I'm a Comedy Addict... by Bradley Layden

My name is Bradley Layden and I’m a comedy addict.

I’m obsessed with standup comedy. I want to perform it all the time. And when I’m not, I’m thinking about it, prepping for it, watching other people do it, listening to podcasts about it, even dreaming about it.

I’m not the only one. Addicts tend to congregate. I’ve met many others just like me over my four years chasing the laugh dragon.

My problem is that most of those other people are in their twenties. They have lives that are easy to bend around finding stages and all the things around that. I’m forty. I have an amazing wife and three children that love me. That’s not supposed to be something that one complains about, and I’m really trying not to. I love them so much. I never want them to feel like I don’t. But I also love this other thing. Also so much. Maybe too much, if you ask some of my loved ones. And I don’t know what to do with that. I don’t know how to make them understand why I do this.

-Why I’ll drive three hours round trip to do seven minutes on a great show. Maybe for gas money, possibly for a free drink, but probably for nothing.

-Why my Facebook page, which used to be pictures of my family, or fun things I used to do, is now flooded with promos for upcoming shows.

-Why I’m spaced out when I am around, because I’m piecing together a joke that isn’t working yet, or dwelling on my last show, or stressing about the next one. Or that all I want to talk about is how things have been going with my act, or something funny the headliner said after the show last Sunday. And all my friends want to talk about is where they’re hauling the RV to this summer, or where they want to golf next.

And there’s no way to say…

“Because I need to be visible and show improvement to people who’s validation and respect may further my non-career.”

“Because I know I love my family, and I don’t need to advertise that to anybody, but I DO need to advertise this show, so I can get a decent crowd for this awesome headliner who’s doing me a huge favour by even saying yes to coming, so that I don’t completely embarrass myself.”

Or

“Because comedy is way more exciting than camping, but really, because I can’t help myself.”

...without sounding like a fool, an egomaniac, or both.

If you aren’t madly driven by something like this, then none of that makes sense. “Civilians” don’t get it, because why would they? Comedy wasn’t part of the package when I built my friendships over decades. It wasn’t here for the first half of my marriage. Now it’s here in a big, obtrusive way, and nobody else in my life signed up for it. I just kind of dropped it in their laps. This is me now. I’ve decided to dive into this. It’s happening!

Here’s how my obsession started:

Six years ago, I was just a husband and father of a young family. Heading to work at the big box store that still employs me. Feeling generally discontent, but not knowing what to do about it. I felt stuck, to be honest. Is this it? Do I just do this until I die or retire? Again, I’m very grateful for my family and a reliable job, but some part of me craved more. I wasn’t happy.

At the time I had a friend who was into improv. Other than some “Whose Line” episodes, I knew nothing about it. I attended a show and was drawn to the creativity and the enthusiasm. Even then, I saw that anything I could take away from this would help with stand up someday, although I had no idea how one started stand up. I started volunteering with the troupe, then taking classes. Between my first two “levels”, the great Kevin McDonald came in to teach a sketch comedy workshop. I didn’t feel ready for any of it, but didn’t want to let the chance to work with him slip away. That night I got to do a show with him. I was awful, but still got laughs when I was supposed to.

And that...felt….amazing….

I got more involved. Started writing sketches for the troupe. I was encouraged to audition a couple of months later. Encouraged by many, but not by my wife. She was very worried about how this was going to go. I was already disappearing a handful of nights every month.

“What will happen if you join the cast? I know you. You won’t be able to say no to whatever they want from you. I don’t want to lose you to this.”

I told her not to worry. That I probably wouldn’t make the cut anyway, and that even if I did, that I would keep it all manageable. I had to chase this new feeling.

I did make the cut. I did join the cast. I did not keep it manageable. But that was everyone else’s problem. I was hooked. Whatever blurry stand up goals I may have had were shoved aside as I fell in love with improv and sketch.

But things got worse when my troupe ran a workshop for the local stand up comics. At that point I didn’t even know Red Deer HAD local stand up comics. There was a mic after our workshop, so I decided that I had to try. It only went as well as anyone else’s first set, but as we left that night, my troupe’s artistic director said, “you looked really natural up there. In a way I’ve never seen in your improv.”

Great. Now I’m hooked on improv, sketch AND stand up. I was a junkie who kept piling on more substances.

But for awhile, things were okay. Ish. Improv was part time (I was on a trainee team), and I only hit mics once every month or two at the most. My home and social lives were only mildly impacted (I thought), but I wasn’t satisfied. I wanted to get better faster. To soak up all that I could. I started shoe-horning my comedy into any conversation that I was in. I felt different now. Special. I’m doing amazing things and I need everyone to know all about it.

