I laugh a lot. Sometimes at things that are funny. Sometimes not so much. I laugh at my mistakes and other peoples, at bad news, good news, tragedy. . . so much so that I often warn strangers that I laugh at inappropriate times, which is quickly followed by an apology for my inappropriateness. My friends know this about me and take it in stride. Strangers, not so much.
Does it mean I’m happy? I’d say 97% of the time, yes. I’m laid-back and easy going; I can ‘laugh’ off just about anything that happens to me, negative or otherwise. But, I’m also a neurotic, anxious, fucked-up mess. who’s been on meds for most of my adult life to assist me with depression and anxiety.
I had my first panic attack at age 18. It was on the freeway, while I was driving to work, and a car pulled in line beside me. I glanced over, as most 18yo girls do, to see if it was a cute boy driving. What I saw instead was a gun pointed at me. Or what I thought was a gun. I’m pretty sure it was actually a coffee cup, but the mind sees what it wants to.
My response was visceral all the same. I swerved to the right shoulder, got my little car stuck in the small incline of ice plant, and proceeded to sweat, cry, and hyperventilate my way through the attack. A nice CHP Officer joined me a short while later to help me free my car, and also taught me some fantastic coping mechanisms that I still house in my arsenal today.
The attacks lessened over time, but I still have two triggers: driving in the rain and candles. We have no candles in our house. Zero. As you can imagine, I’m a ton of fun at Scentsy parties.
My point being . . .
Fuck, I don’t remember my point.
Well, maybe my point is, remember to laugh. At yourself, at life, at death, at it all. If for no other reason that to give the idiom a purpose in life.