Sometimes the most profound things come out of my mouth at the oddest times. Yesterday was one of those days.

I think laughing may be the only real defense we have against the absurdity of the world.

Like a lot of people, I’ve spent years using Facebook and other social media as a place to scream into the void. Every now and then a good scream is necessary. But lately I’ve been realizing that humor—even dark humor—serves me far better than constant outrage.

I’m already a little angry all the time. Some of that comes from the frontal stroke. Some of it comes from twenty-seven years of other things I’d rather not relive. Anger has become a default setting. Humor, on the other hand, is a choice.

One of the realities of PTSD is that triggers don’t all look the same. Sometimes you can recognize what’s happening, step away from the stimulus, find a quiet place, and reset. Other times it’s a complete train wreck that leaves you emotionally exhausted and sleeping for two days afterward.

This past weekend was one of those train wrecks.

I ended up calling a close friend who also lives with PTSD. We talked about what happened for a while, but we spent even more time talking about absolutely nothing important. Looking back, I think that’s exactly what I needed.

People often assume that every trigger has to be analyzed, dissected, and processed immediately. Sometimes it does. Sometimes the healthiest thing you can do is simply let your nervous system remember what normal conversation feels like.

Eventually our conversation drifted toward dark humor.

The worse something is, the darker and more inappropriate the jokes tend to become.

That isn’t because people with PTSD are callous. It’s because humor gives us just enough distance to survive experiences that otherwise threaten to overwhelm us.

I remember the morning I discovered Jacob after he died.

I’d just come off an exhausting shift caring for patients who demanded every ounce of attention I had left to give. Then, within a matter of hours, my world changed forever.

Looking back, one of the first things I noticed about myself was how quickly my humor took an incredibly dark turn.

One detective actually became suspicious because of how I was responding.

Fortunately, the first two officers who responded were both military veterans. They immediately recognized what was happening. Between those officers and the friend who rushed over as soon as I called, my psychiatrist at the VA was contacted, and I was moved to the front of the line for care.

I honestly don’t know how differently those first days after his death would have unfolded without people who understood that dark humor isn’t evidence that someone doesn’t care. Sometimes it’s evidence that they’re barely holding themselves together.

Those officers even explained that to the detective.

For that, I’ll always be grateful.

The detective mentioned that his own experience outside the country had been as a missionary. I genuinely respect the dedication many missionaries have, but I also think it’s important to acknowledge that missionary service and military service simply are not equivalent experiences.

There is no comparison between serving a mission and serving in combat. They ask very different things of the people who undertake them, and they leave very different marks behind.

If you’ve read this blog for any length of time, you’ve probably figured out that I have a cutting, sarcastic, sometimes downright inappropriate sense of humor.

That didn’t start after retirement.

It didn’t disappear when I left the Army.

And it certainly didn’t vanish after medicine.

You’re reading the real me.

In the wasteland, our sense of humor becomes another survival tool. The harsher life becomes, the darker the jokes get. Not because we don’t care—but because we care enough that we have to keep ourselves moving somehow.

War never changes.

Neither does grief.

Neither does trauma.

But our ability to laugh in spite of all three may be one of the greatest survival skills we ever develop.

Sometimes laughing really is better than crying.

And sometimes it’s the only reason we’re able to keep putting one foot in front of the other.

My dog understands that humor. After almost sixty years in medicine, my mom certainly did too.

Maybe that’s the lesson.

No matter what happens…

Be the kind of person your dog and your mom hope you are.