I’m not funny anymore?

The spiral started as it always does: a nostalgic digging through memories that feel so far away that I barely recognize I’ve lived them, so I keep revisiting them, searching for proof.

“I lived this. I lived this.”

For years, I’ve been trying to remind myself of the past before my memory starts to betray me. I try to recall events and images that haven’t happened in so long, I almost question if they ever happened at all, so I’m constantly trying to remind myself of the things that have completely vanished from my present: trying to remind myself that my hair was blue. Trying to remember that I never liked it when I gained weight just as much as I don’t like losing it. Trying to remember that you were once the softest I’ve ever seen a human be. Trying to remember that it always felt this lonely, and that I just wasn’t aware of it at the time.

But this spiral is different. I’m not psychoanalyzing an old conversation, or trying to count the different hair colors I’ve had, or going through pictures of friends who aren’t in my life anymore. I’ve stopped doing that because I’ve accepted my life and my decisions.

I’m doing something far more unraveling, and far scarier. Something I still feel like I’ve lost complete autonomy over.

I’m scrolling through my own TikTok account.

Now, I understand how pathetic and dramatic that might sound, that a TikTok account is something to grieve. I talk a lot about grieving people. About what it means to lose someone and have to continue existing in a world that still expects you to show up, laugh at jokes, and be yourself.

But I forgot that grieving myself hurts most of all. You slowly stop being yourself till you look at an old video, and you’re a complete stranger to yourself.

The account is a testament of everything. It has witnessed all five hair colors and most of the faded friendships. It has seen my naivety and it has also seen my depression. My full face and my anemic one. In one of the TikToks, you can see my favorite shirt, currently neatly folded in my wardrobe, and how much I’ve repeatedly worn it. It’s amazing that it’s still as vivid as when I first bought it. Can’t say I’ve maintained the same vivaciousness myself.

I feel like I’ve really lived up to my username. “Undefined,” indeed. I sometimes catch myself being witty, yet incredibly slow and foggy most of the time. I crave connection, but I’m incredibly closed off. I love to dance, but my body feels stiffer than before. I can’t tell if it’s because I’m not eighteen anymore or if I just refuse to let anything move me. I have a lot to say, but I’m so quiet now. Five years ago, I used to be so brave. I used to fight for women’s rights, be unapologetically cringe and loud, and I used to have opinions worth defending and argue with people online because I had nothing better to do during Covid.

But most importantly, I used to be funny.

Two weeks ago, I watched the movie “I Used to Be Funny,” and it talks about a comedian who is literally not funny anymore because she’s been through a traumatic experience. There was something so painfully familiar about watching someone lose the thing that once felt most natural to her, especially when that thing was also how other people knew her.

It’s so hard to be perceived by people who only see one dimension to you. Especially if you start to resonate less and less with that version. I do recognize that this is just my projection of things, but I can see it on people’s faces, that I’ve disappointed them with my new disposition. That I do not live up to the girl on their screen.

This seems to be the only phrase I can repeatedly think of: I’m not funny anymore.

I had a short conversation with a stranger a few weeks back. She came up to me and told me that she recognized my face, but she wasn’t sure, and she hesitated to say hi. She said she used to really enjoy my TikToks and asked why I stopped posting.

I gave her the answer I’ve given a hundred times, or some variation of it. That I still do, just not as often. That I ran out of things to say. Or that “I just don’t feel that connected to that version of myself anymore.”

She looked at me, genuinely curious, and asked: “So, are you not funny anymore?”

I could not think of an answer then, and I cannot think of an answer now. I only felt the urge to explain to her how the past couple of years have been for me. Maybe she would understand. Maybe they all would. But maybe it doesn’t matter, and I do not owe people my joy. I only owe it to myself.

It’s been years of managing pain that was unfamiliar to me, pain that I could no longer joke my way out of. And now, more than anything, I miss how easily I used to turn something painful into a joke. I miss how little I seemed to care whether people understood me or not. I miss having enough energy to be loud. I miss being someone who could walk into a room and make it lighter. But mostly, I miss not having to think about whether I was still that person.

There is something especially cruel about being remembered for a version of yourself that you no longer know how to access. Not because she was better than who you are now. Just because she was you, and you knew how to be her. And I’m upset that I’ve let past traumas rob me of myself.

However, through therapy, I’ve learned that maybe letting go of the need to perform a version of yourself that once came naturally is the most honoring thing you can do for yourself. And I think no one in this entire world would embrace who I am now more than my eighteen-year-old self. She would understand. I’m almost certain she would.

I currently work at a place where you kind of need to be funny and creative for a living, which has been challenging when I’m still figuring out what I want to be in that regard. I try my best not to force myself to be anything I’m not anymore, even if I have to navigate the disappointed faces and the unanswered question.

Because maybe the point isn’t to find your way back.
Maybe the point is to meet yourself here.

So yes, I’m not funny in that sense anymore. And maybe we can all collectively stalk my old TikToks together. I’ll laugh, cringe, and pretend I do not miss her.