Morbid Humor

Morbid humour can be a jolly thing. It can liven the aftermath of tragedy, lighten the weight of sorrow, and tell a tale without burdening the audience with the same misery that plagues the victim. Oftentimes, it’s the only thing keeping a person from crying constantly because they’re too busy laughing instead. I believe too, that should someone suffer something traumatising, they have the right to make fun of it. Unfortunately there are those who do not share that trauma, but decide to joke about it nonetheless. Some people will use the horrific events of another's life as fuel for their own personal amusement. They poke fun and make remarks and laugh at matters that hurt victims. It hurts because these are not experiences the jokesters lived through and survived and deal with on a daily basis. Making light of something terrible another went through undermines the reality and weight of that event. Even if you have permission that a traumatic experience is fine to joke about, one should still carry with them a healthy dose of caution because things change. What may have not bothered a victim before when it came to making something awful funny, could eventually take a toll and not be amusing anymore. When dealing with heavy memories, there’s really no concrete way on how it affects the bearer. There’s no manual or script or instructions that tell a person carrying such a weight in their soul how they will react in the future and grow and move forth. That is why it is so important to leave the humorous morbid comments to those doing the actual suffering. 
It really is just terribly disrespectful to not practice that basic decency. I'm not saying it’s always easy either. Sometimes you just think up the perfect morbidly funny comment to say to a victim. But you have to do right by them and keep it to yourself unless you have a clear pass. I know there are accounts on social media sites that create content making fun of other people's struggles: laughing at different races, cultures, sexualities, gender identities, survivors of rape and molestation. It’s honestly a disgusting thing to do, but alas it doesn’t just end with strangers taunting other strangers. Friends will tell friends dark and terrible instances they’ve endured because they need the support, the council, because they trust them to understand another part of their life. So when all the details are known about said friend's tragic past, it makes it all the easier to point out the hilarity in their misfortune. Though it hits all the harder when they don’t warrant your actions to do so. 
Let me tell you a story about something laughable that came out of something heartwrenching. This is a story I would not condone others to tell because I earned the right to after enduring the grief beforehand when they did not. I pass it forth when I personally feel ready and that is something I don’t want to be taken from me. 
It begins some years after my father deleted himself from this world. It took the man four times to even succeed so I know now where my talent for struggling to do anything comes from. He was cremated and from the plastic bag that contained his dusty, ashy, rock-like remains, my family divided portions into wee decorative urns. The rest of him lives in that bag to this day. I had my own urn containing some of my father that I put upon my bookshelf and there it sat in it’s blue velvet box for years. There then came a day where a curiosity sparked in me and I wanted to glimpse into that urn and see how he was doing in a sense. What I failed to realize was how full that thing was. Upon twisting the cap open ever so slightly, like the genie from Aladdin, my father-dust spilled out. Thankfully it was only a small amount but now that amount was on my floor, sitting there staring up at me. Deciding to deal with my mistake like the adult I wasn’t yet, I left him there and pretended my actions never occurred. 
Until a week or so later when I needed to vacuum my room. 
By then I had forgotten my misdeed and was mainly focused on sucking up the absurd amount of human hairballs on my area rug. Since I was already cleaning that though, I might as well vacuum the rest of the room. Because my bookshelf was right by my door, it was the last place I went to, and right when I did, I saw the small dust pile that I remembered to be some of my father. I was tempted to leave him put, mayhaps create a shrine around that small dust pile in his honor. But I also really wanted my floor clean. So with a quick prayer begging forgiveness from Satan, Odin, Zeus, Hades, and my fathers toasted soul, I proceeded to aim the vacuum at the dreaded site. Up he went into a new form of containment, no longer a lovely little urn but now a nasty vacuum cleaner stomach. 
I knew I was going to hell after this. I knew my soul was dammed and any church I entered would instantly excommunicate me. My floor now was so nice and clean though so really it was an almost even trade.