I shouldn’t really be writing about this, of course, much less sharing it. But I’m at such a loss as to understanding this particular case, I feel I have no choice but to make my problem – and, I suppose, the problem of my patient – known to at least one confidante, and my trust in your discretion is exceedingly high. However, in the interest of professional integrity, I must assure you that at least the name of my client has been altered, as have some minor details, and with any luck, his identity will thus remain anonymous.
My client! It is with him that we must start, I suppose, if any sense is to be made of this curious affair. My client (patient, case, invalid, call him what you will) is a comedian, and an extremely successful practitioner of his craft at that. He is a regular sight as a guest performer on numerous television shows, and has had even the occasional appearance in film (and his career is only on the rise!); his shows are invariably both well-reviewed and well-received by large audiences, and he has won several notable awards. His style is sharp, witty, and diverse, neither easily pigeon-holed nor to be predicted – this diversity is naturally a particular virtue in his field. He can, in the span of minutes, veer from keen observational humour, to low-brow and downright silly jokes, to multi-layered and highly complex artifices that unfold before his audience with a surety and precision that speaks to his immense capability. Yet all of this would be for naught if it were not for his manner: charming, keen, swift, and engaging.
He is, in short, that rare and beautiful marriage of technician and performer in a single entertainer, and it is not to be wondered that he has garnered acclaim and appeal alike in his audiences. Young and old, rich and poor, Left and Right – all are delighted by the brilliantly humorous performances of my client. For the sake of argument, we shall call him “Henry” in the following account, though this is (as mentioned above) a fiction contrived in aid of disguising his true identity against any chance eyes that should happen upon this letter.
As you know, I have treated several notable figures in the entertainment industry over my years of clinical practice, and this, I suppose, is how Henry came to be recommended to me when he started looking for professional help with his problem. Even so, I must confess that his celebrity is rather greater than that of my other clients, and that my heart quite skipped a beat upon seeing him in person in my humble practice. Nonetheless, so engaging was his smile, so affable and amiable his manner, that he put me quite at ease as he shook my hand.
‘Dr Petrovsky, I assume?’ he asked.
‘Please, call me Michael,’ I said, as I invited him to take a seat. Pleasantries were duly exchanged, and I took him through my routine introduction that I have crafted for all my new patients; explaining to him what it is that we might hope to achieve together, what expectations and fears and boundaries he might need to consider or set aside, questions of consent and anonymity and integrity. All important material, and he was certainly attentive to it and sought clarification on several minor (though important and delicate) points. For my part, though, I must confess that these somewhat scripted explanations are all quite rote to me, and as such (though it is perhaps poor practice on my part) I found myself watching Henry and wondering with what problem he had come to me as I spoke.
A bad habit, I fear, but you must excuse a little curiosity in a psychologist, for it is (in moderation) a virtue in my profession. And as I have already written, Henry was by no means the first entertainer to have presented himself before me to be laid bare in my little studio.
Addictions, anxieties, malaises, over-exertions, depressions, insecurities, and manias. I had (I thought) seen it all before, and seen every one of these afflictions in every possible permutation. This is not to say that I thought of or think of my practice as being machinist and predictable – quite the opposite! – but when one has worked for as many years as I have in this field, it is inevitable that patterns should begin to become apparent. Nonetheless, I have seen enough in my years of work to “expect the unexpected,” in perhaps as true a sense of the phrase as has ever been declared. I am keenly acquainted with the unhappy darknesses and dreadful miseries that so oft torment the human mind, and with the shocking truths that may well be laid bare in the course of my conversations.
On one particularly memorable occasion, I have even found myself listening to a celebrity of some minor repute (a musician, as I recall) tearfully confessing to a string of shocking and lurid crimes; the revelation of which forced me into a terrible ethical dilemma. To this day, I still wonder if I chose the wrong course of action.
I suppose that all of this is to say that as Henry settled into the comfortably worn cushions of my noble couch (a couch that has borne witness to quite as many of the inner horrors and woes that plague humanity as I have) and carefully heeded my gentle introductions, I had no inclination that this case, of all the cases I have heard, would trouble me in quite such a novel manner.
