It's Good to Talk

The other night, I tried something I’ve not tried before: I told jokes to a room full of (mainly) strangers about mental health. I dabble in standup comedy, something at which I’m mediocre – I have stock, observational material about Colindale, modern life, travel and other everyday things, and I can tell a story and do a range of accents. I’m generally inoffensive and, while I don’t get squeals of laughter, I can make people crack a smile.

Comedians will tell you nothing is off limits. Cue, therefore, jokes about Malaysian Airlines, suicide bombers and paedophilia. But you don’t often hear jokes about mental illness. Perhaps people think it’s in bad taste, or perhaps they think it’s just not funny. But, like everything else, it is.

“I’ve just gone on antidepressants”, I begin. A single shriek of laughter from one of the audience, followed by an anticipatory silence from everyone else who looks to see where the laugh has come from. “That’s not meant to be the funny bit!” I say, to uncomfortable chuckles. I then go on to tell them that, since I have gone on antidepressants, all of my “suggested posts” from Facebook have been for mental health charities, or inviting me to run (my other hobby) half marathons for Mind. “This is a great thing to do to someone who is mentally unstable. To effectively say [cue creepy voice]. Hi there. We know you’re mental. We’ve been watching you.”

I realise this isn’t hilariously funny, but it broke the ice enough that, when I said my next line – “I had more jokes about mental health, but I’m in two minds about doing them” – it got the groan it deserved.

We’re always being encouraged to talk about mental health – the Time to Change campaign is all about doing this, and many workplaces have signed a pledge to do so. Going back on medication meant that last week was my window to talk honestly in my set about it. And it worked.

“You have to laugh at my jokes because I’m on antidepressants and you don’t know what’ll happen otherwise,” I tell my audience, who laugh awkwardly. But a little later another comedian goes onstage and, adlibbing, points to me and says “like this lady I also suffer with depression.” It’s like our own mini I’m Spartacus moment. Without meaning to, I’ve opened up a debate; I’ve made perhaps a few people stop and think for a moment; I’ve made at least one person realise “you’re not alone,” and he has done the same for me.

And you’re not alone. And not being alone makes a world of difference. Going on citalopram, I’ve had two close friends I was able to go to with strange questions like “did everything taste weird and kind of metallic to you? Did your sense of smell increase? When did that go away?” that would make no sense to anyone else. I’ve been, in turn, reassured that the clinging, constant low-level nausea and hangover-like headache will go – and finally, this weekend, they have. And, after my comedy, I gained both new friends and a new sense of determination and confidence that, in a small way, I was doing something good as well as simply throwing out average material at drunk people who will laugh regardless.

You’re not alone, and sometimes, whatever is going on, we should all just get together and have a good laugh about it.

Living my life vicariously through Julian, a Colindale-based cheese plant with Marxist tendencies who, it turns out, doesn't react well to antidepressants either. It's a long story.