As British comedian Molly Dooner shares with her audience early on in her highly interactive solo show, 'Dear God, please take me now': for people with mental illness or a trauma history, being called resilient does not bring solace; it is no substitute for secure attachment, a regulated nervous system, and peace of mind.
Molly, in unflinchingly sharing her subconscious baggage, literally, on stage, shows that she has done more than just endure suicidal ideation and attempts; she has emerged from the other side with a voice that is necessary, and that may help others to find their voices too.
When you head to a big top tent during the Fringe and watch chiselled acrobats ride a unicycle blindfolded while atop an eight-metre-high wheel of death, you don’t need to have tried this yourself to comprehend the bravery of such a display. It speaks for itself. The perils and pitfalls of speaking aloud about childhood trauma or suicidal depression, though, can’t quite be conveyed to those that have never overcome that terror by finally speaking to a therapist or a friend; by admitting that they need help or that they don’t feel like going on. It’s so hard, in part, because of the discomfort that it often causes for those who can’t relate. Molly, then, rides her own metaphorical wheel of death unicycle by speaking, dancing and singing for an hour about the most taboo of subjects, while simultaneously setting the audience at ease.
With her beaming and disarming smile, Molly dives immediately into audience interaction from the start; she converses not just with one or two in the front row, but with entire rows. Incrementally, connection is built, as she engages in a series of skits designed to make visible the invisible firing of neurons she perceives inside her head.
You encounter internal family system voices, like the inner child, neuroscience understandings of the amygdala and pre-frontal cortex, and cognitive behavioural therapy analyses of thought patterns that need reframing. For every 'overshare', though, there’s a gag; for every trough, there’s a peak. Comedians well know that talk of death can kill the room. Keeping the laughs going while traversing topics likes these is a skill.
Molly is helped with the humour by audience members that she plucked out from the crowd; she wisely invites this reviewer to step on stage to display his worst skill: dancing. . . Twerking was even suggested. Between sketches and audience interactions, Molly changes clothes as absurdist clips played on the screen. Amid the distractions and the stunts, though, some of the rawest, most vulnerable truths are shared.
Even after having shared the words many keep unspoken, the audience remain, laugh, applaud; some give Molly a hug. The power of this journey cannot be overstated: many spend their lives or end their lives in silence because sharing is too terrifying: what will people think? To see someone do what they fear the most and live to tell the tale; that can provide a catharsis that can seem too distant; unreachable.
God didn’t take Molly. Thank God.
If you or someone you know needs mental health support, call LifeLine on 13 11 14.