Having thus become preliminarily acquainted, I asked Henry if he would, in his own time and his own way, be willing to tell me what had brought him to me today. ‘After all,’ I said warmly, ‘One does not come to a doctor to be cured of health! You know why you are here, and I know there must be some reason. Would you be willing to tell me something of that reason?’
A gentle invitation, and one that I knew was unlikely to reveal the whole truth at once. But one must start somewhere.
Nonetheless, Henry seemed discomfited, which I marked as being no great surprise. There is a strange and wonderful vulnerability to the art of therapy, to hearing people confess to truths that they have oft so carefully hidden from their friends, their family, even themselves. So, it was no trouble at all to my mind that Henry did not seem willing to immediately share his fears.
‘Well, you see, doctor, it’s like this. I mean to say, I’ve been worried for a while about…no, I don’t know why…I can’t…’
‘It’s ok,’ I said softly. ‘In your own words, in your own time.’
‘Well. You see, it’s like this. Doctor. I have never in my life told a joke.’
I must confess that – to my own shame in hindsight – my immediate response was to burst out laughing at so egregiously false (or so I thought) a statement. But this flash of merriment was swiftly quelled, for Henry continued, with some agitation, ‘I’m serious, Michael! It’s no laughing matter!’
If only I had heeded then the dreadful irony to which I had already fallen prey. But I did not fully understand Henry’s problem, not yet. Still was I trapped in my patterns, in my assumptions. I had heard his words, of course, and even thought that I understood them.
As such, I swiftly checked my mirth and assumed my own well-honed act anew. ‘No, indeed,’ I said gently. ‘I am very sorry indeed to hear that. But I don’t want to put words in your mouth or misunderstand you, so please correct me if I am mistaken in this: it is your feeling, then, that you have never told a joke?’
‘It’s not a feeling,’ answered Henry instantly, and with an alacrity of readiness and confidence that surprised me – in hindsight, clearly he had been ready for just such an assumption. ‘Doctor, I have never told a joke in my life. Not personally, not professionally, not in any way, shape or form.
‘I see,’ I said calmly. ‘I wonder, then. How does that make you feel, to have people laugh at material that is to your mind unfunny? When people laugh at your – your not-jokes, we could call them – what do you feel?’
‘Wretched!’ cried Henry. ‘Wretched, and confused, and miserable. I hate it, so much. But the more I talk, the more they laugh.’
‘Yes,’ I said gently. ‘Yes, that must be very upsetting. And I am guessing, now, that this internalised inadequacy is heightened when you see another comedian performing?’
‘What do you mean?’ asked Henry.
‘Merely to say,’ I said, warming into my material, ‘that your self-perceived inadequacies as a performer are exacerbated by the success of others. That through comparison, you always find yourself wanting, you inevitably focus upon the tiniest of faults in your performances.’
‘No!’ said Henry with such force that I was quite taken aback. ‘No, not in the slightest! What I’m trying to say is that they mean their stuff, Michael. These other comedians, they actually mean it. I…don’t.’
‘Ah!’ I said triumphantly. To experience false starts and misapprehensions was (as I suppose you yourself are well aware) not at all uncommon when beginning such vulnerable and delicate work. Now, though, I was sure that I had hit upon the problem that Michael was trying to express. ‘So, then, this is not a question of comparison, of considering your own work as it measures up to that of others (whether rightly or wrongly).’ (To my relief, I saw Henry nodding his head in affirmation of my statement.) ‘This is a question of inauthenticity – you believe that, because of the performative nature of your art and its rehearsed and conceived-of nature, your art is in some way compromised; that its worth is devalued because you are aware of its artifice.’
I was pleased. This was by no means an uncommon complaint among artists and entertainers, and I knew that, though it would be by no means a simple or a swift process, I would be able to help Henry reach his own inner peace as regards his work. Yet this pleasure was swiftly transformed into alarm, as Henry burst out, ‘No! No no no no NO! You’re still not listening to me, doctor!’
Of all the accusations that can be levelled against a therapist, this was surely among the most damning. Internally, I was mortified at my own lack of care and delicacy. But even worse was the slowly-forming suspicion that I may have entirely misjudged this case – that I may have found myself facing something wholly novel, and something that I was entirely unequipped to deal with.
