How stand up comedy helped save me from my PTSD

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.