Tears Of A Clown

Sang it, Smokey.

But ain’t too much sadder than…

Being funny is… funny.

Laughter, in general, is easily my most cherished emotion. I love laughing; I love making people laugh. And, allegedly, I’m pretty good at the latter. I’m proud of that fact because as much as I love to laugh, I love even more to share in laughter with someone else.

The interesting conundrum that comes with this territory, though, is that once you have been established as the “funny one”, you are nothing but. And in an ideal world, I would love to always be the clown, facilitating the pure joy of my audience.

But, that ain’t real.

…

Shit about to get real, however.

Pinchers, as you know, I’m a sharing creature. Mostly laughter, cuteness, foolery and the like. Today, I share this: I’ve recently entered therapy.

It was a road hesitantly-traveled at first, but I finally got here. Ever since I was a child, I was the embodiment of “laugh to keep from crying.” I exploited my goofy nature as a protective umbrella, hovering over the darkness of loneliness. And lawd, was I lonely. Lawd, AM I lonely. You know that feeling of feeling most lonely within a crowd of people? That.

And I used my wild imagination to help combat that. Or more accurately, to escape that. I still do today. It’s what lead me to being a writer.

My biggest roadblock to therapy has admittedly been pride. Not ashamed of what therapy is because I have always been an advocate for it… for other people. It’s easy for me to dispense advice, not so much to take that very advice.

I am the epitome of “keeping a straight face” despite dying inside. I’ve been commended for this supposed talent at work and praised for it at home. I have a smile to envy the brightness of the sun itself, but sometimes… it’s a clown’s smile. Painted-on.

I am usually the go-to person for advice, help, assistance and anything in between. And I do it happily. I’m the person who honestly loves to surprise someone with a gift than being surprised with one myself. But throughout that, it’s easy to forget that sometimes the roles have to be reversed. I can’t handle all of my own problems any more than the very people I help can with theirs. I’m certainly not super-woman, but I sure act like it. This ain’t an Oscar-winning role, though… this is life.

I needed help. I need help. The heartbreaks, stress, tragedy and trauma that has colored my life a dull grey was outlined by the bright yellow of my foolery. And it took me a while to take off the clown costume, to take off the super-woman costume, to take off the “Cheekie” costume… and expose me.  And I felt naked. I felt vulnerable. I felt — and this is the scariest part of all — free.

As I type this, I have to let ya’ll know that I had this post brewing in my mind for a while now. In fact, ideally, I wanted to write it before I my first appointment. But as of now, I’ve been to two sessions. What my ideal and the real have in common though, is that I wanted this to come straight from the heart.

As I ramble off my heartstrings to ya’ll, tears are slipping from my eyes and onto the keyboard. And yet I keep writing.

I’m not even entirely sure what my ultimate goal is in writing this. Simply to share, to inspire, to remove the stigma? All of the above? Even more than that? I don’t know.

What I do know is that I’m in the process of healing myself and it was of utmost importance that I share this. I’m only two sessions in and I’m already pretty sure that therapy is one of the best things that will even happen to me. Because it’ll only serve as a catalyst to other great things I want/need in my life. And the timing is so divine in relation to the many opportunities that are the horizon for me, it has left me speechless. It has only showed me that I need this… to move forward with that.

Laughter is fantastic. Laughter to the point of crying is even better. Today, I ask you to simply… cry with me.

Love ya like Dumbo loves to fly,

Cheekie