“The human race has only one really effective weapon, and that is laughter.”

– Mark Twain.

I don’t know how and when it happened, but I had forgotten how to laugh. You know, the kind of laughter that comes out naturally, the one where you laugh out loud. Whether you’ve watched a hilarious movie or heard a raunchy joke, you laugh out loud.

It’s only natural, isn’t it?

Except for me, it wasn’t natural. I didn’t know how to laugh out loud. My mind was too preoccupied with harbouring a secret the world mustn’t know about. The trauma of sexual abuse shut me down. I was hyper-focused on trying to live a life where I was always on high alert. I was guarded. I had to make sure the façade that I’m keeping up can’t be distegrated. The façade I was trying to maintain was that I was doing all right, yet on the inside, I would be wrecked with anxiety and stress.

It’s super hard to live with a secret of abuse. The abuse made me feel unworthy. It made me feel shitty. It made me feel like I was not important enough. It made me feel like I was deserving of the abuse; in short, I am a bad person. I might as well disappear. There is no need to laugh. As a result of harbouring a deep secret, I had forgotten how to laugh. I had forgotten how to be human. I remember when the movie Home Alone came out, my friends and I hung out and watched that movie. Everyone in the room was literally laughing out loud, some more than others, except me. All I could do was muster a smile. I was ashamed to laugh out loud. I didn’t allow myself to be “normal” and laugh like the others. Somehow, the act of laughing is “normal”, but I was “abnormal.” Hence, I can’t laugh.

I was 12 years old when I was abused. Then, I was 14 when I was abused by another perpetrator. All through my school and university years, I wouldn’t laugh. Even in moments where I would feel even a semblance of normality, all I would do is smile. It was my cousin in London who pointed it out to me in front of a large group of people;

“Mansour, I’ve noticed you don’t laugh out loud. All of us here are enjoying ourselves, and it feels like you aren’t.”

I was only 18 years old at the time. I felt so embarrassed and sheepish. I didn’t know how to answer that. I did what I usually did: stay silent. Eventually, I did learn how to laugh out loud. But it took a lot of hard work and effort to pretend to laugh out loud, and I did that only to be accepted and fit in with my friends and family. So I started to do that: pretend to laugh and just go along with everyone. It felt very unnatural. I was this way through my work life, through marriage, through a divorce (it was a happy and much-needed divorce), changing careers, travelling and everywhere else.

Fast Forward to December 2023. I am sitting in front of my computer, ready to join the Powerful Books community call. Today, it was supposed to be the Christmas edition. We were given information to change our name, seen on the Zoom window, according to “What is your Elf name?” The first letter of my name translated to Peppermint. Then, the month I was born was May, which translated to McJingles. So, my name for the video call was Peppermint McJingles. We all referred to each other by our Christmas names like Holly Cinnamonshorts, Peppermint Snowybum, Frosty Toffeenuts, and so you get the idea (I bet you have a smile on your face right now!) This magical space, which I had to access to on Zoom, became my safe space. I was the only person in the group who didn’t celebrate Christmas, yet I was accepted and welcomed. No judgment. I felt heard and acknowledged. I felt like I could be authentically me. I felt like no one could hurt me in this space. This was my tribe. This was my family.

Interestingly, after the call ended, I went back to the lounge where Mum was watching a show on the TV, “How was your meeting?” she inquired. (At this point, she didn’t know I was part of the book writing program, so she assumed it was my online session with a client). “Yeah, it went well,” I replied. “I know it went well. I could hear you laughing out loud.” Her words didn’t hit me immediately. Wait, what did she just say? “Sorry, Mum, what did you just say?” I asked, just to clarify. “Oh, I could hear you laughing. It must have been a good session for you.” I didn’t know how to register her words. Was I laughing out loud? Did I just do that? I couldn’t believe it myself. Have I remembered how to laugh now? Did I just claim my laughter? Am I “normal” now?

It took me many days to process what had happened to me. I came to one conclusion. As I was in the process of writing my book, I forced myself to process the conscious and unconscious memories and put them down in writing, along with keeping myself accountable with my brilliant accountability partner Michael, along with the weekly group call where I felt I was accepted and acknowledged in a safe and healthy environment. I was facing my demons head-on, and through the process of ongoing healing, I was claiming my authentic self. The masks were coming off, and the pressure to maintain a certain image was fading away, I could be who I am in this group. I was allowed to laugh, and not just any laugh, but laugh out loud! That is when I reclaimed my power: to laugh, and oh boy, I can’t tell you how liberating and joyous it has been to finally laugh out loud decades later since the abuse.

Today, there is so much pleasure and satisfaction in actually laughing out loud when I write LOL. (I haven’t got to the ROTFLOL part yet - Rolling on the Floor Laughing Out Loud - but I may get there one day!).

Today, I feel I am having the last laugh against the two perpetrators, the bullies, and everyone else who thought I wouldn’t make it. Well, guess what everyone? I made it! As Mark Twain said, we only have one really effective weapon: laughter.

Happy Holidays to you all. I hope you've had a fabulous start to the New Year, and may your lives be filled with laughter always and forever.

In gratitude,

Mansour.

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You can reach me at:

mansourahsan@gmail.com

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