It was, however, still only a suspicion. And so I offered a fulsome apology for my lack of understanding and inability thus far to hear what he was trying to tell me. I went on, ‘But perhaps it is useful for both of us to understand what this is not. Initially, I understood you as trying to describe your material as feeling in some way inadequate or inferior when compared to that of your peers. That you are an imposter.’
‘Well…’ said Henry slowly, and I again felt the promise of a breakthrough at my fingertips. ‘I mean, I am an imposter, I think. Just not…just not…’
‘I understand what you mean,’ I said reassuringly. ‘But Henry, there are millions of people that enjoy your comedy. Your adulations, your reviews, your regard. Surely you can at least admit that other people enjoy your material, even if you yourself do not?’
‘I mean, that’s true…’ said Henry. ‘But that’s still not the problem! I know that people think I’m funny! But I don’t mean any of it.’
‘You mean to say, your work is by its nature performative, false? That you are assuming some sort of inauthentic identity in the practice of your craft, and thus your act does not reflect the truth of…’
‘No, worse!’ interrupted my patient, and I duly fell silent. ‘It’s not an act at all! I don’t know why people find it funny.’
‘I see,’ I said, and still then did I wrongly believe the truth of those words. ‘That is to say, you do not find yourself funny. There is a disconnect between your internal identity and your external performance, and this then is…’
‘No!’ said Henry again, with considerable force. ‘There is no disconnect, doctor. There is no lie, no falseness, no pretence. I do not know why people think I’m funny. I don’t try to be funny.’
When in doubt, the professional psychologist always has one tool on which they can fall back to (and that, arguably, I should have already turned to by now, given the circles of question and answer into which I had inadvertently and foolishly fallen). ‘Can you give me an example of what you mean?’ I asked gently.
Henry nodded and, after taking a moment to collect himself, began to talk.
‘People have always found me amusing. As a child, I didn’t mind it so much. I suppose it was nice, in a way, to be liked, to be popular. And as a child, I didn’t really wonder about it. People thought I was funny, and I enjoyed the attention.’
‘But it never stopped. And I never started to understand it. When I gave a presentation on the life cycle of a frog at school as a child, Ms Popplewell (my teacher, that is), had to send the entire class to detention for disorder and later told my parents that she had herself suffered from heart palpitations towards the end of it. When I recited The Rime of the Ancient Mariner for assembly, Mr Bleekham stopped me halfway through and gave me a serious lecture about “respecting the integrity of the poetic material.” It was a word-for-word recitation, Michael. Word for word! I wasn’t trying to be silly or anything, but people thought it was hilarious. When I was nineteen, my older brother got married, and I delivered the best man speech. I spoke for five minutes about our childhood, about my love for him, about my regard for him and his wife. By the end of that five minutes, people were laughing so hard and so furiously that the police were called because of the noise disturbance. But they didn’t do anything, because within ten seconds of entering, they were laughing too.’
‘And I never understood why. I asked people, I tried to figure it out, I did my best to figure out what everyone was so amused by. I asked friends, family, even strangers. I recorded myself speaking, I tried to remove any idiosyncracy or foible from my speeches. But it never made any difference.’
‘I had a few friends who encouraged me to pursue my “gift,” to start doing open mic nights and testing the local scene. I went along with it, figuring that sooner or later I’d either stop being funny, or figure out what people were so amused by. But…I never stopped, and I never found out. I just kept on being invited to more and more shows, larger shows, more important shows. Within three years, I’d booked my first TV appearance. I was touring a year later. And ever since, I’ve been a comedian. An accidental, unintentional, miserable comedian!’
To all of this, I could only manage a single, baffled, ‘Oh.’
Truly, I knew not how to even begin to unpick this bizarre tale. It was at least clear to me that my initial inclinations were misjudged – or at best, that they did not tell the full picture. Nonetheless, my professional duty stepped in where my personal confusion fell short. ‘So, then,’ I said slowly. ‘I really do not want to put words in your mouth, Henry. But I fear I’m not quite following. Are you trying to tell me that you have never deliberately told a joke? That every act you have ever performed has been funny…unintentionally?’
