On Narcissism, #002: Serve up the abuse with a joke

Capybara at the zoo in Toluca, Mexico. Because thinking too much about narcissistic abuse is upsetting, and taking a capybara break is a good thing.

A Guardian article today reminds me of a core strategy of narcissists, particularly covert abusers. It focuses on the right-wing in the UK and the US, and how it uses humor to desensitize people to violence. It’s a reminder to all people who think humor lends a soft hand to abuse: there’s nothing innocuous about it. For those of us who have endured attacks with a smile, it’s both horrifying and validating to read how insidiously effective joking abuse is in destroying defenses and making violence more likely. And for those of us who are autistic . . . whoa. Cutting jokes can be especially destructive, because we have a unique and confusing relationship with humor.

See the article here: https://www.theguardian.com/commentisfree/2025/jul/10/right-progressive-societies-joke-glastonbury-starve-benefit-rod-liddle-lewis-schaffer

Have you ever experienced someone cutting you down with humor? Most of us have. Gentle teasing is basically in our DNA, and as long as it isn’t harsh or constant, it can actually bring people closer in a way. Usually this sort of teasing comes with intimacy, and is a sign that folks feel comfortable with each other.

But it can quickly turn hurtful. And like any other human quality, it can be used in it’s extreme as a tool to break down individuals and groups, and/or build up hatred for out-groups.

Where is the tipping point, from harmless teasing to social destructiveness? I think that tipping point is perceived differently over time, as we evolve. It’s been used as a tool for dominating women and racial/ethnic/religious minorities for all of recorded history. And it’s been successful, until the 19th century, when the abolition and suffrage movements resulted in serious changes that were further solidified in the 1960s.

But we’re in the middle of a backlash. I wonder how much of the extremism in current political humor is directly linked to the ubiquity of narcissistic abuse in intimate relationships, and the fact we often don’t recognize how humor is used against us. We have to become much more aware of how humor is used as a tool against women, and especially autistic women, in relationships with men. If we can learn to shut down that humor at home, we can reduce tolerance for it in the public sphere. But as long as we tolerate it in our closest relationships, we can’t expect to eliminate it from public discourse.

“Humour offers deniability. [Such humor has] anchored misogyny, homophobia and racism for decades: “Lost your sense of humour, love?” – wink, wink. They distance the writer from the intention, and provide moral cover…”. The key word here is “deniability”

The article describes succinctly what dangerous political humor looks like today. So, what does destructive humor look like in intimate relationships?

It looks like plausable deniability.

People who use cutting humor in their close relationships slough off the consequences: I didn’t mean it that way, you’re too sensitive, you’re paranoid and looking for ways to criticize.

And people on the receiving end of harsh and sarcastic joking slough off the import for their own mental health and safety: I can take a joke, we have fun bantering, I’m not thin-skinned, I shouldn’t take offense easily, he jokes around because he feels comfortable with me — it’s a sign we’re really close.

The jokers are getting in their stabby-stabs in scores of ways every single day. Little by little, we end up massacred with smiles on our faces.

I spent 13 years married to a covert narcissistic joker, and 20 years co-parenting with him after divorce. Here are some examples of how he’d joke around with me:

“Are you getting into bed with sticky thighs?! STICKY THIGHS, sticky thighs! Can’t have that!” he’d tease, laughing, if I hadn’t taken a shower that day. I swam three times a week in a chlorinated pool, so I didn’t have issues with hygiene. But his teasing was ultimately a way to control my body: he expected sex every night. He didn’t get it every. night. But he always, always pressured me, again with teasing and joking, trying to wear me down. If I didn’t fuck him at night, he’d pounce on me first thing in the morning — even though he knew I hated sex in the morning, I was way too groggy. He’d get on top of me while I was still sleeping and unable to resist effectively. How do I know it wasn’t innocuous? He would pout, and then get angry, if I turned him down. That of course happened all the time, because he asked for sex at least once a day, usually twice, morning and night. If I physically pushed him off me, he’d claim I was aggressive, even abusively so. And then the relationship talks would come if we went three or four days without sex: are you actually attracted to me? Are we a “normal” couple in how often we have sex? Do you still love me? Maybe you should take some medication to make you less stressed out. Oh no, that SSRI you’re taking, that makes you less stressed, is destroying your libido — you’d better get off of it. Maybe you should get into therapy to figure out why your libido is low. And on and on and on. So you know what? I did a lot of lying there and taking it. Because it was easier than struggling through his pouting, anger, rejection, and pressuring talks. Those consequences he dished out? It’s called coercive control. It’s rape. And it all started with joking.

