I don't laugh enough.
When I laugh, most of the time, it is sardonic, dry, "ironic" laughter. That is, it is joyless. Blissless. Humorless.
Part of me chalks that up to being a tough critic: I don't laugh easily, and simple jokes and puns and cheap laughter don't often crack me. I used to take pride in this. Now, it seems to me, that laughter is one of the most sacred things, and that I am somehow missing out on one of life's most vital sacraments.
...
In my teens, I didn't really feel like I missed out on things when other people were partying and doing drugs and having sex. I wasn't interested in loosing myself that way, self-possessed as I was, and happy to stay that way. But I was far more serious than my fellows. Looking back, I think that seriousness was (and remains) a symptom of profound anxiety and social fear.
I think the idea of being laughed *at* rather than making others laugh was such a terrifying prospect that removing laughter from the equation all together became my pattern of choice.
Silliness. Light-heartedness.
These were things that, somewhere in my early childhood, I learned, were not valued by serious adults, and so, therefore, not valuable. (Or, just as likely, I lost the ability to make others laugh, and so decided that if I could not create laughter, I would abandon it completely).
I was a deeply frightened, doggedly serious, social-awkward, bookish teen and young adult. I knew myself to be unpopular and, as such, seriousness and humorlessness became another wall to fortify and hide the fear and insecurity.
Seriousness worked so well that a few people mentioned that they felt intimidated by me in college; I figured if I could not be loved--could not inspire affection and create laughter--I could be smart and aloof and serious, and, therefore, impressive in some way. But seriousness does not inspire love or bonding or affection or depth of feeling or intimacy.
All the almost-friends I made in college no longer speak to me. A few friends from grad school text once a year or less.
I profoundly hate isolation and loneliness and feeling unworthy of friendship, and COVID quarantine has heightened that discomfort considerably. I feel that my seriousness and bend toward the pessimistic and depressing is part of the cause. I don't laugh enough.
I wish I had more reasons to laugh for pleasure and amusement and joy. I wish I felt joy, without pressure or strings. I thought I kind of had that, once. (Though it was toxic and doomed to burn out; still, I laughed, then. With mirth and passion and freedom. It may have been build on lies, but the laughter, at least, that was Real). I want to be Real. And Really Me. Honest, flawed, broken, passionate, true, and full of laughter.
....
Today was the Continuation celebration for the 8th grade students at St. Clare following my first year teaching in Edwards. It was sunny, then windy, then rainy. Joy was had, and so was bittersweet sorrow. I said goodbye to a favorite student. She is a creature of strength and grit and abundant laughter. I hope to grow into a person worthy of the admiration of this exceptional 14-year-old. She is Real. May we all be so, someday.
When I laugh, most of the time, it is sardonic, dry, "ironic" laughter. That is, it is joyless. Blissless. Humorless.
Part of me chalks that up to being a tough critic: I don't laugh easily, and simple jokes and puns and cheap laughter don't often crack me. I used to take pride in this. Now, it seems to me, that laughter is one of the most sacred things, and that I am somehow missing out on one of life's most vital sacraments.
...
In my teens, I didn't really feel like I missed out on things when other people were partying and doing drugs and having sex. I wasn't interested in loosing myself that way, self-possessed as I was, and happy to stay that way. But I was far more serious than my fellows. Looking back, I think that seriousness was (and remains) a symptom of profound anxiety and social fear.
I think the idea of being laughed *at* rather than making others laugh was such a terrifying prospect that removing laughter from the equation all together became my pattern of choice.
Silliness. Light-heartedness.
These were things that, somewhere in my early childhood, I learned, were not valued by serious adults, and so, therefore, not valuable. (Or, just as likely, I lost the ability to make others laugh, and so decided that if I could not create laughter, I would abandon it completely).
I was a deeply frightened, doggedly serious, social-awkward, bookish teen and young adult. I knew myself to be unpopular and, as such, seriousness and humorlessness became another wall to fortify and hide the fear and insecurity.
Seriousness worked so well that a few people mentioned that they felt intimidated by me in college; I figured if I could not be loved--could not inspire affection and create laughter--I could be smart and aloof and serious, and, therefore, impressive in some way. But seriousness does not inspire love or bonding or affection or depth of feeling or intimacy.
All the almost-friends I made in college no longer speak to me. A few friends from grad school text once a year or less.
I profoundly hate isolation and loneliness and feeling unworthy of friendship, and COVID quarantine has heightened that discomfort considerably. I feel that my seriousness and bend toward the pessimistic and depressing is part of the cause. I don't laugh enough.
I wish I had more reasons to laugh for pleasure and amusement and joy. I wish I felt joy, without pressure or strings. I thought I kind of had that, once. (Though it was toxic and doomed to burn out; still, I laughed, then. With mirth and passion and freedom. It may have been build on lies, but the laughter, at least, that was Real). I want to be Real. And Really Me. Honest, flawed, broken, passionate, true, and full of laughter.
....
Today was the Continuation celebration for the 8th grade students at St. Clare following my first year teaching in Edwards. It was sunny, then windy, then rainy. Joy was had, and so was bittersweet sorrow. I said goodbye to a favorite student. She is a creature of strength and grit and abundant laughter. I hope to grow into a person worthy of the admiration of this exceptional 14-year-old. She is Real. May we all be so, someday.