And to my relief (at having finally come near the heart of the matter) and horror (at having finally realised the truth of that matter), Henry said, with great emphasis, ‘Yes!’
And again, all I could manage, at least at first, was a quiet, ‘…oh.’
This did not accord. How could it make the least bit of sense? I must confess, I was floundering, seeking for reason because I feared I may find none. ‘But you cannot mean to say…’ I turned my mind back. I was, as I think I mentioned, already familiar with Henry’s work long before this appointment, and in desperation, I seized upon the first of his routines that I could think of. ‘What of “Train Ride to Truro?” You cannot mean to say that this was not…’
(If you happen to be unfamiliar with the piece, “Train Ride to Truro” was the act that saw Henry announce himself to the world as being a notable and brilliant comedian. A twenty-minute piece, filled with bizarre twists and occurences, unusual characters, truly wonderful turns of phrase, and the most upsetting repeated usage of the words “chocolate eclair” that I have ever heard uttered in the English language.)
‘It’s just what I said it is!’ answered Henry. ‘It was merely an account of a train ride I once had to Truro. Granted, I thought it was an interesting ride, worth describing, but I have no idea why people found it hysterical!’
‘And “Modern Europe’s Fiscal Policies Explained in Under Four Minutes: With the Aid of Three Oranges and a Large Live Cat (That Does Not Do What I Tell It To Do)?” You cannot mean to say that…’
‘It seemed like the easiest way in which to explain modern Europe’s fiscal policies!’ answered Henry. ‘I’d been reading a lot about them, and wanted to try and help people understand the general situation!’
‘I see. I see…’ I answered.
Strangely, I suppose that he did have a point, when he laid it out so. That particular sketch’s success was, naturally, owed in large part to its zany and furious energy, its willingness to pursue and subvert expectations, and its madcap commitment to reiterating and developing upon incongruities. But, as you must be aware (if you have happened upon the sketch), it is also an exceedingly (if humorous) accurate depiction of modern Europe’s fiscal policies, and they are indeed presented in such a manner as to make them extremely comprehensible.
Yes, I could certainly see his point. But now, my mind began to wander toward an uncomfortable possibility. It was not entirely implausible that this entire story was an artifice, a falsehood, conceived of by Henry for the sake of garnering sympathy or attention. Indeed, I could imagine at least three distinct reasons that would each individually explain why he would spin such a ludicrous falsehood. It was possible that he was truly, deeply deluded: suffering from some disconnect within himself. It was possible that he craved sympathy and attention and praise, and that (for whatever reason) this had struck him as being a way in which to garner such follies. Or it was possible that this entire appointment was naught but a pretence and a larger scheme on Henry’s part: that the conversation he and I were now engaged in was itself nothing more than research material for Henry, and that he intended to draw upon its material for use in some future skit or act.
It is poor professional practice to assume that a patient is definitely lying, but it is also folly to assume that a patient is not lying (or at least concealing something, whether deliberately or not). As such, I embarked upon a lengthy, but gentle, cross examination that lasted a full half hour. It was kindly and (I like to think) unjudgemental, but I felt that it was my duty to at least fairly interrogate this frankly outlandish claim that Henry had brought before me. And not, I must hasten to add, merely for the sake of ascertaining whether he was trying to deceive me or not! I was fully aware that, if I were to be of any aid to Henry, it was crucial that I begin assembling the fullest possible picture of his condition, and that I help him articulate what, exactly, it is that bothers him.
And through our meandering and multi-faceted conversation, I did indeed begin to build up a fuller picture, if hesitantly and doubtfully and with many abortive attempts to define Henry’s problem. Yet it seemed as simple as he had claimed from the first. Whenever he spoke in public, people laughed. It did not matter what the subject matter was, nor the audience for whom he spoke, nor his mode or intent. When Henry spoke, people laughed, with the same mechanical surety as any law of gravity or physics must exert. It is unintentional and unknowing on his part, yet it is true. And, though I carefully trialled every angle, every weakness, every insecurity that I could perceive in this strangest of tales, his every answer was so consistent and so natural as to assure me of at least one additional truth: that he was not lying to me or to himself.
