At first, we laughed.
Because sometimes humour is the only life raft when you’re swimming in chaos.
We laughed at the tantrums, the overreactions, the dramatic door slams.
We laughed at the excuses:
- “I just get passionate”
- “You know how I am”
- “Everyone loses it sometimes”
We laughed because calling it absurd felt safer than calling it dangerous.
But here’s the thing about laughter —
it stops working when your nervous system realises it’s not a joke.
When the name-calling sticks.
When the threats land.
When objects start flying and apologies start recycling.
When fear becomes background noise.
That’s when the body speaks up:
This isn’t funny anymore.
Because humour can mask pain —
but it can’t override biology.
Your brain doesn’t laugh at intimidation.
Your nervous system doesn’t find blackmail amusing.
Your bones don’t appreciate irony.
And slowly, quietly, the punchline changes.
You notice:
- How he never “loses control” with witnesses
- How the chaos always benefits him
- How your laughter was doing the emotional labour of survival
Turns out, the joke was never on him.
It was on the version of you trying to stay sane.
So we stop laughing — not because we’ve lost our sense of humour,
but because we’ve found our self-respect.
Healing is realising:
- You don’t need to make abuse palatable
- You don’t need to be “cool” about cruelty
- You don’t need to soften the truth to survive it
And one day, you’ll laugh again —
not at what hurt you,
but at how far you’ve come.
Not bitter laughter.
Not defensive laughter.
Free laughter.
Because the moment you stopped laughing at the abuse
was the moment you stopped accepting it.
And that?
That’s not a joke.
It’s the beginning of peace. 🌱
