Joking About My Mental Health: A Defense Mechanism or a Cry for Help?

Reflecting on the connection between comedy and my depression uncovers many complexities. In this article, I share my insights on how humor relates to my mental well-being and its role in my healing journey.

I’ve been told that laughter is the best medicine. I’m no doctor, but I’m not totally convinced it’s the most effective prescription. The older I get, the more I realize that humor feels more like a Band-Aid or a supplement to an emotional malady rather than an actual antidote.

Don’t get me wrong: I love to laugh. And I love to make others laugh. But as I move through the world and question more about myself and others around me, I wonder about the ways in which I use humor as a crutch — or perhaps even an attention tactic — in relation to my mental health.

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Using humor when communicating my pain

I like to consider myself a funny human. I think I’m fairly clever and pride myself on my witty comebacks and quick retorts. I’ve noticed, as I’ve entered my later 20s, that my bubbly personality makes it very easy for me to make cavalier jokes about mental health.

When someone asks me how I’m doing, I often jest that I’m having a “menty b” (Gen Z slang for mental breakdown — the kids keep me young.) I jokingly text my friends, “It’s fine, I’m fine, everything is FINE,” in the midst of an emotional crisis. I’ll be crying to family or friends and immediately try to make a joke out of it to elicit a laugh from them. 

My jokes seemingly translate into, “It’s not that bad. I’m not that bad.” Perhaps I do it as a way to make them more comfortable about my discomfort. Perhaps it’s a protection tactic. By making a joke out of my pain, I can assure them that I’m not “crazy” or annoying and that I’m So Totally Put Together. Perhaps I’m hoping that it guarantees that I’m still likable. 

But why am I doing that? There’s actually nothing funny about a “menty b.” Everything is not fine. 

In masking my pain with jokes and laughter, am I actually being honest with others? Am I being honest with myself?

Reflecting on the connection between comedy and mental health

I’ve long questioned the relationship between humor and depression. In some ways, I think they go hand-in-hand.

I look at successful comedians such as Stephen Colbert, John Mulaney, and Conan O’Brien and think about how they’ve openly shared their emotional distress with the world. I recall how the world grieved the suicide of beloved comedian Robin Williams, who openly struggled with anxiety and depression for most of his life and ultimately succumbed to it. 

Humor can also be a productive response to pain. It’s a way to channel negative emotions into something positive — to take an antagonistic experience or feeling and magically transform it into something that brings joy to others.

But in many ways, humor and depression exist on opposite sides of the spectrum. Where depression is a manifestation of extreme sadness — or, in worse cases, apathy — humor seems to be a manifestation of joy. It promotes happiness. It is, scientifically, beneficial for us to laugh. In doing so, we release endorphins and reduce our cortisol levels.

So, I find it ironic, I suppose, that we’re starting to see commonly — on social media, in movies, in conversations between friends — that comedy is used in tandem with depression. Rather than pillars on opposite sides of the spectrum, they seem to coexist.

Using humor when it really isn’t funny

A few months ago, I had a panic attack outside of a cafe in London. I sat hunched on the pavement, hyperventilating, when a teenage boy passed by and asked me if I was OK. Amidst my heaving, I let out a laugh. I clearly wasn’t OK. I was the opposite of OK, really.

It was an out-of-body situation. I felt as though I was floating above myself, watching the scene play out. It was (and still kinda is) funny to me to imagine someone so horribly unwell, sticking her thumb up and heaving, “Yep, all good!” to some teenager on his way to work.

As it was happening, and my thoughts were going a mile a minute, I remember thinking to myself how humorous the situation was. I even thought that it would make a funny scene in a book I hope to write someday.

Of course, that experience is specific to me, but I know that I’m not alone in turning to humor as a way to express my saddest emotions.

Humor as a method of connection

Just today, as I was scrolling social media, I saw a colleague post on his story that he had just run 15 miles. He thanked “mental illness” for being his motivation. Another friend of mine recently sent me a meme that said, “Hey, do you wanna hang out later and distract each other from how depressed we are?” 

I imagine these types of posts and memes are a way to connect. They’re relatable and shareable. And they’ve done their job. They have made me laugh. 

Whenever I’ve told friends about that panic attack I experienced, I present the story jovially. I chuckle as I tell them about the teenager who unknowingly walked into emotional violence on his way to work at a coffee shop. I playfully roll my eyes and refer to myself, in the third person, as a “depressed girlie who loves to be dramatic.”

This, by the way, isn’t true. I don’t love to be dramatic. So, why am I saying that for comedic effect? 

That panic attack was horrifying. I’ve never felt so alone or isolated in my life. I genuinely thought I was dying. A small part of me wanted to die.

And when it ended, I realized (and was truly humbled) that I was living in a foreign country, all alone, in a timezone 5 hours ahead of my closest friends and family, and I had absolutely no one to call for help. (Actually, that’s false. I suppose I had the teenager, and I’m sure he would’ve been lovely, but that wasn’t really the vibe I was going for.)

When I told my best friend what happened later that day, I laughed. When it happened, I laughed. But why?!?! IT WASN’T FUNNY! 

Understanding humor as a form of protection

Ultimately, it’s a coping mechanism. By presenting my experience through the lens of humor, I’m sugarcoating the experience. It’s as though I’m taking control of my emotions rather than feeling as though I’m subservient to them. My feelings can’t embarrass me if I instead make a joke of them, right? 

Perhaps it’s a way for me to construct a narrative that isn’t as bad as my subconscious knows that it actually is. Instead, I’m able to pose as a Strong, Independent Woman who’s funny, self-aware, and totally in charge of her mental health. 

But the joke’s actually on me. Clearly, I’m not those things if I constantly feel the need to disguise my deep anxiety and emotional turmoil behind a charade of comedy. 

Well, that’s unfair to me. In writing this article, I’m proving to myself that I am able to openly discuss my pain and admit to the severity of that panic attack. 

I suppose it’s all about balance. I do think that there’s beauty in the coexistence of humor and depression. I believe it creates an opportunity for connection and relatability. And I’d rather discuss my pain — even if it’s the slightest bit sugarcoated — than not discuss it at all.

Bottom line

All jokes aside, I don’t want to diminish my pain. I don’t want to feel as though I have to lie about my mental health — to friends or to myself — in order to maintain some silly masquerade of put-togetherness. 

Joking about my mental health reminds me, when I’m feeling bleak and miserable, that I am still able to feel snippets of joy. I’m still able to laugh, and I can still make others laugh, too. It’s a reminder that I’m still … feeling. And I’ll take a funny feeling over no feeling at all.