Then about three years ago, my troupe was promoted to main stage, while stand up got harder to ignore. I tried to justify my choices. “I’m only doing a couple of sets a month! Maybe four at the most. That’s still super casual.” But I was busy ten to twelve nights a month with improv too. Sometimes I’d be gone five nights in a week. And of course, when I was home, I was burned out. I didn’t want to engage with any real life problems. I didn’t have the mental RAM available for any of that. All my focus, my energy, and my attention was tied up.

A lot of people in my life were affected, but they dealt with it. They knew I loved what I was doing. But just one of the many reasons I love my wife is that she’s not afraid to tell me how she’s feeling and when I need to be called out for my bullshit. She was miserable. She knew that our kids and our marriage were running a distant second to comedy. Things were getting bad. Possible divorce bad.

Something had to give, so I left my improv troupe last summer. I loved improv, but at a certain point, you just get better at doing the same shows with the same cast for the same audience week after week. It tapers off pretty hard if you aren’t fully engaged. But stand up has a path! As you get better, you can start to travel, eventually headline. Start making money. Maybe even get on festivals and TV!

So I thought, “There! That should solve everything. Now she should be happy, and I can focus more on stand up, which has so much more potential anyway. Because this could become a career, so now I’m being responsible! Now I’ll be home more too, because I’m not locked in to the troupe schedule. Now I’m in full control how busy I want to be!”

Those are the rationalizations I told myself. Addicts love rationalizations.

But things were better. For awhile I was home more. She was happier. Supportive even! She did appreciate my “sacrifice”, and that I was trying to balance things out. But really, I just dropped one habit to double-down on the other. Without any conversations with her, I set a goal for myself to average at least six sets a month. That still made me half as busy as I was before! But when you are fully engaged in stand up, more opportunities start popping up. People want to work with you if you’re hustling. All of the sudden, I’m heading out of town two or three times per month. Two nights in Lethbridge for gas money and hotel? Sure! A double-header open mic that requires seven hours of round trip driving? Absolutely! I tell myself that each of those are valuable. That I’ll improve every time I say yes. That if I say no people will stop asking.  

The hardest part is that I know, I KNOW, that the more sets I do the better I’m getting. The jokes are tighter, the level of loose comfort where I’m fully in the moment is so much easier to find. It’s working. Me now versus me even six months ago is so much better. It’s simple. The busier I am, the faster I’ll grow.

But every time I say yes to a show, there’s a cost. I know there is someone or something else in my life that loses every time comedy wins. Some of my loved ones don’t fully realise that I know I’m missing out. Putting my kids to bed. Just chilling out watching whatever with my wife. Meeting up with our friends, instead of my wife having to awkwardly deflect questions about how busy I am to have missed another get-together. I feel so much guilt about that.

There’s a lot of uncertainty in being a professional comedian, but at least (in general), they’ve been able to establish that “this is the job”. They have credits, exposure, and income that must lessen some of the outside pressure. I hope anyway (I know success in Canadian comedy is graded on a curve). Most comics my age are ten to twenty years in, and have been headlining for almost half of that. But at my level, it’s more difficult to justify this. To convince myself, let alone other people, that the stress, the absences, and the distractions are for something important. I’m not a good comedian yet, but I love this. It took me thirty-six years of floating around to find something that I’m decent at, and passionately want to master. I adore my family and care deeply for my friends, but comedy fulfills me in a completely different way. Giving a room full of strangers laughter hits me like no other thing.

Red Deer is far from a comedy hotbed. I might never move up the ladder and make this a career. But it doesn’t matter if it’s a huge theatre, a bowling alley or a random bar or lounge, I just love the stage. I need it. I’m up to around ten sets a month now. That’s the most I’ve ever done. But I look at my younger peers in bigger cities averaging two to three times as many sets, and I get jealous. I don’t have thirty years to figure this out. Clock’s ticking.

So when I get told I’m too busy, I understand where that comes from, and it hurts. But it’s so hard not to feel like I’m not busy enough.

Because I’m addicted to comedy.

Admitting that is the first step, they say. I want to be a great comedian, but not at the cost of becoming a terrible person, or friend, or husband, or father. Or worse, ending up with none of those roles because people stopped waiting around for me to figure it out. I could see myself ending up alone and miserable if I’m not careful. I feel it happening. I’m losing myself in this. My anxiety is bubbling up more every day. Minor panic attacks are a thing now. I think I had one on stage this week. I need to find some sort of balance, so I’m exploring some therapy options to get my mental health to a better place.  So that I can get back to properly caring for everyone else. Well, as good as I was before anyway. I don’t want to live without getting in front of a mic, but I’ve got to learn to accept less. Accept finding a pace that works. Accept saying no sometimes.

That’s not going to be easy, but I’m going to try.

Bradley Layden - @wunderbrad