My first time doing stand-up was last May, on my 34th birthday. (I wore a tiara and was given a lollipop.)
Before that first time, I had (oh so naively) imagined the community of comics to be full of good-natured, light-hearted, quick-witted, generally happy people. When I was out with friends, enjoying a happy hour or millennial brunch de rigueur, it’s always the effervescent folk who are told “Oh, you should try comedy!” And, like many comics, I can be effervescent! With good friends, laughter pours out of me easily, like peeing after your fourth drink—it just flows naturally.
But. At other times. My shoulders curve under the weight of depression. The effervescence—the public joy—the extroverted fun—is part of me; but it’s elusive. I can’t access it on dark days. When I feel all too keenly how far from my goals I am, how single I am, how much I need to clean the three-and-a-half-weeks-worth-of-dishes out of my
sink…. (Ok, that was a lie—it’s three-and-a-half-months.)
Part of venturing into comedy is the slow formation of a comedy community. First, there’s Facebook. I’ve never added so many friends so quickly. More humanly, there’s just the rhythm of regular shows. You begin to recognize faces—and more than faces, voices and points of view. (Oh, he’s the one who’s got the sick burns about Indiana…. And she’s the one who can rattle off 17 complex puns at lightning speed….) You realize the people sitting around you at a given open mic are also comics, also nervous about forgetting their punchlines, also getting anxiety diarrhea before every performance. Over time, you know people’s names now, you’re recognized and greeted with hugs or hi-fives or weird permutations of jokes you’ve told too many times (for me it’s – “self-caaaare”… a reference you’ll get if you see my set).
“I have been surprised to discover how many of us wage life in darkness. How much the comedy from stage is pulled from struggle.”
And getting to know comics—sometimes seeing beautiful, vulnerable reflections on social media, nestled among weird and wacky joke testing and too-dark open mic photos—I have been surprised to discover how many of us wage life in darkness. How much the comedy from stage is pulled from struggle. As comic after comic evokes laughter like cute kids in costumes evoke candy, the laughter is pouring into wounds—touching loneliness, unfortunate brain chemistry, disappointments, rejection.
Almost every time I have done stand-up since last May, I’ve spent the day wrestling. Can I be funny today? What is funny about feeling this blue? Will it even feel good to get up there, and then forget all my punchlines, and then I’ll feel stupid, like a big stupid stupido?
And. Every time, after I do it, after I fight through all that self-doubt, it’s worth it. For me, stand-up gives me this moment (suspended from the rest of my “real life”) where I get to own all the frustrating and stupid and things that I hate. That moment, relating to near-strangers, finding humor, is gold. To take up so much space, run around, scream, be wild or as awkward as you want…. it’s powerful.
“Every time, after I do it, after I fight through all that self-doubt, it’s worth it.”
I’m not saying every comic who deals with depression or anxiety uses their jokes to find catharsis. (But, like, wow, so many of us do.) I just wanted to state explicitly what might have been clear to less naïve folks than me before my 34th birthday: comics aren’t on stage because our lives are so joyful we’re just overflowing with fun and humor. We’re like all of us—life is real hard. Comics are the set of people who put words to the darkness and squeeze some laughter out of stones.
I’m so grateful for the community of folks—comics and audience members—who show up to create this shared space.
And to comics who write through depression: I see you. Thanks.
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