A Funny Thing About Sadness

Nothing is even mildly amusing when you’re depressed. The black dog lifted his leg and relieved himself on my head in 1997 and 2007, for several months each time. I can personally testify that the sadness and doom feel like they will never leave. The thought of feeling that way forever was paralyzing. I kept repeating the mantra, “This too shall pass”. It kept me sane and able to soldier on until the coast was clear. You will find no bigger advocate for the combination of anti-depressants and cognitive therapy.

I severely trimmed my schedule when I was depressed. I cancelled gigs. I seldom answered the phone. I went AWOL from my professional life. To those employers whom I knew well enough, I was able to articulate my condition. I am grateful to them for their understanding. In fact, some of them had suffered through depression themselves and were happy to discuss it and offer advice. Their admissions helped me feel less alone. Once I felt myself again, we continued working together. God bless those folks.

During my time in the penalty box, I learned a very useful truth about depression: when I was working, I could shut it off. It sounds unlikely. The last thing a depressed person wants is to be around people who are asking, “What’s wrong?”  But performing in front of a crowd gave me relief. Laughter was literally the best medicine. The effect would usually wear off after a few hours, when I no longer heard the applause.

Research shows that dopamine is a mood boosting neurotransmitter that is released after you reach a goal. Indeed, making people laugh for the better part of an hour was my goal, so when I did my job, the floodgates opened. The dopamine washed over all the desperation, at least for a while.

Every comedian I’ve spoken to during the pandemic has mentioned how “itchy” they’ve gotten because they haven’t been on stage for a while. Indeed, our fulfillment comes from laughter and applause. That’s the boss telling us, “Job well done!” The reward is immediate on stage. They either laugh or they don’t. If a punch line scores big, I get a rush, especially if it’s the first time I’ve tried it. If three jokes bomb in a row, I become a strung-out junkie, feverishly searching for a fix.

Why do you think the Stones, Eagles, U2, Bruce Springsteen, Elton John, etc. are still on tour? It’s not the money. How many cars and homes do they need? It’s the dopamine. Gotta have it. There’s nothing like it. I even find myself trying out new material in conversation with unsuspecting friends and family. I know it’s obnoxious. My apologies. I am researching whether the joke will be funny enough to make it into the act. If the joke works, I get paid off in dopamine. I get high on my own words.

I have several friends who quit comedy, only to return years later. They needed to get high. Instead of patrolling questionable neighborhoods looking for a drug connection, they prowled the open mikes. I’d see them there as I would also be in attendance trying out new stuff, hoping to get a hit of guffaws or at least smiles from a thought that occurred to me the day before.

I certainly don’t blame a lack of stage time on my depressive episodes. My brain chemistry imbalance can’t be explained away that easily. Even though I was able to climb out of the hole, I still can’t articulate how I fell in. The prime issue is what to do so it won’t happen again.  For the last fourteen years, the combination of therapy, Effexor, and lap swimming nonstop for 40 minutes five times a week have kept me of sound mind (Endorphins are my friend.) My therapist of many years retired three years ago. I have been able to keep it together by remembering the lessons I’d learned under his tutelage. Cara has been graciously patient.

I found it nearly impossible to be creative while depressed. But I remember one instance when I couldn’t keep a good joke down: During both bouts I had very little appetite. At one point I lost 15 pounds and got down to 160. Mind you, I was a fat kid, so as an adult I’ve always checked my weight. One afternoon I dragged myself out of bed and stood before the bathroom mirror and pleasantly whispered “Yeah, I could end it all, but I just look too damn good right now!” Even in my woeful state, I was able to remark, “Now, that’s funny.”