Last night, someone asked, “Did you name your anxiety? I named mine. I call it Barbara. So when it’s really getting to me, I can say, ‘Not now, Barbara!'”

It’s a brilliant idea. Adam and I have named cancer or cancerlike things (mine is–was!–named Hortense, and I like that it ends with an “-se” because then it seems plural, and I imagine all the Hortense multiplying and forming a malignant colony, and then Dr. Thorpe came in and cut em off). But I never thought of naming anxiety, and it’s nice to be able to talk to it. Especially when its name is Barbara. God, f-ing Barbara, am I right?

 

 

***update: apparently, it’s Patricia. And she packed a large suitcase to come visit this month. So much baggage.