Inspired Writer Contest Finalist
I Laugh in the Face of Trauma
Join me, won’t you?
I’ve been through a fair amount of big T trauma in my life. Childhood sexual abuse. Drug addiction. Domestic violence. Sex trafficking. I spent most of the formative years of my life existing in an underworld most of us prefer to only visit on Thursday evening’s when Law and Order SVU is on. If you were to meet me and I was all dark and twisty, it probably wouldn’t surprise you.
But would it surprise you to find out I wasn’t dark and twisty? To find out that I laugh out loud at commercials, am happiest in the sunshine and on a beach and can often be found dancing in the aisles of the grocery store to the dismay and embarrassment of my husband?
Let me be clear. I certainly used to be dark and twisty. I was even angry and belligerent. But that anger and that darkness just seemed to breed more of the same. I would complain loudly that bad things kept happening to me and then stick my head in the sand, where it was conveniently also dark, and not move an inch to change anything. It was exhausting. It is a pivotal moment when you finally get tired of your own shit.
Then I tried something new. I began to laugh. I learned to laugh at my abusers. I laughed at the ridiculousness of being trafficked, stalked and nearly killed by my monster of an ex-boyfriend, only for him to be killed, in a random incident, by a kid on a street corner in our hometown one night. I even laugh at my scars — the physical ones caused by the abuse of others and the emotional ones that to this day have me jumping at shadows, loud noises and sudden movements. My husband delights in exploiting how easy it is to make me jump out of my skin. PTSD? Not so funny. Making your wife screech and startle by simply rounding a corner quietly? Bring on those belly laughs.
In this age of fourth-wave feminism that includes powerful hashtags like #MeToo, #TimesUp, #WhyIDidntReport, #ShoutYourAbortion etc. women are charging forward with stories of bravery, strength and vulnerability. I humbly suggest we allow ourselves the space to laugh, alongside all that bravery and vulnerability. At ourselves. At our abusers. At an archaic patriarchal system that barely allows for the notion that women are multifaceted. It feels some days that the belief is women are either strong, educated and serious or flighty, giggly and airheaded. Well, I can be all of those things damnit!
When I think back to that pivotal moment, when I got tired of my own shit, I must admit I didn’t suddenly throw on rose-coloured glasses and start giggling. I first became very serious. I entered the social work field with my capital T trauma under one arm and my well-practiced serious face ready to dismantle the patriarchy with narrow-minded determination. This wasn’t a laughing matter. Abusers were abusing. Systems of oppression were oppressing. This was no time to joke!
However, about 10 years, 3 postsecondary programs in the social justice field, and an undisclosed amount of frown lines later, abusers are still abusing. Systems of oppression are still oppressing. And I was burnt out.
We live in a world where American women are fighting to keep basic healthcare from being dialed back nearly 50 years (seriously?!) and too many men are clutching their neckties, gasping at the very notion that women NEVER enjoyed being sexually harassed at work (shocking!) and while those aren’t laughing matters, they are laughable. So here’s what I’m suggesting: after pounding the pavement, shouting for equality and listening in solidarity to victims and survivors bare their wounds, could we make room for a couple of giggles? A chuckle? That often elusive belly laugh?
The power it takes to keep a movement going comes directly from the strength of the people in that movement. And if the people in that movement are all serious all the time, when are we taking the time to rejuvenate ourselves?
Self-care doesn’t only come in the form of bubble baths, yoga and meditation; it can also come in the form of gallows humour and inappropriate jokes among friends.
Spend time with anyone whose employment brings them regularly into the dark underworld and you will learn of gallows humour. You will hear jokes that make you gasp in horror and think: that is NOT funny. And while you will likely be right, the joke or comment probably isn’t all that funny, what it is is necessary. This necessary pause from horror, from the degradation of human beings, from the constant fight to move forward provides a moment to breathe. Or, even better, a moment where you find yourself gasping for air after laughing so hard you sit there silently slapping your hands together and wiping tears from your face. Laughter, as they say, heals the soul. Bring on those belly laughs says I.
I would particularly like to smash the notion that victims and survivors have had their humour stolen from them. People admire us for our strength, which is understandable. I know I am pretty damn strong for having survived what I did. But what about my ability to laugh? To be happy and dance in the aisles of supermarkets? Admire me for that. Praise my ability to claw my way out of the darkness and find joy in every day that I exist past the abuse I endured. Because that is the hardest thing I have ever had to learn how to do. And it’s the best thing I have ever done.
We may all be fighting our individual battles but together we are an army, challenging our world to be better. Our wins mean that while abusers may still be abusing, they are starting to be called out and held accountable for their actions. We may not have dismantled the systems of oppression — yet — but we are shining a big, bright light on it and declaring that change MUST happen. And it will. But, alas, as we know a revolution takes time. And energy.
So let’s energize ourselves. Let’s fight together. Let’s cry together. And let’s also laugh together.
