Bipolar, Comedy, And Me
Like viruses, the effects of mental health are unseen. We need to be more aware of our actions and how they affect others, and understand that creative expression is vital to a lot of people.
Growing up in a single parent household wasn’t always hard, but when it was, it really was. My Mum tried her hardest to put food on the table, and to make sure I had presents to open on my birthday and Christmas, and she never failed in those respects as far as I can remember. I’m grateful because she was young, and she didn’t need to have me, but she did.
My problems are not from struggle, per se. I knew that we were not rich, but I was in a bubble for a few years. Life was rainbows and crayons. All good. As the years crept onwards, however, I began to experience an inner turmoil. I can remember being about seven or eight years old when I first wished that I had never been born. The feelings didn’t last, and I can’t remember specifically what caused it. What I know for certain is that they never left, they simply hid away, lying dormant.
Mum wasn’t the most emotionally available parent on the planet. She had to be good cop as well as bad cop. That eventually had an effect on how much I even wanted to approach her for emotional needs, but at the time I was quite clingy with my mother, much to her very clear and open annoyance. Lies, tricks, and broken toys drove us apart without me even realizing it. Civility reigned until my late teens, but the resentment on my part was there, paired with an eagerness to change it, and make her love me out loud.
What is a love potion? It’s a romantic idea, a gesture of pure love usually. In real life, unfortunately, we are stuck with alcohol or drugs. That’s what it took to hear that I was loved by my Mum for years. I had to wait for a party or funeral to come around, and boy did I wait for those dates in the same way I had to wait to work out my mental health, and the underlying anger I held inside my heart.
My shining beacons of hope at that time were my extended family, small as that circle may have been. Mostly I felt love with my maternal grandparents. Nanny and Grandad Walsh were Irish immigrants, and they were so loving and nurturing with me that I longed for weekends. Grandad would take me out swimming, and Nanny taught me to read and make soda bread. We played cards, watched Billy Connelly and Father Ted, but most of all we made memories that shaped me, and always kept me with one foot in decency (or, at the very least, a toe).
My first visit to a psychologist occurred when I was about nine or ten, due to terrible tantrums and wrecked bedrooms. I learned more about myself, and eventually met my Dad. This would prove to be a long-term stress that thankfully is long gone now, because he only ever poked the embers of my mental health, stoking up heat and hatred without sparing a thought for my well-being. Parents, hey? The positive thing in all of this is that my earlier tantrums had introduced me to the idea that we need to maintain our mental health ourselves, as it will likely never just sort itself out.
Fast forward to the present day, because otherwise this article could become a novelization of my entire life story. I have finally become completely honest with myself, and have been diagnosed as bipolar – a mild form, give thanks – and I perform amateur stand-up comedy sometimes. How did I get into stand up? I was working on my unhealthy relationship with drugs, alcohol, and my own emotions. Part of the program included taking part in courses and training. Having expressed my desire to perform – mostly for comedy – I was put onto a SpyMonkey clowning course which set me on the path to being a comedian for good. Making the other participants (who were all recovering drug and alcohol service users) laugh their heads off somehow made me feel better, better about my grief.
You see, I’d just lost Grandad, and we’d lost Nanny many years before. Never have I felt more alone, not before and not since. I couldn’t shake the feeling of being lost in a world that no longer held anybody who cared for me in it. I had my children, and they really kept me going, and still do. My gods were dead and buried, though, and so I knew that I’d have to grow and evolve in order to be what they were to me, for my children. For myself, too.
When my first ever stand up gig came along, the world around me was dismal, and grey. I hated waking up, and the self-hatred I had allowed to fester and spread within grew stronger, and started to take control. A parasite of my own making, with my face and my own memories to use against me. Friends came, and I was so nervous, but it also felt completely right that I was about to do it. I’d always wanted to, ever since I’d secretly watch comedians on the telly whenever my mum did, aged six or so (see, I told you it wasn’t all bad). These people were wizards who could send laughter through the TV, even when some of what they said was nasty or stupid. They were my heroes for a long time, always below Grandad, obviously. Grandad was the real comedian in my eyes. Shopkeepers, strangers, kids, parents, and dogs all loved bumping into Big John, because they were guaranteed to walk away with a big smile.
A void was left behind when they threw the dirt on his grave. A space, an emptiness, where laughter and joy used to be. Having grown up with his sense of humour at the core of mine, I wanted to do something about it. With that all going on in my head, I gave everything to my first gig, and it went pretty well. I thought I was destined for the Apollo within ten gigs, although I was sadly wrong on that front, I’m still doing it. For free. In pub basements and outside alleys, on stages and just at the back of some room, too. I love it, and could stay on the open mic scene hobbying forever. I’ll find jobs that fit around being able to gig in the evening, and I’ll say “comedian” even if I earn my keep as a chef, or a baker. Existentialism teaches me that I create my own purpose, and define my own essence through the specific actions that I take.
Therefore, you will see me where there is a microphone and an audience, and you will find a notebook and pen somewhere on my person. Why? Because I’m a wizard, and that’s what wizards do.
Written by Danny Walsh
Comedian, Chef, Writer, Bipolar Survivor, and Dad of four, Danny Walsh is multi-talented and still eager to learn something new every day. Aware of his flaws and happy to laugh about them