My friend, Birtha, is apparently going to be staying with me for a while. I use the term “friend” loosely because she is about as friendly as a Tyrannosaurus Rex, who skipped his breakfast. 

I don’t mind having house guests. I enjoy cooking for other people.  Plus, the pressure of someone seeing the inside of my house tends to put me in a cleaning frenzy, which I believe is healthy and necessary from time to time. However, I also appreciate having my own space. I like taking my bra off when I walk in the front door and keeping it off until I go back into public. 

Most of the time, Birtha keeps to herself. She lives on the other end of our neighborhood. Far enough away that she usually doesn’t bother me, but close enough that I know she can pop in, unannounced.  Sometimes I don’t hear from her for weeks or months but then seemingly out of the blue, she will show up at our doorstep with luggage. When I ask how long she is planning to stay, she just giggles and says “Oh I don’t know, until I am ready to leave”. 

She seems to know when my life is the busiest. I truly think that she has a calendar and marks the days that it would be the least convenient for me to have a house guest, so she doesn’t forget to pay me a visit. I imagine her counting down the days until my dentist appointments or job interviews like a kid waits patiently for Christmas. She probably uses an advent calendar, the kind that gives you a chocolate of the day, just to entertain herself as she waits to come across town to play. 

Birtha is missing one of her teeth. Not a front tooth, but not one that is so far back that I don’t notice when she smiles. It’s the pointy one. I am sure has an official name, but I have no idea what it is. She doesn’t let her own imperfections stop her from pointing out mine. Sometimes she will open up the shower curtain when I am in the bathtub, to make sure that I noticed that the stretch marks that I have grown from carrying two babies have not disappeared. 

Birtha tells me that I should run more often because my love for baking is beginning to show in my hips.  I use “going for a run” as an excuse to get away from her for thirty minutes. It is nice to have some time to myself, but when I get home, she greets me at the door with a friendly “ Wow! You look tired for someone who runs so incredibly slow.”

Birtha refuses to help with the chores, but she will poke me at 2 am to remind me that I need to clean the living room and that it absolutely can not wait until the morning. As I am picking up toys and scrubbing dishes, she sits on the couch, telling me that my son doesn’t eat enough vegetables and that it is a wonder that my husband loves someone who bought the wrong kind of Wheat Thins at the grocery store. 

When she  eventually falls asleep on the couch, I tip toe back to bed, trying not to wake her. This never works. she stirs, mustering enough energy to remind me of the horrible thing that I said to my mom when I was 13. 

My husband and I started calling my anxiety “Birtha” a few years ago. 

It started because we were both frustrated with the same conversation being repeated every few weeks:

Erin: I am feeling anxious

Husband: What is making you anxious?

Erin: Nothing. I am just anxious. 

Husband: About nothing?

Erin: Yes. 

Husband: That’s weird. 

Birtha became a code word. A way to shortcut the conversation. If Birtha was visiting, it meant that there was no need to have the back and forth about how I was feeling  anxious about nothing in particular. We could skip the part where my super sweet, pudding pie of husband had to work so hard to come up with a caring response to something that he couldn’t understand. 

Removing the focus from the “why” gave us time and energy to put  toward finding a solution.

Our conversations look different now:

Erin: Birtha will be joining us for dinner tonight. 

John: Okay, do you want to go pick up an onion at the store? I know leaving the house helps sometimes. 

After a while, Birtha became more than a shortcut. Giving her a name has given me some power. Phrases like “ I am anxious” felt like defeat. It felt like I was really saying “ I am anxious and there is nothing I can do about it”. Talking to Birtha like a person, gives me a chance to stand up for myself. It gives an identity to an invisible something that has become of our family.

If Birtha were an actual person, I would never let her treat me this way. I wouldn’t be afraid to say that she hurt my feelings or that I am doing the best I can. Calling her by name  helps me remember that I can still demand respect, even if she does not have a body of her own. 

It allows me to say.  “You are welcome to stay for dinner, but you are not in charge here. I am.”