Drop Dead, Fred.

Depression has been causing fights between me and my husband. Not bad fights, but those frustrating, “I can’t say anything right so I’m just not going to say anything at all,” walking on eggshell, uncomfortable kind of fights.

The monster in me is winning these fights. It’s telling me lies about what Mike REALLY means when he says something, what I SHOULD be doing instead of what I AM doing, how useless I am at getting ANYTHING right. And I’ve been listening way too much to the bullshit this monster spouts. And it’s coming between me and the one person who always tells me the truth.

So last Sunday I gave my monster a name. Fred. And now, when I’m feeling Fred’s fingernails dragging across the chalkboard of my soul and Mike asks me how I’m doing, I can tell him, “Fred is being an asshole today. He’s messing with my mellow.”

And all of a sudden, Mike and I are on the same side, pitted against a monster named Fred, instead of sitting on opposite ends of the couch not talking.

Yes, I’ve talked about accepting my monster because he is me and I am him and I am on a quest to love ALL of me. But sometimes I need to remind Depression it is not who I want to be. It may be PART of me, but it is not ME. So naming it Fred gives me that distance, that disconnect, and allows me to step away and see the whole picture. A picture that Fred is coloring the wrong color.

And best of all, it allows Mike and I to laugh together, instead of sit on the couch and not talk. It allows me to hear the truth. It allows me to hear love.

The second best thing about naming my monster Fred? When things get really bad, I can shout, “Drop dead, Fred!” The neighbors might wonder what the hell is going on over here, but it’s a pretty powerful feeling to say those words.

And it makes me giggle. Fred is completely powerless against giggles.

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