ADHD Humor: My Gift and My Curse
Sometimes my quirky jokes bring down the house, and other times my ADHD brain misfires badly. Through trial and error, I’m starting to learn who ‘gets’ my jests and who takes them the wrong way.
Humor is a gift of attention deficit disorder (ADHD or ADD). Our busy ADHD brains can impulsively put random, seemingly unassociated items together in funny ways that entertain those around us.
Like the time when I was watching a fantasy film with some friends—during one scene, the music swelled, and the camera traveled along the ground, inexplicably freezing on the earth for a moment. Without missing a beat, and before the camera panned up, I blurted out in a great, melodramatic, Gandalf-esque voice, “Behold! I am dirt!!” The entire room burst into laughter, robbing the moment of its dramatic importance and setting up the rest of the movie for snarky quips from all of us.
Humor is all about timing. For the ADHD brain, this can be a challenge. Not only are we chronically late, but sometimes our spontaneous jokes are all wrong for the moment because we’re not good at picking up social cues.
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I had a roommate once who cleaned his half of the sink or his half of the shower. I cleaned the entire sink and shower, but only once a week or so. One time, he nagged me to clean the toilet. I told him I was busy with a conference, and I promised I’d get to it when the conference was over. But, he continued to nag, so I broke down and cleaned the whole toilet. Then, I told him that I cleaned my half of the toilet. I thought it was hilariously funny. I was laughing as I said it, and I continued to laugh as I left the room. He got angry. How dare I clean only half of the toilet?! He completely missed the joke. It still makes me chuckle, but I probably should have checked his mood before teasing him.
Humor also hinges on comprehension. My mother, for instance, doesn’t get sarcasm. I have spent a lifetime teasing her because of it. However, sometimes humor needs to be appropriate for its intended target. The urge to jest is not enough of a justification.
I have a daughter with learning disabilities. The other day, I took her to Shriners Hospital for Children in Salt Lake City. I was filling out some forms at the records office and my daughter was exploring all of their fancy, goofy pens. Most were of the faux flower variety to prevent accidental pocket theft, but she became fascinated by a set of flamingos. The helpful records clerk told her that the feet came off to reveal the pens.
This entertained her for a bit, but then I noticed stuffed dolls on my left. I told her that the dolls were pens, too. You just needed to pop off their heads to access the pen. I was smiling. I winked. I had my “I’m making a joke” smirk broadcast on my face. The clerk thought it was hilarious. My daughter, however, pushed my shoulder, which is her way of telling me to cut it out, but then, as I continued to fill out the form, she walked behind me and tested the doll heads! The look of disappointment on her face was precious.
I burst out laughing and gave her a hug. I had no idea she’d taken me seriously. Poor kid. She got stuck with me for a father.
My misfires have taught me to (mostly) bite my tongue when I have the urge to make a colorful joke. But, I’m not perfect…yet.
