Why Won’t My Psychiatrists Punch-Up My Suicide Note?

Laughter is the best medicine. So I’m better than my doctors.

Do you remember your first encounter with bitter disappointment? Your first crushing disillusionment? The first time you looked the universe square in the face like, Oh, so it’s gonna be like that?!

When I was four years old, I was on the set of my favourite television show, The Littlest Hobo. It was about a German Shepherd drifter-dog who solves crimes and helps people. Like any normal four-year-old woman, I wanted the dog’s autograph, so I brought Hobo’s headshot with me. I clutched it in my sweaty little hand, and waited by the craft truck for him to sign it.

People forget what idiots four-year-olds are.

I was met with five German Shepherds, each of whom played the role of Hobo interchangeably. What kind of bizarro world bullshit was this?! After a complete schism tore through my core, and a nervous breakdown in front of the crew- something clicked- like when a spotlight gets switched on, and it slices through the silence and the dark. At that moment, in the prime of my life, my fate was revealed to me- and not in a gentle way. I had believed in Hobo. I was emotionally invested in his dog-character. These five liar-dogs made it clear that life, the universe, and everything, was ambiguous. Irrational. Excessively deceptive. If nothing meant anything and we were all going to suffer, then I may as well get paid for it. I was very good at suffering- better than anyone I could think of. I was already four and I had no time to waste. I needed to channel my preschool-existential-angst. Just as Hobo was born to be a secret-agent-dog, I was born to perform. If these bitches could do it, so could I.

I matriculated at the nearby French kindergarten that year, and I’d already heard mumblings of me being very artistic. I still don’t know what that means. I was never very good at drawing, and I’m as dead inside now as I was then. I was always cute and funny, but if you looked into my kinder-eyes, it echoed. Wait, what? Maybe they meant that I had an artistic temperament, and assumed the rest. Not to brag, but I was getting straight As in kindergarten. That said, the comment section for the teachers on my report card read some variation of “bavarde” “bavarde” “bavarde” (talks too much, can’t focus, chatty, distracted, can’t stay quiet, has ants in pants, etc). I got spanked in class for it, which was totally cool back then, and obviously very helpful. I often wonder what might’ve happened if just once an adult had said, “Ooooh, Clairey! You’re so pragmatic! You have great organizational skills! You’re good at problem-solving! Have you thought of a future doing something tactical?!”. Maybe I would’ve gone down that path.

Before Van Gogh killed himself, he told me he was a big fan.

What do you think people told the famous Renaissance artists (named after famed Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles) when they were kids? Did someone tell Michelangelo he was artistic? Upon seeing the ceiling of The Sistine Chapel, all I could think about was how lazy I am, and how many dicks were painted on it. If you’re ever in Vatican City and you like art, you should totally check that place out- it’s sick.

Putting God and traditions aside, there’s all this art.

Imagine there was no art. If no one had painted the ceiling of The Sistine Chapel, there would be nothing to look up at except God. Ugh. Papal Mass (if you like a good time) would be unrecognizable; no singing, no hymns, no symphony for the fanfare (my fave kind of symphony), and no reading. How could there be? No one wrote scriptures. It would basically look like a few dudes in pants from Sears, with some prayer beads and matches, standing around in nondescript structures. Like an off-track betting parlor.

The beauty of the art holds up the fortress. It compels magic and mysticism. Holy shit.

When a child shows a remarkable ability, people notice. They foster that gift. Those kids grow up, and sometimes their influence helps shape how we think. So we recognize and invest in their potential- schools, focused studies, grants, scholarships, and fellowships- to help us all understand almost any subject in a more advanced, and prolific way.

The best direction I’ve had was at theatre school. A loud, old, scruffy, New York accent screamed at me to, “Go outside. Break your heart. Cry. Come back in.” Jesus.

We tell artists to paint. We need paintings and sculptures of naked people. We tell ballerinas and dancers to dance. We need the ballet, contemporary theatre dance, and reality shows about dancing. Who among us doesn’t enjoy a casual jig? We wouldn’t even know how to do one if there weren’t expert jig people. We tell tall people to play basketball, because we need to watch elite athleticism, healthy competition, and we need Jordans. We tell nerds to become scienticians, because we need rocket-surgeons.

You know what else we need? To laugh. Even Viktor Frankl said that all we had in the end was laughter, and the joke he used as an example wasn’t even that funny.

Me. Massey Hall. A lifetime ago.

So why is no one telling the smart-ass to speak-up, and repeat the joke so everyone can hear it- in the good way? No one’s telling ol’ smart-remark in the back of the class to apply for the Yale School of Comedy, or the Howard School of Hilarity. Comics live on the Island of Misfit Toys and fend for themselves, often with huge egos and little self-esteem. There are no oaths, no standards (apparently), no protection, and absolutely no promises. It requires resilience and self-awareness- two things I do not understand if I’m not onstage.

Don’t underestimate the class clown; three people in my homeroom class became stand-up comics, and the other two guys are really, really funny.

Maybe it’s an art that can't be taught. Maybe it shouldn’t be. I can think of two colleges in the state of California that offer courses in stand-up comedy. The institutions are at opposite ends of the state, and it’s just a coincidence that both teachers are old creeps who were both boning a student within weeks of becoming professors. I don’t know why they both told me. They should know better. Fools.

My step-mother, who is very fancy and doesn’t venture beyond her familiar, fancy surroundings, was taking drawing classes. She was really good. Who says retired business-ladies can’t be artists? (No, seriously, has anyone said that? I’ve never heard of it before.) When she told me a nude model was coming, I was thrilled. I told her to queue up “Cherry Pie” by Warrant or “Pony” by Ginuwine, and play it when the model dropped his sheet. Then, say nonchalantly to the class,

“This is my process, I need music to work, it’s fine, this is totally normal, don’t worry about it… ” She was bewildered.

I explained, “... like a strip-club?!”

No. She’d never been to one. Fair.

“Haven’t you ever seen a tv show or a film where they go to a strip-club?!”

No. She couldn’t even imagine a cliché of a strip-club. She couldn’t understand anything I was talking about. Does anyone ever? Also, didn’t she get married twice? Who planned her bachelorette parties? What kind of woman did my dad marry?! One of my best friends was a nude model. She would’ve found my Cherry Pie joke hilarious, as any normal adult would. She would have brought the music herself.

I was always reprimanded for jokes growing up, but those punishing me were still laughing. They’d try to conceal their laughter and I got a lot of, “don’t encourage her!!!” Jokes won’t save me. Being an actor, a writer, a stand-up comedian? I should’ve focussed on counting stuff. I could've been normal. I’d be different. I loved so many people and so much in my life- but I’d give it all up just to be normal. I’ve never been normal. My teachers and authority figures knew it. Even the five Hobos knew it. Now look at me.

I nearly overdosed after this show. I was so unhappy.

I wish my psychiatrists weren’t burdened with me workshopping jokes for 70% of my appointment. What tags or callbacks can they add? None. They’re doctors (nerds). The other 40% of the time is a combination of me crying about how no one will ever hear the jokes, expressing relief that no one will ever hear the jokes, and wondering why I always get short-changed.

I like to remind my doctors that laughter is the best medicine, which means I’m better than them. I think in their hearts, they already knew.

I already knew going on with life would always hurt. I could either sit there and cry about it, or put on my big-girl pants, and sit there and get paid to cry about it.

And I could get paid to tell jokes. Really, really stupid jokes.

I started a joke which started the whole world crying
But I didn't see that the joke was on me oh no
I started to cry which started the whole world laughing
Oh If I'd only seen that the joke was on me.

“I Started A Joke” Bee Gees