I stood at the back of the theater,
nervously clutching the print out of a recent interview I had recently
done with the comedian who was now on stage. I anxiously waited for
him to invite people up on stage to be mocked in a speed roast,
questioning myself as I had done countless times before. When Jeff
Ross finally put out the invitation, I stepped right up. I threw
myself to the wolves, quite willingly, for an experience that, if
happening under other circumstances, would most likely undo me
emotionally for days.
You see, thanks to an largely
problematic side to my upbringing, I had been diagnosed with Post
Traumatic Stress Disorder, or P.T.S.D. - the disorder that commonly
affects combat veterans or victims of violence or other traumatic
experiences. My diagnosis was a lifelong gift from my malignant
narcissist mother, to whom I was an easy scapegoat. The result of
being raised in such an environment was becoming an adult who was
often seen as overly sensitive, reacting poorly to certain situations
and perceived slights. Eventually, I gained an insight into my
P.T.S.D. and learned to practice mindfulness – something which
freed me from bearing the emotional weight of every imagined offense.
But there was one last test needed,
and offering myself up to be roasted by Jeff Ross was that test.
“Are you dressed as Justin Beiber for
Halloween?” the Roastmaster General quipped gleefully at me in a
playful jibe at my swept hairstyle. Even I had to admit my hair was
quite Beiber-esque. The joke was perfect – and I could not stop
laughing. I knew this person wasn't out to get me or make me feel bad
– maybe for the first time in my life. I had passed the test.
Comedy was something that was always
enjoyed by my family. From a very early age, I would sneak downstairs
at night and join my older brother and father in watching stand up
from Sam Kinison, Andrew Dice Clay, and Eddie Murphy – I was in
knee-deep by the time I was nine. I was hooked. Stand up was the one
thing that unified my family, regardless of how bad things were at
any given time. We had our share of issues, but we also had comedy.
We could laugh.
Nowadays, people are quick to react to
comedy – but not in a way one might expect. With the rise of the
Internet and the ease with which people can now make their opinions
heard, many feel that they are legitimately owed an apology if
something a comedian jokes about has offended them. Yes, there are
topics that are probably best avoided when crafting stand up
material, but generally, comedy is an art form that offers release. A
comedian may poke fun at my hair style in front of 1.200 people, but
he's not doing that to hurt my feelings or embarrass me. He does it
because one should never take themselves too seriously. There's a
certain freedom to resigning yourself to not getting offended at what
may happen in the span of a couple of hours.
The art of comedy has always helped me
maintain a perspective on my ongoing battle with P.T.S.D. The freedom
I enjoy in watching stand up comedy can be replicated in my daily
life just by using a similar mindfulness when triggers arise. Take
each situation as it is, rather than bringing your past experience to
the table – because no one else involved is aware of what that
experience is. It doesn't always belong in the here and now.
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