Of laughter and Hitchhiking Ghosts

“Laughter is the best medicine.”

In my Family that wasn’t so much a philosophy as it was an actual survival instinct. My parents laughed about everything: trauma, sadness, loss. Nervous giggles became a common trait amongst the three of us. I’ve lost count of how many times I joked about my father’s death since it happened.

However, there is one type of laughter that I’ve forgotten about until very recently.

You see, as a child, I was terrified of ghosts and monsters. If I woke up to pee, I would have a twenty minutes discussion with my brain over the fact that I needed to cross the dark hallway alone. Horror movies were to be kept at arm’s length from me at all times. I mean, my father had to put me in a headlock so that he could read me the end of Harry Potter and the Philosopher Stone. I was too afraid of Voldemort and wanted to quit (and even after the happy ending, I wouldn’t pick up the series again until I was fourteen).

There was one supernatural themed thing I couldn’t get enough of though: Disney’s Haunted Mansion. Now wait a minute, I can already hear you thinking “Júlia, Haunted Mansion is not scary.” Maybe you’re right, but I’ll ask you to keep in mind that 1- I was afraid of my own shadow back then; and 2- as a Brazilian that didn’t know any English, the ride consisted of dark rooms with occasional jump scares — starting with a skeleton that hung himself to death and a piercing scream. From all I know about four-year-old me, I should’ve been terrified.

And yet, I wasn’t.

My parents had a plan. A magnificent and simple plan. They would point and laugh at everything that would scare me, turning it all into this great joke. My favorite part was the end. Whenever we got to the Hitchhiking Ghosts, my parents would loudly and flamboyantly tell them no. “No. We’re not picking you up. No. You’re not coming with us. No. Don’t even ask.” If you don’t know the ride, the next room is a wall of mirrors where you see yourself safe in your doom buggy, except that one of those three pesky ghosts are now riding along with you.

As the small child of our party, I would be seated in the middle, between my parents, which meant that the ghost would be riding in my lap more often than not. That was the fun part. My parents would take turns “saving” me from the threat. Dad would punch the air above my face, trying to hit the hitchhiker, while my Mom would tell the creature to stay away from her daughter.

Meanwhile, I would giggle because my parents were silly. I didn’t mind the ghost on my lap. I was safe. I was protected. I was laughing.

Unfortunately, I grew up and, along the way, that lesson got lost somewhere in my brain. Before long, I developed an anxiety problem. When you are having an anxiety attack, it feels like you’re dying alone, and no one can help you. You get irrational. No matter how many times you try reasoning with yourself, the anxiety always wins.

At least that’s how it goes for me. I tried talking my way through it. I tried having people reason with me. I tried crying. I tried sleeping. But if I got into a thought spiral, I had to ride it out until it let me go.

Now, for the sake of transparency and because I truly believe in it, I should let you know that I’ve been in therapy for seven years. It helps. A lot. But it helps on the long run. It helps by getting to the root of it all. It helps you deal with it so that the symptom — anxiety — is no longer a problem.

The issue is that, in my case, it doesn’t help when I’m in the middle of an episode. I can’t get out of it, and any coping mechanism that I might’ve learned is as good as nothing. So, you can imagine my surprise when, two years ago, my best friend got me out of an attack without even trying.

I was stressed over some decisions I needed to make, and it finally culminated in an episode that lasted the entirety of a day. A day where I was supposed to meet some friends after their classes. I spent the whole afternoon trying to convince myself to STOP. FREAKING. OUT! Which also meant that I spent the whole time with my mouth sealed shut because if I opened it, I would throw up.

Deciding that enough was enough, I texted said friend apologizing because I wouldn’t make it. When he asked me why, I came clean. Trying to cheer me up, he demanded that I went out with him one hour before we had to meet the others. If I said no, he would call me until I picked up. Calling meant talking. Talking meant opening my mouth. Opening my mouth meant throwing up. I didn’t want to scare my Mom, and I thought I could keep myself in check once I left the house, so I accepted his terms.

Since I didn’t feel well, it took me a long time to dress and even longer to leave. We were supposed to meet at the mall down my street. Because I was late, though, my friend changed his mind and decided to wait outside of my building. It took him ten steps to get me to talk. It took me one more to start spilling my guts, literally.

As my lunch became plant food, I braced myself for the usual worrying and doting that comes from others when they are stuck with you in those situations. The “Are you okay?”, “Do you want anything?”, “Oh my God, what can I do for you?” that take little pieces from my soul bit by bit. Instead, I heard the most amazing sound. My friend was laughing. No, he was guffawing at my situation.

Nothing could be funnier to him. One moment I was there, bent over some plants, going down my spiral, afraid of everything and, the other, I was smiling in confusion. I never came out of an attack so quickly. He popped the claustrophobic bubble around me. It was like the anxiety had never happened. Like he showed me the whole world was still there. Like he punched the anxiety ghost out of my lap.

Without knowing, my friend did precisely what my parents used to do. He didn’t solve any of my problems. The dark rooms and jump scares of my mind were still there. However, he showed me why I wanted to go through those rooms in the first place, something I was beginning to forget.

Because you see, maybe my parents were wrong. Maybe laughter is not the best medicine. Maybe therapy and actual medicine are the best medicine. But laughter, fun, and happiness are why we go through it all. They are what makes the fight worth fighting. Because without laughter, I couldn’t bear the thought of the hitchhiking ghost that is my anxiety.

To quote another Disney property, if laughter isn’t the best medicine, then it’s the sugar the helps the medicine go down. We should all give it a chance; I know I will.

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