One might imagine that some would label such a condition as being that of an idiot savant: that he is a genius unable to appreciate his own genius. But, even leaving aside the problematic associations of that outmoded term, to label Henry such would be to do him a grave disservice. For so lucid was he, so keen his understanding in diverse matters, that he is clearly no idiot. And further, he is no savant, for his understanding of his own craft is not merely negligible, it is nonexistent. He does not and (perhaps) cannot understand what he does, despite any evidence presented to him. He is conscious of his “material,” this is no dissociative state in which he exists as “comedian” and “non-comedian.” Rather, he is always the “non-comedian,” and it is the behaviour of others about him that informs his labelling as “comedian;” with a callous disregard for what he thinks of the matter.
And as he spoke, I began to feel a keen sadness for his state. To be thus doomed to a mockery that you do not understand would be bad enough, of course! But strangely, this condition of Henry’s seemed yet worse again, for he is trapped now by his own success. He is forced to endure praise for work that he does not understand, to be constantly complimented and celebrated for a craft that seems to exist wholly beyond his control. Of all the problems I commonly encounter, such a state is arguably closest to that of impostorism, but Henry’s problem is (as far as I am aware) something wholly novel. For in the case of those unfortunates who suffer from imposter syndrome, they merely perceive themselves as not belonging, and engage in behaviours likely to reinforce that belief. Henry, impossible though this might seem, knows that he does not belong, and yet is fully aware that his belonging is accepted as fact by others. Strange though it may sound, the passion with which he spoke and the desperation with which he outlined his predicament entirely moved me, despite the surreality of his claim.
Nonetheless, as we approached the end of our appointment, and I found myself running out of ideas and precedents, there was one last possibility that I had not tested.
‘It’s strange, Henry,’ I said, casting my mind across my own relatively limited repertoire of jokes. ‘You know, I actually had an interesting case once, some years ago, that may be relevant to better understanding your problem. And it took some time, but eventually, I thought I had found a cure.’
‘Really!’ exclaimed Henry.
‘Indeed. And all this other patient had to do was to have some warm milk, some honey, and a hot bath every night, just before he went to bed. Every single night, without fail.’
‘And that worked…?’
I sighed. ‘Alas, no. The warm milk and honey were easy enough. But my patient found it much too difficult to drink the entire bath every single night.’
To my surprise, Henry immediately guffawed. ‘Ha! That’s pretty good, Michael.’ He leaned back in his chair and laughed again. ‘Pretty good indeed.’
But for my part, I was stumped. This had been my final, desperate gambit, to test whether there was some deficiency or curious mechanism wherein Henry was simply unable to understand humour. I have seen similar cases before, though never one so extreme. Yet here he was, still chuckling. As such, I saw no reason not to be forthright, and explained to him the hypothesis I had been testing.
‘It makes sense,’ he answered thoughtfully. ‘Or at least, I can see why it might make sense to you. But it’s never been the case, see. I’ve always found other people’s jokes funny, always been able to laugh at silly things. Just not…me. I don’t know what’s funny about me.’
‘Does it bother you?’ I asked softly.
Henry’s face crumpled. ‘Well, yes,’ he said unhappily. ‘Yes…and no?’
I nodded that he should continue, and he went on. ‘It’s always disturbed me, of course. I mean, how could it not? People just don’t take me seriously, Michael. I try to be sincere, to be thoughtful, to be sensible, and it just doesn’t work. It’s always funny. It doesn’t matter who it’s with, or what I’m saying. Apparently, it’s funny. I’m…stuck, I guess, trapped in this levity that I somehow inspire in everyone else. Whether I want to, or mean to.’
‘And that’s upsetting, too. Because this is my job, Michael. This is what I do for a living now. But I don’t understand it! I don’t know why it’s my job, or what I’m doing in it. You kept asking me if I had some sort of imposter syndrome before, and I think I do. But it’s because I’m actually an imposter, I actually don’t belong there. Or…no, wait, that isn’t quite right. I do belong there. I just have no way of knowing how, or why. And I have no way of
‘But over time, I’ve come not to hate it, either. It’s sort of nice, in a way, that people like having me around, that they enjoy what I say and do. It’s part of my identity, I guess. I like being on stage, I like that people like it. I wouldn’t want to give it up – I mean, I’m not even sure that I could do anything else now! I just…I just wish that I understood why.’
