just to spite him.”
And just like that?
The thoughts lost their grip.
They stopped sounding like truth.
Started sounding like satire.
Became background noise.
Easy to ignore.
Even laughable.
What Intrusive Thoughts Sound Like in My Head
Aside from a single post, this blog’s sat idle for the better part of a decade.
Yes, a decade.
Every time I tried to create, the intrusive thoughts flooded in.
Shit – I almost didn’t write this.
Why?
Because it wasn’t going to be good enough.
Not polished.
Not groundbreaking.
Not funny.
Not useful.
For so long, I didn’t just doubt my writing -I doubted my worthiness of being heard.
Because if I knew anything, it was that words held power, and I didn’t want my words to hurt anyone as much as my thoughts hurt me.
But when I started giving my intrusive thoughts a new voice – Trump’s voice – I found myself belly laughing at my own absurdity.
That was the moment I decided:
No more letting intrusive thoughts win.
No more letting perfectionism be the place my creativity goes to die.
“THIS guy leads the free world, and I’M over here battling impostor syndrome over a f**king blog? Oh hell no.”
My Lifelong Battle Between Perfection and Creativity
I’ve always joked about being a perfectionist to a fault.
Some saw the perfection.
I saw the faults.
But here’s the truth: perfectionism didn’t keep me safe, it kept me gagged. I wore the mask well – single mom, degrees, decent career, clean house, clean kids. Every visible extension of me was tidy and polished – carefully curated. In a world that rewards appearances, this suffocating Type A personality and relentless OCD worked to my advantage. Except I was destroying myself from the inside out.
Perfection wasn’t drive. It was denial. It was an easier addiction than alcohol or pills because society applauds women who hold it together while dying inside. And my intrusive thoughts? Well, they guided every unconscious decision that chose a perfect exterior over the vulnerability of reality.
Silence Felt Safer Than Starting
Starting a blog meant vulnerability.
It meant exposure.
It wasn’t a project in my house.
It wouldn’t be critiqued by a few coworkers.
It wouldn’t be picked apart by the handful of dickhead Facebook friends I forgot to delete.
This would be for public consumption.
And that terrified me.
Especially because my energy doesn’t naturally push outward.
It waits.
It feels.
It observes.
It hopes to be welcomed into spaces that feel right.
But when waiting turns into years…
It stops being patience.
And becomes paralysis.
I wasn’t silent because I had nothing to say.
I was silent because I feared judgment.
Because I believed it had to be perfect to be worth doing.
I internalized the need to get it “right.”
Even though I know I learn best by trying, failing, and trying again.
I equated productivity with worth.
(Daddy Issues – we’ll unpack that later.)
Most of all?
This blog isn’t just a blog to me.
It’s my voice, my humor, and my pain.
And as a survivor of some truly insane shit, I thought of all the times my voice had been dismissed, talked over, misunderstood, and punished.
Putting that voice into the world didn’t feel like “blogging.” It felt like feeding myself to the wolves.
I had to be ready – and for so long, I just wasn’t.
I was too busy trying to maintain appearances while hanging on by a thread.
When Perfection Isn’t Progress
One day, I bragged to my therapist. I was balancing it all and somehow maintained a 4.0 in grad school – at a pretty prestigious school, might I add.
Her blunt response?
“You know that’s not a sign of mental wellness, right?”
“Well, f**k you too, Barbara,” I said out loud – in my head.
But she was right.
My perfectionism wasn’t ambition.
It was avoidance.
I didn’t feel my feelings – I organized them.
I analyzed.
I intellectualized.
I excelled.
And then, I dissociated.
Because facing feelings meant admitting how deeply disheartening and chaotic life really was.
My inner critic had convinced me that perfectionism would be easier than admitting to the shame that surrounds not actually having my shit together.
For f**k sake – where was the Trump Trick back then?
Might’ve saved myself a fortune in therapy – and Barbara some sanity.
Why the Trump Trick Actually Works
Intrusive thoughts are manipulative.
They sneak in using your voice, your fears, your deepest insecurities.
They disguise themselves as logic.
They pretend to be helpful.
They say they’re protecting you.
But here’s the thing – intrusive thoughts only have power when they sound like you.
When you dress that voice in someone else’s nonsense – especially someone whose opinion you’d never actually respect?
You get to side-eye them with,
“Ohhhh, just shut the f**k up already.”
Try It Yourself
If you’re wrestling with thoughts that make you anxious, ashamed, or frozen in place – try this:
Assign them a voice that repels you.
Someone you wouldn’t take advice from if your life depended on it.
It might be Trump.
It might be your ex.
It might be your passive-aggressive boss from 2012 (Yes, you, Carole).
Whoever it is – let them deliver the garbage.
And then ignore that shit.
I might be late to my own party, but if I’m showing up now, I’m damn sure going to make space for my fellow latecomers.
A Space for the Almosts
If you’re nodding as you read this – you’re my people.
The recovering perfectionists.
The half-done artists.
The exhausted overthinkers whose intrusive thoughts have been winning for too long.
This space is for the almosts.
The undone.
The rough drafts of a life being lived – authentically.
Through this creative outlet, I’ll be sharing my truth – drawn from lived experience, dark humor, and an irrational (but well-earned) disdain for toxic positivity.
Expect stories about modern-day cults, lots of dead people, and why you should absolutely not give yourself an enema during labor – even if you’re terrified of shitting on the table.
It’s messy.
It’s real.
And it’s exactly the kind of honesty I wish I had when I was in the thick of it.
It turns out I was never afraid of publishing – I was afraid of being misunderstood.
Because I know what it feels like when you bare your soul and someone shrugs – or worse, mocks (like this reality TV villain we’ve all unfortunately come to know).
But now I know:
The right people will feel seen.
The rest?
Not my people.
So when my inner Trump says,
“You’re a looo-ser,”
I’ll look at what I just wrote, judge the shit out of it, and publish it anyway – just to spite him.
Final Thought (I know – wrap it up, Hag)
If you’re down in the dumps like I’ve been —
or just stuck,
or scared,
or quietly spiraling…
Remember:
Amazing art isn’t born out of perfection, it’s born out of emotion.
So, just start.
Start with what’s on your mind or in your heart.
Write the thing.
Scribble.
Bake.
Paint.
Scream-sing.
Dance terribly.
Do the thing that makes you feel something.
Create.
Not for perfection.
For expression.
I’m pretty sure somewhere out there, someone needs to hear all the shit I’ve survived – the wreckage, the wins, the what-the-hells – because this bizarre human experience? It deserves way more honesty than we’re used to.
You never know who needs to witness your creativity, too.
So I’ll share through my creative outlet and hope that you share through yours —
flaws and all.
And when those intrusive thoughts creep in? The ones that tell you that you aren’t worthy?
Give them a voice that makes you roll your eyes.
It might be the very thing that sets you free.
Stay Curious,
❤︎ Hag