A lot of mental health advice is obvious. Take a walk outside. Drink water. Breathe. For the record, I support these measures. I think we should all breathe and drink water, although not at the same time. I also support walking outside, even if I sometimes suspect it’s just a marketing campaign from Big Tree. (Note for fact-checkers: “Big Tree” is not a real organization. I made it up for comic effect). I do a lot of things for comic effect; as a comedian and comedy studies scholar, it’s encouraged. For example, I was asked to write this article about the mental health benefits of comedy, and so far all I’ve managed to do is impugn trees by implying they’re part of some shady organization.
I apologize for the above paragraph.
I resist the sentiment that comedy, by nature, is beneficial to our mental health. We take it as a given that laughter is good for the soul, and I agree, except I would like some clarity regarding what, or who, we’re laughing at. The difficult truth is, laughter is good for the soul sometimes, and corrosive other times. When the bully pushes the child into the mud puddle and everybody laughs, I can’t endorse that. It’s not good for the child to be laughed at, but it is also damaging for the bully to laugh. Comedy is like poetry: you can write a poem about any old thing, you can use it to support or dismantle oppression, to give people hope or stoke their fears. Comedy is less a product than an approach, a style, a practice. It is a way of navigating a world that prizes irreverence and fun over the sacred and the somber. But if one is too irreverent, one risks becoming anti-social. Perhaps the answer is to seek balance. Just as a person can poison themselves if they drink too much water (fact-checkers: ask somebody in Health and Human Physiology if that’s true), perhaps the secret to mental health is to avoid extremes.
However, we live in extreme times. When thinking about my own mental health, I don’t know if I need to go to a comedy show so much as I need the world to have fewer horrors. Since I don’t get to control the horrors (fact-checkers: if this is untrue, let me know ASAP), my next best move is to help my loved ones and I muddle through as best we can. Here, comedy offers a path forward: Community.
At its heart, comedy requires agreement. I tell a joke, you laugh, thus signaling your agreement with the underlying idea of my joke. If I make a joke that puts forth a point of view you fundamentally don’t agree with, you’ll never laugh, even if the joke features an excellent tree pun. This is a reason why good comedy feels so satisfying. A room full of individuals can blur into one organism, a crowd, which then is stoked into waves of ecstasy. There is catharsis and belonging. There is the feeling of being understood. Group laughter shrinks haunting specters and empowers the once frightened with feelings of solidarity. Comedy gives solace to the wounded and strength to the soldiers.
Or it can split us into groups and pit us against each other. Comedy is a weapon that anyone can wield.
Still, I’ll take it. Laughing at the horrors is better than being silenced by them. It can be a wonderful stress reliever, and I will take any relief I can get. But I try to choose my targets carefully. I am not interested in sowing more division. In this life, I want my laughter to lead to more love.
(Did I just recommend “live, laugh, love” as a mental health strategy? That’s what I get for writing this in a HomeGoods.)
They say laughter is the best medicine, which is true except for actual medicine. If my back goes out, I would prefer ibuprofen to your warm-hearted chuckles. But for wounds of the spirit, muscle spasms of the heart, arthritic pains of the soul, laughter can be a balm. And while I’m dubious of claims that it’s a cure-all, I am also deeply suspicious of those with no sense of humor. In difficult times, laughter can pluck up our courage. For your own peace of mind, take my advice: lighten up!