It’s a funny story…

I’m a comedian. I know funny. And this isn’t it. 

I can’t actually think of a time when things felt LESS funny, but here we are in 2020, the literal shit stain on the universe’s underpants. 

Back when I was in comedy clubs, those pre-historic places where people used to go mask-free and laugh their spit all the way across the room, I had a lot of things to say that made people laugh. I joked about getting rejected for The Bachelor (true), surviving as a high school teacher (yes), and having a brain bleed (wait what was that last one???)

So, really, most of the things I “joked” about weren’t funny at all, but I could still make people laugh, even if it was at my own misfortune. Specifically, if it was my own misfortune. 

Lately, I keep “joking” that life is giving me “content” for my comedy sets when really, the world is just falling apart around me and I can’t be bothered to take it seriously. And believe me, I have tried. Just ask my therapist. 

It has taken me a few years to truly come to terms with this, but this is actually a survival skill. The ability to laugh off or disregard life’s trauma. I’ve been doing it for as long as I can remember, even before things got crazy in the life department. I’ve had horrific break-ups. I’ve survived brain surgery. Both my parents have had cancer. I’ve lost job after job after job in a city that really doesn’t care if you need to pay rent because it will step all over you. I’ve had panic attacks, cried in public, and can’t figure out how to take care of my body. Some days it feels like depression will swallow me up and spit me back out. 

And somehow I am still here, making light of it all. 

Because I have to survive this. All of this and more that I haven’t even encountered yet. Because somewhere deep down I know that my job is to educate, to inform, and to tell stories. To people like me and nothing like me, to the brain-injured, jobless, or struggling artist out there that doesn’t think they have a chance at a life worth living. 

It used to not be so dramatic, but people are looking at me now. Since my book came out I have amassed a small but mighty following. These people look up to me. They want to know what I have to say and they want to know that no matter what happens in this crazy world, that they will be OK. 

Several years ago I was moving into my first studio in downtown Denver. I was a year out since my brain injury and a few months into my first year as a high school teacher. I was exhausted and broke and still dealing with my new symptoms and new body. My friend was helping me carry boxes from my car to the door in the back alley and I tripped on my own shoe and everything went flying. She was holding onto the door with a pinky toe as I shouted through laughter and tears: “NO, JUST LEAVE ME HERE! LEAVE ME TO DIEEEE.” Nothing was funny but somehow everything was. It was some of the lowest days of my life and here I was, nearly wetting my pants in an alleyway as my foot throbbed in pain and my clothing scattered all over the ground. 

This is what it means to survive sometimes. When it comes down to it, you have a choice: let yourself succumb to the darkness, or laugh and rise above it. 

So I hope right now you are laughing even though nothing is funny. Because someday when we all survive this, it still won’t be, but at least you will have had a good time. 

Cheers,

M

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