When The Joke Isn’t Funny

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Life’s a joke. It certainly isn’t funny. But, more specifically, I’ve noticed how pain (mostly physical pain, but emotional pain, as well) affects my sense of humour. It puts a rather large dent in my ability to “take a joke”.

In regards to emotional pain, when there’s a sensitive issue, an insensitive person, believing themselves to be funny, can reduce me to a quivering mass of tears.

Today, I overheard an obtuse and insensitive family member tease my son, joking that he should be sent to National Service until he learns to do as he’s told.

My son’s chronic disobedience is a problem, yes. But, saying this to my 7 year old boy made him very upset. He didn’t find anything funny about it. And, a sensitive and observant person who claims to love my son should know that he fears being “sent away” from home. To him, this was a nightmare, not a joke. So, then, not only was my son terrified by the scenario he couldn’t see as funny, he was then further berated for not being able to take a joke.

Now, if someone looking from the outside only saw this one situation, you might assume my son doesn’t have much of a sense of humour. But, you would be sooooo wrong.

We call him “the funny dude” for a reason. He has had, from a very early age, a grasp on comedy and a highly developed ability to see and share the hilarious. He IS a FUNNY dude. He can make AND take a joke. However, he has a sensitivity (and anxiety) when it comes to the idea that his dad and I wouldn’t be there; a fear that he’s going to be “sent away”. He doesn’t want to contemplate it. There’s no logical reason for him to be scared that we would send him away, but that’s the thing about anxieties and phobias: they don’t follow your bloody reasoning and logic.

The thing is, if there is a raw spot or pain somewhere, the joke (no matter how you see it from your perspective) is not going to be seen as a joke to me or, now I can see, my boy. We will see it as a threat. It is either YOUR threat. Or it is Life’s threat. And, it – Life – has chosen you, you bastard, as its mouthpiece. Life is shit enough without you being an arsehole and causing added trauma.

I believe my boy will grow out of this sensitivity as he gets older and realises that being “sent away” just isn’t going to happen. And, I want him to behave, of course. I want a lot of things for myself in the way of self-improvement. But, your arsehole therapy is NOT going to get us there. Laughter is very good medicine, but it only works to heal us if we’re the ones who are laughing.

Why is there an owl picture with this post? I wanted something cute and cuddly to look at while I ranted.

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The Trial and Travail

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So, my psychiatrist told me that medication is all trial and error, that it would be great if they could just run a blood test and know what would work for me…but, they can’t; you never know what you’re going to get because all the meds effect everyone differently.

I have now tried eight different meds for depression and anxiety and I keep returning to duloxetine as the lesser of all evils.

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My last trial (and, what a trial it was), before again returning to duloxetine, was with escitalopram.

The good points..well, there was only one good point, and it was a very good point: I could reach orgasm again easily. It was delightful to not have to work so hard… the relief from frustration… the glorious intensity of pleasure. However…

The broken pieces of glass in my head would not stay put. Crashing and slicing around, they blinded me with mental and emotional agony. Thus, not doing much as an ANTI-depressant. Then, there was the physical pain which forced me to my bed.

Maybe, prior to taking duloxetine, I hadn’t realised the severity of physical pain I was in. I knew my body hurt most of the time, but it was…manageable, compared to the mental/emotional anguish.

Now, the pain in my body was intense and overwhelming, further contributing to a downward spiral.

And, so, I stopped taking the escitalopram and started again on the duloxetine. Bye bye easy orgasms but, also, goodbye crippling pain.

It’s sad that in numbing the bad, the good gets numbed as well. And, as far as mood…I still want to die…but, the duloxetine helps me function by effectively killing the physical pain.

The duloxetine also holds the glass in my head in check; it dulls the sharp, jagged edges, doing little for anxiety and low mood, but keeping full blown psychosis at bay.

It’s no way to live, it’s just a way to exist a little better, to (I detest this word) survive (bleurgh, I spit that word out with hatred).