I don’t remember a single journey that didn’t leave a mark on me.
Some memories still make me smile like an idiot. Most of them sit heavy in my chest and refuse to leave.
Railway stations never meant adventure to me. While everyone ran for seats before the train decided to zoom away, I ran to that quiet little Higgins Bothams stall tucked in the corner. I would scan the shelves like a man looking for oxygen. I looked for one name. Always the same.
I didn't read his novels though. I should be ashamed. I was more into his "Joke Books" that played a huge role in shaping my personality. His words were loud, shameless, unapologetic. I was not buying his joke books. I was buying time away from my own thoughts. I was trying to stay afloat without anyone noticing I was drowning.
Humor was never a cute personality trait. It was survival. It was the only thing that kept me from breaking in public.
I came from a family that never raised a hand on me (well, sometimes). They did something worse. Silence. Cold stares. Conversations that stopped when I entered the room. Love that felt like a trophy I had to earn by being someone else. Outsiders saw a perfect home. Clean walls. Smiling photos. Inside it felt like walking barefoot on shattered glass every single day.
So I laughed. Loud. Uncontrollably.
Because laughter was the only sound that did not make me feel like I was dying inside.
I turned jokes into shields. Sarcasm into armour. I made people laugh so they would not look too closely at my shaking hands. I forgot to shed tears. I became the funny guy because that was easier than being the broken guy. People think humor means lightness. They have no idea how heavy it actually is.
Even now people expect the punchline. They expect the loud voice. The clown who keeps the room alive. What they don’t see is the part of me that learned to choke on his own words before they could turn into tears. The part that still feels like an unwanted guest inside his own life.
I don’t crack jokes because life is easy. I do it because silence is dangerous. When the room goes quiet, all the old voices crawl back in. The judgement. The cold stares. The feeling of being tolerated instead of loved.
People love talking about happy families. Sunday lunches. Respect your elders. Blood is thicker than everything else. Nobody wants to talk about the homes that slowly break you without ever touching you. The ones that look perfect from the outside while you rot quietly inside.
So here it is. No sugarcoating. No pretending.
If you are ready to have an uncomfortable conversation about toxic families, stay. Because some of us did not grow up in homes. We survived in them.
And yeah. I am still laughing.
Because if I stop, I know exactly what will come rushing back.
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