Put a finger down if you’ve ever been told that “laughter is the best medicine”. Don’t feel bad if you haven’t, because I can’t really see you right now. This is a phrase that I took to heart since an early age and have been honoring for as long as I can remember. As a child, I was the life of the party during family reunions (and also the main source of my mother’s migraines). I couldn’t wait for another event, even if it meant getting a lecture once I got home. The fact that I had made people laugh was always worth it. Things took a turn when I started making friends. The tropes that I would see in movies or TV shows began to unfold in front of me. We try not to typecast ourselves, but those around us always manage to trap us into a role. I didn’t mind being the comedic relief; because, at the time, it was a pretty big compliment to be regarded in that way. But this soon created a sense of responsibility that I hadn’t noticed as a child; a level of expectation that nobody addressed yet I could always feel when it was my turn to talk. The comedic relief is sometimes the best part of the movie, but it sucks that you only get screen time when it’s time to entertain others and become “the funny one”.
Before I proceed, please don’t get me wrong. Being the funny friend isn’t the worst thing in the world. It’s actually sweet to be a comfort to those around you. Obviously, not everyone will deem you the funniest in the land but it’s easy to navigate through social situations when you’re attentive to what could make a person smile. You have a talent for putting others at ease and helping them feel welcome, even if they barely know you. This could possibly lead to friendships and that in itself is beautiful. To have someone you care about staring at you with amusement, and to help them feel lighter with every laugh you share is a gift. It’s wonderful to take a break from reality and make fun of it for a while. The problem comes when being funny becomes a requisite; when a part of your personality feels like the only thing that makes you special.
Comedy, for me, shifted into the perfect defense mechanism whenever I felt trapped. Although it made me feel weak at times —serving as a reminder of how useless I thought I was without it— it also offered protection. I could put on a sort of immunity facade to mask the sadness that was eating me up, the anger towards all the things I wanted to say but didn’t, the frustration of not feeling perceived as a complex individual. For many years, I had people in my life that treated me like a piece of furniture if I wasn’t jumping through hoops for their enjoyment. The harder I threw my energy into the performance of it all, the farther away I felt from a piece of myself that used to fill me with joy. Soon enough, I became the punchline of each joke I delivered. At the time, it was hard to discern between friends and acquaintances. Some people are only going to see you for what they need in their lives. Within this scenario, usually one of two things can happen: your presence can either cater to those specific requirements or be completely disregarded.
We all have a wide variety of emotions to express. While we might focus more on some of them over their counterparts, there will inevitably come days where you wake up not quite feeling like your regular self. Sometimes, I wake up and I’m in a horrible mood for no specific reason. Just a big, dark cloud ready to serve glares left and right, not a single chuckle coming from me, barely talking until I go back to sleep. At other times, I’m so sad that I wonder if I simply ran out of smiles to give. I believe that my sense of humor makes me come off as annoying and I carry that self-criticism with me. The more you develop as a person, the harder it is to accept the subtle nature of typecasting in real life. That fragile sense of peace you convinced yourself that you had towards your role begins to crumble and you question if you’re even capable of being more than that. Upon being seen as a consistent comedic relief, I started to attach my value as a person to how much I could make those around me shine with laughter. If I failed at delivering a joke or making light of a situation, would I even be worth the trouble? What role could possibly keep me relevant in their lives if not the one that I was known and now beloved for?
Exhaustion wore me down when something that I enjoyed doing had become an obligation. I think we all somewhat hate being told what to do, or for it to be so heavily normalized. When I felt like I always needed to be funny in order to be included, I was so close to losing a part of me that I had cherished during my entire life. It was no longer fun. I was no longer expressing myself but simply emulating what I thought would make me worthy of company.
There is a constant desire to let our emotions run their course without the need of keeping up appearances. To feel everything, anything or even nothing and to be validated by those we love. That’s what we all deserve; to know that we’re cared for even when we feel disconnected from who we’re expected to be. It’s tiring to evaluate what version of yourself is the most appropriate, which traits to prioritize and which ones to shrink; which sides of your personality to show in excess, and which ones to hide in shame.
We don’t really get a say in what people think of us. Their perceptions belong to them and will stay true to whatever vision they’re directing. But we can’t let it dictate how we value our individuality. You can be seen as one thing that makes you stand out, but that shouldn’t minimize the world of complexity that exists within you. The people that truly see you will love you even when you’re struggling with your sense of self and will care for every possible version of you. Don’t be afraid to embrace the parts of you that are familiar and help you interact with others but always be kind to the person you grow into. Respect your feelings, be patient with your moods, and celebrate the spontaneity of being you.