Alright, That’s It, I’m Bringing My Humor Back

Move over depression, I feel funny again

I’ve always been known as the funny one in most of my friend’s groups because there’s usually laughter when I’m around. Now that could mean they’re laughing with me or at me, but I’d like to believe the former is where their heart is at.

I’m also equal parts sensitive, emotional and (severely) empathetic, which makes my humor lie within an oddball range of silly and light-hearted to dark and cynical, with a lot of the self-deprecating kind thrown into the mix.

The past couple years, though, have been hard. I got caught in loops and spirals of anxiety over things done and undone; it was increasingly difficult for me to look at the funny side of things, even in hindsight.

One thing led to another, and I went from being an anxious, overworked mess to getting burnt-out to eventually settling uncomfortably into a phase of depression.

Which basically meant I felt all the feelings, cried all the tears and ate all the ice cream, in the comfort of my oversized pajamas.

The only person really laughing was my therapist — all the way to the bank. (Just kidding, she’s awesome. And expensive. But awesome.)

My therapist said I laugh too much

Well, she didn’t actually say it that way, but she seemed to indicate that I had a tendency to gloss over my feelings by laughing about it.

“Well, ha ha, I had some…uhm…..weird thoughts yesterday. Ha ha. You know the kind where…uhm…I didn’t think life was worth living? Ha ha ha. Like, there isn’t really a point, right? Ha ha ha.”

Yea, that laughter — the kind that’s a perfect cover-up for awkwardness at being vulnerable.

But after a point, with repetitive gentle prodding from her to “just say it like it is”, I abandoned the strategy for a more immersive experience of reliving each difficult thought and crying through it instead.

I’d like to say I’ve survived the test, with ample aid from AD meds + vitamins + cry-o-therapy + a kick-ass support system (I paid them back in referrals to my therapist’s practice. No friends were harmed in my recovery journey. Or so I think.)

What I learned through the process is this: There’s a time to laugh, there’s a time to cry and there’s a time to be serious. And it’s better to keep them separate when you’re asking for help.

I’m not funny, life is

I don’t think I’ve ever tried to be funny.

You see, to be completely honest, I live a typical slapstick life: I’m clumsy — I can trip while walking on a completely flat road with no obstacles and I have unidentified bruises all the time, I say things I shouldn’t (“Hey it’s my birthday, do you want to give me a gift?”) and I’m apparently facially expressive (I’ve been told emojis are modeled after me).

And then there’s things like right now, where I’m wincing in pain as I type this with my wrist in a splint. It’s not funny by any means, unless masochistic humor is your style (and I hope not). But what is hilarious is that I’ve wanted a broken bone since the 5th grade.

One of my classmates back then broke her arm, had it in a sling for a month, got to do away with tests and leave school early the entire time.

I was jealous, and after figuring out her M.O (slipping from the monkey bar), I tried to do the same. I carried a tiny bottle of soap + oil + water in my bag for days, and planned to grease my palms with it before jumping on the bars, waiting for the magical drop to happen.

Only it never did — because I was too scared to get on the bars in the first place.

So here I am, in my late 30s, without ever having broken a bone, feeling oddly satisfied with this shooting pain that’s pulsing from my wrist all the way to my elbow.

The only down side is that I have no job to call out sick from — I joined the #GreatResignation movement earlier this year — and no parents to fuss over me with warm soup. Instead, I have needy pets and a not-so-needy partner. (ILYSM guys, XOXOXO).

Twitter gets an honorable mention

Despite my reluctance to add another distraction to my already distracted life, I joined Twitter a couple weeks ago. Within a few days, I found the likes of Smillew Rahcuef, Piree Lua, BichoDoMato, R P Gibson, David B. Clear, Loudt Darrow on there. Except for Piree, I hadn’t heard of or followed any of the others until then. (Sorry guys, just being honest.)

They are funny(ish), and encourage witty repartees that I’ve missed for so long, and had reserved for a select few friends with whom I shared that banter. You may not realize this, but thank you, it’s been fun.

I still don’t think I’m doing it right, but that doesn’t matter because it’s re-opened my eyes to the fun side of writing that I had forgotten for a bit.

Truth is, struggling with mental health isn’t fun at all. Depression is lonely business and so is comedy; beneath layers of humor is a darkness that can only be explained by the sad clown paradox.

Yet humor provides just the right touch of a silver lining — a way to understand and express life through satirical veneers.

Over the last couple years, I lost sense of how to take things lightly. I felt things too deeply, I was outraged and sad a lot, I felt defensive and protective of myself as my self esteem plummeted — I couldn’t understand if living like this was worth it.

But now that I’m on the road to recovery — building strong walls and boundaries, accepting medication as a part of my routine, not shying away from reaching out when I’m struggling coupled with lots and lots of self-validation — things are beginning to look up again.

Writing has helped, and so has reading (even meta-Medium stories!)

But laughing? That’s the real deal.

If you’d like to support me, you can buy me a coffee to get me through the holiday season!

And if you’re feeling particularly generous, become a Medium member through my referral link and I’ll get a portion of your subscription to support my writing. Thank you, thank you!