He used to tease me about wearing “house pants” — yoga pants — too much, basically telling me I was going around looking frumpy, and made a huge deal about shopping with me for a “posh frock”, to up my game. He teased me about the burst vessels on the side of my nose — genetic, because my mom had the same — saying I should get them lasered, even though they were barely visible and didn’t bother me. He joked about how one of my breasts is smaller than the other — he called one of them “little sister”, and he was always grabbing them. If I gained weight, he’d make a show of loving my extra fat, laughing “lovingly” about it, and claiming he was unlike the majority of husbands who wouldn’t like it. He complimented my body constantly, saying he wasn’t tired of me sexually, even after several years, which set him apart from most husbands. Every couple of days he would jokingly work his specialness, or our specialness as a couple, into the banter, and look for reassurance that we were one of the happiest couples we knew. It all added up to a constant running commentary on my body and our relationship. Multiple times a day, every day. That’s a concerted effort to control my feelings, and the narrative about our relationship. It was a way to break down my boundaries, all that touching and grabbing and commentary. It made me easy to manipulate and abuse, because it all looked not only innocuous, but loving and appreciative. It made me easier to rape.

When I resisted, argued, reacted — that’s when the vicious humor came out. He’d laugh and jest, “couldn’t let that go, could you? Just have to bring it up again!” with a twinkle in his eye. If I’d cry, he’d guffaw, “oh, here it comes again, time to really let it all out!” and watch me with arms crossed, the side of his mouth twitched up in a half smile. If I brought up anything at all about his behavior, I was met with mocking: “Oh so that’s what we’re doing now, is it? Time to pick on your husband. Nice work ruining our night!” He constantly controlled the narrative, saying we were the most in love and happy couple, so there was no way to address negative behavior or feelings. Every time I brought anything up, I was being unreasonably critical. The only thing he was consistent about was refusing to take seriously my opinions, feelings, and pain. And when I encountered his brick wall to any discussion of his offensiveness, he twisted it around to be my problem, my poor behavior, my offensiveness.

And this is where I want to address the essentialness of my autism. I didn’t know I was autistic when I was married to him. I just knew I needed space, time to hyperfocus on my work or art projects, and a lot of sleep. I knew my skin got very sensitive and painful, and my muscles ached intensely, several times a week, and the only remedy was a hot bath and long nap. I knew I felt irritable in making transitions, being interrupted in my work. I knew I was very sure of right and wrong, somewhat rigid in my moral convictions, and I had very big feelings about issues of justice. I knew I had trouble controlling my emotions, and was prone to overwhelm. I knew I had had problems understanding humor when I was a teenager — a problem I thought I’d overcome. I knew I hated small talk, parties, and getting together with more than just one other person. I also knew I could cover up my extreme discomfort and make it through, but I’d need some serious time to decompress, which I rarely got. I knew I was blunt and made people really uncomfortable with my honesty, and I constantly felt like I was just too much for most people.

Because I didn’t recognize WHY I had these personality characteristics, I let my narcissistic husband pathologize each and every one of those qualities. All of them were defects he wanted me to root out. He would accommodate them frequently with teasing humor. And then just as often turn angry with those traits, and claim I must be mentally ill, bipolar or something. Back and forth, nice and mean, teasing and angry. His responses to me were inconsistent, and destabilizing. One minute he’d humorously build me up, and the next, he’d tear me down. As a result, I was in a constant state of confusion, wobbly, and unsure of myself. I was superficially confident. In reality, I had very low self-esteem — but wouldn’t recognize it until many years later.

Most importantly, because I didn’t know I was autistic, and I didn’t understand just how seriously I can fail to understand humor, I was an easy target for a narcissist. So much of what he did and said had plausible deniability. He did it all with a crooked smile I mistook for good will and, somehow, kindness. And everyone else around me saw him as charming, and us as an affectionate, close couple.

Not my mother. She saw his neglect, hyper-criticism, and coldness. She saw that he didn’t actually care. I fought her, for years, every time she said something about the reality. I listened to her much too late.

If what I’ve said rings a bell for you, I hope it gives you some validation. Humor has the power to desensitize us to abuse, and to radically move the needle on what we consider abusive. It breaks down self-protective boundaries. Those of us who have been among the funhouse mirrors in the home of a narcissist, know some things about blurred lines and confused perceptions. You are not alone in thinking none of this is funny.