Section 1.1: The Impact of Trauma

He guided the conversation thoughtfully, asking, "Given everything you've faced, how have you managed to hold onto your sanity?"

Taking a deep breath, I paused before sharing.

Retaining my sanity amid extreme emotional, mental, and physical trauma? The quick answer? Most of my sanity evaporated right from the start—specifically, within the first hour. Being diagnosed with cancer shatters your connection to your body; everything becomes surreal, and reality feels distant. Even when told you're on the path to recovery, questions linger about whether living still holds any value.

The chemicals administered are lethal, designed solely to eliminate whatever threatens your existence. Modern medicine can't distinguish between harmful and healthy cells, resulting in indiscriminate destruction. The most chilling realization? Sitting in a hospital bed post-surgery and understanding that the very chemicals meant to save you are also wreaking havoc on your body.

I recall the horror of that moment, wanting to tear the IV out and flee the hospital. What would I do next? Who knows? Maybe plunge into the abyss of despair lurking at the edge of my consciousness, as many of my thoughts lack resolution.

What if I dashed out, with the hospital gown flapping behind me? What could they do? Drag me back? Call security?

In a state of panic, logic takes a backseat, and the only thought is a desperate desire to escape the chemicals—if only for a fleeting moment.

The latter part of that realization is crucial: "It can’t get worse than this." Once you've defined rock bottom, minor inconveniences like misplacing keys or facing a temporary financial setback transform from panic-inducing moments into thrilling challenges.

Let me elaborate. I assume you're familiar with Simon Sinek, the British-American author and motivational speaker? If not, look him up. In a speech he delivered in 2018, he made a striking comparison between the physiological signs of anxiety and excitement. Essentially, both feelings share similar bodily responses, but our mental interpretation differs.

Imagine this: you're on a plane returning home from vacation, and the pilot warns of turbulence. Instinctively, you brace yourself. Your heart races, your palms sweat, and you envision the worst. Now, consider a moment of pure joy, such as winning an award. Your heart races, your palms sweat—again, the same physical responses. Sinek concludes that we can retrain our minds to view anxiety as excitement.

That's precisely what I did, but with a twist: everything became exhilarating. Nothing could compare to the terror of nearly dying in post-anesthesia care while medical staff struggled to stabilize me. It doesn't get worse than being told after four grueling rounds of chemotherapy that I needed two more, or that a single surgery wasn't sufficient, necessitating another operation.

Is this a joke? It certainly sounds like one.

Throughout my treatment and recovery, I experienced it all—embarrassing moments to outright terrifying incidents. From vomiting on myself to relying on someone else for basic hygiene, I endured it all. Everyone witnessed my body’s struggles, and I sat front-row to the chaos. You think it’s challenging to observe from a distance? Try experiencing it firsthand without the mental connection to your physical self. That understanding takes months, if not years, to unravel.

I often discuss the emotional rift between mind and body. The trauma alters everything, much like a wildfire devastates a landscape. Over time, new growth emerges from the scorched earth, signifying that life persists. This metaphor captures what recovery feels like.

Section 1.2: The Journey of Recovery

Learning to reconnect with my body—regaining sensitivity in my extremities, rebuilding gut health, regrowing nose hairs, and eventually walking again—signified growth. I was no longer bleeding or on display. Instead, I was evolving, learning, and grappling with the challenge of reintegration.

I feel different, vulnerable, and exposed. My story is widely known, a choice I made. But it also means that few truly comprehend the depth of my experience. Some come close, especially those who have faced similar battles, but for most, I feel out of place. My life has been on hard mode, with relentless challenges that left me battered and struggling for months. Without my support system, I might not have endured.

To navigate these dark periods, my mind resorts to humor, turning everything into a joke. Everything becomes a source of laughter—stubbing my toe, a broken relationship, misplaced keys, burnt rice, financial woes. I chuckle my way through it all, realizing that despite the effort it takes to crawl into bed each night, it’s still far less harrowing than an hour of chemotherapy, where every second feels like a battle for survival.

On tougher days, I still find ways to laugh at my missteps. Why get upset over forgetting milk or burning dinner? Life’s absurdity is hilarious.

"Bad luck with your rice? Were you not paying attention?"

Honestly? I probably wasn't focused. Or perhaps a momentary lapse of reason—something that happens so often that losing my train of thought mid-conversation becomes one of the funniest outcomes.

But you know what fixes these trivial issues? Laughter.

"Haha, where were we? Can you believe I burnt my rice again? Haha!" The mind adjusts, and before you know it, you embody the essence of the Joker—a dark humor enveloping you. Yet, nothing a hearty laugh can’t shake off.

Section 2: The Facade of Humor

The funniest part? How many people I can deceive with this approach. Almost everyone! I can blend in seamlessly, and no one suspects a thing. "He’s just a cheerful guy," or "He doesn’t take life too seriously." While that may not always hold true, the reality is laughter serves as a coping mechanism for a mind desperate to cling to its remaining sanity. It seeks to preserve some semblance of normalcy.

However, not everyone is fooled—especially those with emotional intelligence who can see through this façade and offer the compassion and respect I genuinely require.

Once, someone asked me, "You laugh a lot; what percentage of your laughter is genuine?" It took me a moment to grasp the question, feeling exposed as if my secret coping strategy had been laid bare under a scorching spotlight.

How dare they unmask my survival tactics! I replied that perhaps 40% of my laughter was sincere, with the remaining 60% serving as a mask to conceal the daily agony I face.

Why? Because most people who ask, "How are you?" don’t truly care. Offering a lighthearted answer expedites the conversation far better than delving into the darkness that demands processing.

There have been moments when I sensed myself spiraling into darkness, imagining my laughter morphing into something reminiscent of Heath Ledger's Joker—maniacal and devoid of reason. The Joker finds humor in everything. If I descended to that level, it would signify that I was on the brink of losing the last shred of sanity I possessed.

After all, I could easily echo the infamous line, "Do you want to know how I got these scars?" spoken with a calm yet sinister smile. Only instead of facial cuts, I could show you the six permanent scars etched into my body.

Now, I might concede that masking my emotions through laughter is a crutch that detracts from necessary processing. However, much of that inner work happens behind the scenes—through meditation or quiet moments alone, devoid of distractions.

Time spent in solitude allows for the shedding of the mask, facilitating deeper processing. Moreover, I advocate for the notion that genuine joy can emerge from "fake-it-till-you-make-it" or "just-pretend" sentiments. If you surround yourself with vibrant, joyful people, real happiness will inevitably surface.

With this perspective, I choose to embrace my laughter as a coping strategy to navigate the emotional turbulence of my tragedies. That cheerful smile, illuminating even the darkest corners of my mind, grants me the opportunity to rebuild, recover, and ultimately lead myself toward a more joyful existence.

While I may never forget the horrors I’ve faced, balancing the deep, dark moments with the bright, beautiful ones seems like a sound approach to achieving emotional stability.

The first video, "The Mask (1994) - Funny Jim Carrey Scene," showcases how humor can emerge in unexpected situations, much like my experiences with laughter.

The second video, "LAUGHING CHEWBACCA MASK LADY (FULL VIDEO)," highlights the absurdity and joy that can be found even in challenging circumstances, resonating with my journey of using laughter as a coping mechanism.

Want to engage with more of my work? Come find me and my narrations (freely) on my Remaining Mark Substack: