Where Did My Laughter Go?

The Smile That Stayed Behind 

A few weeks ago I found myself sitting at a table with a group of people I have known for years. It was one of those completely ordinary gatherings that seem so unimportant at the time that nobody would think of remembering them later. Someone had made coffee. Someone else had brought a cake. The conversation wandered wherever conversations among familiar people usually wander. A little about work, a little about children and grandchildren, a little about politics, and a little about how things used to be better, although nobody seemed entirely sure in what way.

Then somebody made a remark.

Today I have no idea what was actually said. The joke itself has long since disappeared from memory. What remained was the reaction. Around the table people burst out laughing. One man almost spilled his coffee. A woman beside him bent forward and wiped tears from her eyes. Even the person who made the joke started laughing at his own comment. The laughter rolled around the table for another minute or two before the conversation slowly continued.

I smiled.

The joke was genuinely funny. I understood it immediately. It wasn't one of those situations where everybody laughs because everybody else is laughing. It really was amusing.

Yet while the others continued laughing, I simply sat there and watched them. And somewhere in the middle of that scene a strange thought appeared. Where did my laughter go? 

Not my sense of humor. That is still very much alive. I still enjoy a good sarcastic remark. Human stupidity continues to entertain me enormously, especially when I happen to be the stupid human in question. I enjoy absurd situations, misunderstandings and those moments when somebody tries very hard to appear intelligent and achieves precisely the opposite. Those things still make me smile.

But somewhere along the road I seem to have lost the ability to laugh properly. Not politely. Not socially. Not the little smile that tells others, "Yes, I understood the joke." I mean real laughter. The kind that catches a person by surprise. The kind that arrives before dignity has time to intervene. The kind that makes your stomach hurt. The kind that makes you forget yourself for a few moments.

I cannot even remember when that happened.

Blaming Age, Then Life 

For a while I blamed age. That seemed like a reasonable explanation. People become more serious as they grow older. At least that is what I told myself.

Then I met men twenty years older than me who laughed like mischievous schoolboys every time somebody said something remotely inappropriate. That theory did not survive very long.

Life had probably made me serious, I thought next. That sounded much better. Writers always like blaming life for things. It sounds dramatic and meaningful.

Life has certainly not always been easy. There were periods of anxiety, periods of depression, alcohol problems, poor sleep, and enough unnecessary worrying to keep several psychologists comfortably employed for years. But if I am honest, life has also been good to me in many ways. Most of the disasters I worried about never happened. Most of the problems that did happen eventually became stories.

And besides, I know people who have suffered far more than I have and still laugh more often. So that explanation did not quite satisfy me either.

The Laughter Fueled by Whiskey 

The more I thought about it, the more I started remembering isolated moments from the past. One of them happened years ago at work. A colleague said something ridiculous. It was funny, certainly, but not so funny that it should have produced the reaction that followed.

I laughed so hard that people turned around to see what was happening. For several minutes I could barely breathe. For a long time I remembered that event with a certain nostalgia. Then one day another detail quietly returned.

I had been drunk. Very drunk. The laughter had probably less to do with the quality of the joke than with the fact that alcohol had temporarily disconnected every brake in my brain. Looking back, I am not even entirely sure I laughed because the joke was funny. Part of me was probably performing. Part of me wanted attention. Alcohol often disguises itself as spontaneity when in reality it is something quite different.

The memory became a little less romantic after that.

The Months When It Returned 

Another memory appeared from a much later period. For several months I lived in a surprisingly relaxed environment. There were no major responsibilities. No complicated problems. No endless list of unfinished tasks. Nobody expected anything special from me and I didn't expect much from myself either. My biggest concern on most days was deciding what to do with the afternoon.

During that period something interesting happened. The laughter returned. Not dramatically. Not every day. But often enough that I noticed it. I laughed more easily. More naturally. Sometimes at things that were not particularly funny. A ridiculous misunderstanding. A badly timed comment. Some completely absurd situation that would normally pass unnoticed.

At the time I didn't think much about it. Only years later did I connect those memories. For a brief period, life had stopped demanding constant vigilance from me. And perhaps that matters more than I realized.

Watching Myself Too Closely 

Over the years I became very good at watching myself. I learned to pay attention to changes in mood. I learned to recognize anxiety before it gained momentum. I learned to notice the first signs of depressive thinking. I learned to keep an eye on the old addictive habits that occasionally still wander through my mind looking for an unlocked door.

This ability has helped me enormously. Without it, I suspect life would have been much more difficult. But sometimes I wonder whether every skill comes with a hidden price.

You cannot spend years observing yourself without becoming slightly separated from yourself. Part of me is always watching. Always paying attention.Always evaluating.

The moment something happens, another part of my mind quietly steps back and starts taking notes.

Useful? Absolutely.

Relaxing? Not particularly.

The strange thing about laughter is that it seems to require the exact opposite state. Nobody analyzes while laughing uncontrollably. Nobody monitors their posture while laughing. Nobody carefully evaluates their emotional state in the middle of a fit of laughter.

For a few moments the observer disappears. Only the experience remains.

That thought led me toward another possibility. Perhaps anxiety has more to do with this than I first assumed. Not severe anxiety. Not panic attacks. Just the habit of vigilance. Years of looking ahead. Years of preparing for possible problems. Years of carrying responsibilities around like a backpack you forget you're wearing.

My nervous system becomes accustomed to scanning for danger, inconvenience, discomfort, unfinished tasks and potential mistakes.

Laughter, on the other hand, seems to require a feeling of safety. Not logical safety. Emotional safety. The feeling that nothing urgently needs solving right now. The feeling that for a few moments it is permissible to stop being responsible. To stop preparing. To stop monitoring. To simply be present.

Perhaps that explains why children laugh so easily. They are not trying to manage their lives. They are not maintaining an identity. They are not worrying about retirement plans, health insurance, blood pressure or whether they remembered to answer an email. Somebody makes a funny noise and they collapse onto the floor laughing. Meanwhile adults need an entire committee meeting before granting themselves permission to enjoy anything.

What Did I Exchange It For? 

As I sat there remembering all this, I began to suspect that my laughter had not disappeared at all. It was probably still there somewhere. Buried beneath years of seriousness, responsibility, self-control and the habit of constantly observing myself.

Every now and then it still appears unexpectedly. Usually when I least expect it. Some absurd mistake. Some ridiculous misunderstanding. Occasionally a friend says something so perfectly timed and so wonderfully stupid that even my internal observer gives up trying to maintain order.

For a few seconds I forget myself. And there it is, the old laughter. A little rusty perhaps, but unmistakably alive.

Looking for It Again 

So the real question is not where my laughter went. Perhaps the better question is what I exchanged it for.

Responsibility? Self-control? Caution? Observation? Maybe a little of all four.

Some of those trades were probably necessary. Some may even have been wise. But lately I have started wondering whether I gave away slightly too much.

Because laughter is not just entertainment. It feels healthy. It opens the lungs. It wakes up the body. It clears something from the mind that cannot be cleared by thinking. For a few moments it loosens the grip of seriousness and reminds us that life is not only a collection of problems waiting to be solved.

And perhaps that is why I keep returning to the question. Not because I want answers but because I would like that laughter back. Not once, many times.

The world remains full of absurd people, absurd situations and absurd mistakes, including my own. It would be a shame not to laugh at them.