He laughed out loud, a strangely grim sound coming from the mouth of so jolly a merrymaker. ‘Y’know, I nearly didn’t come today. For years, I’ve known there’s something wrong with me, and I’ve wondered what that thing is – whether I need the help of a shrink, or of a witch doctor. Now, I dunno, maybe you can help me – I’ve really liked this chat, honestly – but, well. It’s such a weird thing, I’ve always wondered if…’
‘I’m afraid I don’t deal with curses in my line of work, Henry,’ I said kindly. ‘Not in any way. But as to whether I can help? I am willing to try. But it may take some time. I don’t mind being honest with you. This is a very strange case, unlike anything I’ve ever heard of before.’
‘Sure,’ said Henry. ‘I know it is. And I don’t really know what to expect of all this therapy stuff. If you can’t fix me, or even help me, that’s ok. But I want to try it.’
I agreed to help him, while warning him that my power may be limited – a standard sort of caution in any case, of course, but here it felt far more necessary than usual. In conclusion, I encouraged him to consider how he felt when next he performed (he had a theatre booked out later that evening), and to see if he could recall and identify any early examples of this phenomenon occurring and consider his memories of them. He agreed to do so, thanked me, shook my hand, and departed, his own problem in no way reduced through its sharing with me.
And there you have it. The whole sad sorry silly case. It seems scarcely credible, yet I must assure you that it is entirely true, and I hope you have enough trust in my professional reliability and sobriety to take my claims at face value! Though, naturally, I welcome any questions of clarification you may have, or new angles that I may not have considered, and will be eternally grateful if you are able to supply some small breakthrough. But in truth, I do not expect that you will be able to provide either: I write this missive merely in the hope that I might ease and clear my own mind.
You may also fairly ask if I have any immediate plan regarding Henry’s further treatment, and to that, I can confidently say that I do not. He will return for a second appointment this coming Tuesday, and as ever, I will be primarily willing to sit and listen to his own observations, and to try and draw them from him moment to moment. But, more than any other case I have ever had, I find myself wholly unable to imagine what good I may be able to do for him. I dislike thinking of my work as “curing” people, I would much rather help people find their own cures. Yet, unprofessional though it may seem, I cannot imagine that any such cure exists for Henry.
I had half considered recommending that he seek the attention of a psychiatrist, and I might still do so. Ordinarily, I would not do so after a single preliminary session and it was this, I suppose, that forestalled me. But in truth, I did not recommend a psychiatrist because I am sure that it is not a psychiatric issue. I know what you will say! What else could it be? Surely it is simply some mental delusion that the man suffers, some lack of recollection or cognisance concerning his work, or the operation of some disassociative identity disorder.
And it is true, these would all be exceedingly plausible and simple explanations, and the only reason I can offer for my reticence in exploring them further is that I know that not one single one of these diagnoses is the right one. I will, I fear, have my hand forced sooner or later and must then duly recommend him to a psychiatric practice. But it will do no good.
No, it is clear to me that the truth is entirely as simple as Henry has presented it. He is an accidental comedian, stricken with the strangest of burdens imaginable. An unwitting jester who knows not why the court laughs, trapped by the very joy that he induces in others. Yet to paint him so implies a figure of mockery, some unhappily disabled victim. And I suppose that to call him such is not untrue! Yet his disability is neither physical, nor psychological. A lot of nonsense, you may think such a claim, and if I am proven wrong, I will be delighted! But I fear I will not be. And I fear that this malady will not easily be discerned.
Perhaps, though, that in itself is a relief to me. If it is my task not to identify why people (myself included!) are so amused by Henry’s performances, but to help him come to terms with that mirth, then that is a task I can at least attempt. I may not be able to cure Henry, but I can at least help him come to terms with the bizarre fact of his own unintentional wit.
Even so, I wish I had at least a name or a precedent for it. It is the dream of every scientific mind, I think, to discover something new. How terrible it is to actually do so.
So, there you have it. A strange case, and no mistake, and one which has troubled me for days now.
I do trust all is well with you, and with your family.
With fond regards,
Michael
Dr. Michael Petrovsky
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