THEY say the funniest people are often the saddest.
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Just look at comedians such as Robin Williams, Jim Carrey, Stephen Fry, Owen Wilson and Ellen DeGeneres.
I don’t know what’s sadder – that it happens to these comedic headliners or that it is so prevalent it has its own name: the sad clown.
Those who make people laugh for a living often struggle with mental illness offstage.
This week is World Mental Health Week, which aims to raise awareness of these invisible and debilitating conditions.
And it’s nothing to laugh about. Right now 12 per cent of Australians – that’s three million people – are living with depression or anxiety.
As many as 45 per cent of us are estimated to experience a mental health condition in our lifetimes.
No, that’s not funny either; but never forget, humour can really be the best medicine.
Many of the depressed use humour as a mask – a type of coping mechanism.
By no means am I saying this is a fix for mental illness, but it’s certainly not a bad thing. I can say that, because I have had depression.
Just because people laugh at, sorry, with, me, I’m no stand-up comedian (yet).
But I can relate to people who do use humour to cope with their inner demons.
I love making people laugh and thrive on entertaining others. It makes me feel good.
Understanding depression is almost impossible for people who have never struggled with mental illness.
“Just snap out of it” and “you have so much to be thankful for” are just some of the ignorant statements I have heard through the years.
Depression isn’t a weakness or caused by something within your control. It’s a chemical imbalance in the brain – in other words, an illness, like any other.
And blaming it on weakness or oversensitivity is akin to curing cancer through positive thoughts.
Despite this, there is a lot to be said for optimism in helping manage illness. Humour was just one technique that helped me get through some of my darkest days.
I have always considered myself a happy and confident person, so experiencing depression was unlike anything I had endured before.
It’s like a deep despair that drained me of hope.
Ironically, it's eerily similar to the Swamps of Sadness from my favourite childhood movie, The Neverending Story, where anyone who succumbs to the sorrow of the swamp sinks into the mud and drowns.
The trauma of seeing Artax swallowed by his own despair is as raw as it was the first time I watched it as a seven-year-old (it still makes me bawl as a 42-year-old).
That harrowing scene was so painful, it likely screwed up an entire generation (except me of course).
But it is also reminiscent of the enveloping anguish I suffered when depression reared its ugly head.
No matter what I did, that bleak, black hole inside of me kept growing. Eating at me, from the inside out.
It was an almost physical pain, to the point I couldn’t eat. Great for losing weight, but not much else.
This overwhelming sense of dread was relentless – a torment only relieved by sleep.
The worst part was this fear that those feelings would never end. There was no light at the end of the tunnel.
Until I got help.
Mental health has not been more important than it is right now. The COVID-19 pandemic has turned our world upside-down.
The pain and hardship caused has seen record numbers accessing mental health treatments and supports.
It's good to see the Federal Government, in last week’s Budget, has doubled subsidised mental health services and provided extra support for Lifeline, Headspace, Kids Helpline and Beyond Blue.
But more needs to be done in regional areas such as ours. Psychological help needs to be more affordable and schools, hospitals and workplaces need better access to mental health services.
And then we need better education and awareness.
A staggering one in four people – that’s in the whole world – will be affected by mental or neurological disorders in their lives.
Yet the stigma remains.
We need to remove the shame and guilt attached to mental illness. We need to get rid of the ‘she’ll be right’ and ‘toughen up’ attitude.
Because, sometimes, we're not right despite how tough we are.
Because, not just sometimes, rather too many times, those smiles and laughter may be a shield, masking something more menacing.
MORE MAMA MAYHEM
Seriously, this is no laughing matter