Being Funny is Not So Funny in Recovery

Humor is often celebrated as a universal balm, a social lubricant that eases tension and forges connection. Yet, there is a distinct and often overlooked shadow side to a certain kind of wit, one that is not about shared joy but about strategic distance. People who lean heavily on a performative, constantly “on” persona of being funny are frequently, at their core, not very nice. This is not to say they are evil or malicious, but that their humor functions as a finely constructed wall. It is a brilliant defense mechanism designed to keep genuine connection at bay, allowing them to navigate social situations without ever having to be truly vulnerable, kind, or authentically engaged. They hide behind the punchline because the space behind it is the only place they feel safe.

This phenomenon is rooted in a deep-seated fear of intimacy and exposure. For the perpetually witty individual, a sincere, heartfelt conversation is a minefield of potential rejection. To be kind is to be open, and to be open is to risk being seen as flawed, needy, or uninteresting. Humor, by contrast, places them in a position of control. They are the orchestrator of the interaction, the one who sets the tone and elicits a predictable response. Every joke is a feint, a deflection that redirects the conversation away from emotional depth and back to the safe territory of performance. They are the court jester, invited into the court but never truly part of it, valued for their entertainment but not for their counsel or companionship. This performative distance ensures they are liked for what they do, not for who they are, protecting their fragile inner self from the perceived danger of true acceptance or rejection. The cost, however, is profound loneliness, as they surround themselves with an audience but never with a confidant.

This very same defensive mechanism tragically rears its head in the recovery of many scam victims. Having endured the ultimate violation of trust and intimacy, they are left with a devastating sense of shame and a shattered Internal Working Model that screams, “I am a fool.” To cope with this overwhelming pain, some adopt a persona of self-deprecation and minimization. They become the “funny victim,” the one who can crack jokes about their own naivety or brush off their devastating loss with a flippant comment. “Oh well, at least I learned an expensive lesson about Nigerian princes!” This performance serves the same purpose as the comedian’s wit: it creates distance. By making a joke out of their trauma, they hold it at arm’s length, preventing themselves and others from ever getting close enough to feel the raw, agonizing reality of what happened.

This self-deprecating humor is a dangerous stall tactic in the recovery process. It is a performance that signals to the world, “I am fine; this is not a big deal,” which actively prevents them from receiving the genuine empathy and support they so desperately need. When they minimize their pain, they are implicitly telling others that it is not a valid topic for serious discussion. Friends and family, hearing the jokes, may mistakenly believe the victim is coping well and will not offer the deeper, more compassionate support that is required for healing. Worse, the victim may begin to believe their own performance, suppressing the grief and anger that must be processed to move forward.

This persona can misdirect others in a support group or therapeutic setting. A new, vulnerable victim might see this “funny” individual and perceive them as a model of strength and resilience. They may think, “If they can joke about it, I should be able to as well,” which invalidates their own profound pain and pressures them to adopt a similarly inauthentic coping strategy. This creates a toxic environment where the very real and necessary work of grieving and feeling is replaced by a competition to see who can appear the least affected. The humor, intended as a shield, becomes a weapon against authentic healing for both the individual and the community.

It is always important to distinguish between this defensive humor and the appropriate use of wit to ease into a difficult topic. There is a time and a place for gentle humor to break the ice, but self-deprecation and minimization are never tools for healing. They are armor. True recovery requires the courage to lay down the armor, to be vulnerable, and to say, without a punchline, “This hurt me deeply. I am not okay. I need help.” Only by letting go of the performance can the real, painful, and ultimately transformative work of recovery begin.

Prof. Tim McGuinness, Ph.D.
December 2025