Laughing the pain away
Being mentally ill is the only prerequisite for taking the Comedy Courage course, which teaches people how to be standup comics. Who says the talking cure is dead? ALEXANDRA GILL asks
The Globe and Mail
By ALEXANDRA GILL
Wednesday, May 5, 2004 - Page R1
VANCOUVER -- Imran Ali suffers from schizophrenia.
"That's a problem," the standup comedian cracks, "because I used to enjoy it."
Ali also has gender dysphoria. "That's when you like to dress in women's clothes," he explains, smoothing down a flowing auburn wig as the rest of the class eggs him on.
"Having schizophrenia and gender dysphoria is great," he continues. "If I don't like the dress I have on, I can just hallucinate a new one."
If you thought most standup comedians were nuts, welcome to Comedy Courage -- a course where some sort of mental-health issue is a mandatory requirement. And that's no joke.
"This is the best form of therapy I've ever had," says Darcy James Goral, one of the two co-founders of this free 12-week course, sponsored by the Burnaby Mental Wealth Society, which culminates with a fundraising showcase tonight at the Sandman Hotel in downtown Vancouver.
Two years ago, Goral was in the midst of a breakdown. "I was angry, depressed, my mind was out in left field," explains the graphic art designer, who still takes medication for post-traumatic stress disorder, a condition triggered when he was sexually assaulted.
One day, a friend invited Goral to The Lighter Side of Mental Health, a standup show at Peace Arch Hospital featuring David Granirer, a local comedian and counsellor. When Goral arrived, Granirer presented him with a button that read "I'm OK but you need professional help!" (the title of Granirer's forthcoming book). The next day, Goral signed up for Granirer's standup comedy clinic at Langara College.
"The clinic was never intended to be therapeutic," explains Granirer, who first discovered his knack for delivering comedy while teaching training sessions for volunteers at the Vancouver Crisis Centre. But after teaching the college course for eight years, he couldn't help noticing how making fun of their problems had helped many students overcome long-standing depressions and phobias. One woman who was deathly afraid of flying, he explains, hopped on a plane for the first time after the course was finished.
"She said if she could do standup comedy, she could do anything," Granirer explains. "There's something incredibly healing about telling a roomful of people exactly who you are and having them cheer."
Goral says the $300 clinic, which taught him how to write and deliver his own standup routine, certainly worked for him. "Being able to tell my story through comedy knocked out the shame I'd been carrying around for 10 years."
It also gave him the courage to approach the board of the Burnaby Mental Wealth Society with an idea that many thought was, well, a little crazy.
"I wanted to make the course available to other people who couldn't afford it, but might benefit from it," Goral says. This year's inaugural course was completely funded by corporate sponsorship, which Goral solicited. Tonight's showcase and auction is intended to raise money for next year's course.
The program is not meant to be a substitute for therapy or medication, Granirer stresses. But for some people, like the 14 extroverts in this class, it can boost confidence and self-esteem.
"It's kind of like a supercharged support group," says Granirer, who himself is diagnosed with depression. "But unlike AA or other AA-type groups, where you're expected to listen in respectful silence, everyone here is expected to laugh out loud.
"The idea is that by laughing at our setbacks, we rise above them. It makes people go from despair to hope, and hope is crucial to anyone struggling with adversity."
Back in the basement of West Burnaby United Church, where the class is in their final dress rehearsal, the only thing "Wacky Jacky" Johnston is struggling with is an uncontrolled case of hysterics.
When Ali starts sashaying around to a warbly rendition of Tip Toe Through the Psych Ward, his fellow classmate can't stop shrieking with laughter.
"Oh, what has my life come to," she cries, banging her feet on the floor. "All of a sudden I'm beginning to relate to you, Imran. You're really funny today."
Granirer shoots her a look of amused concern. "Wow, it looks like someone isn't taking their meds today."
"I'm self-medicating," Johnston explains, still laughing her head off.
"Okay," says Granirer. "But next time you decide to go off your medication, try not to do it the day before the gala."
For the next hour, each class member gets up and presents their four-minute monologue. Some are funnier than others. Some stumble with their lines. Some express nervousness about the upcoming showcase. No one seems overly concerned about flopping.
Some might consider it kind of risky to have schizophrenics get up on stage to joke about the voices in their heads. Granirer, however, says such biased preconceptions about mental-health patients as fragile wallflowers is just one of the myths the program is trying to address.
"There is a belief that people with mental illnesses are not capable of functioning in society, or holding down jobs or living a full life or getting up on stage to do comedy. People think 'Oh, my God. They're so vulnerable. If they fail, they might commit suicide.' The truth is, these people have survived all sorts of abuse and neglect. They're incredible survivors. And they choose to do this. Not a lot of people out there are capable of doing standup comedy. If they have a tough night, they'll be able to handle it."
Indeed, Roseanne Gervais, a self-described control freak, says she doesn't want to get rid of her butterflies. "I just want them to fly in formation," she jokes.
This self-proclaimed "queen-sized queer" says Comedy Courage has given her a voice and helped her find a punch line to her problems.
"I've made more progress in the last six months than I did in 16 years," says Gervais, who jokes about lesbianism, the trials of Prozac and the controlling mother in her act.
"I've found a way to talk to my family about these issues. Before it was impossible, they just brushed it off. Now, they listen because it's a joke, but they still hear the message."
Prozac and the psych ward
Norm Conrad: My doctor told me I could never take Prozac as I might go off and kill someone. Is that really what I'd do if I cheered up?
Ron McIntyre: I've run into a few of my old counsellors and therapists in different places. That's why I'm not allowed to drive any more.
Phyllis Parsons: My family doesn't understand mental illness. They don't understand why it can't be cured by alcohol.
Branwen Willow: I was in the psych ward a while ago. They keep the doors locked. People think it's so the patients can't get out. Actually, it's to keep the staff in.
David Granirer: When I was single, my therapist said that to build my self-esteem, I should be my own date. So I tried it. I made myself pay for everything, wouldn't return my phone calls, and then decided I only liked me as a friend.
David Granirer: When my psychiatrist told me to go on anti-depressants, I said, "No, they'll change my personality." She said, "David, isn't that the whole point?"
John Johnston: Before I was a mental-health consumer, I served in the army reserve. I've had lots of experience with insanity.
John Johnston: When I left the psych ward, I thought my self-esteem was as low as it could go. Then I got a job at 7-Eleven.
For more information about Comedy Courage:
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