Meet Cathy

Sarah Smallwood
Sep 5, 2018 · 3 min read
Because Viola Swamp was already taken.

Depression is a curious illness. Some days you’re fine, and some days you can’t move. There’s nothing physically holding you down, nothing you can blame, so you feel guilty about not moving. Guilt stokes the fire, doubles down, calling you lazy and worthless and making you feel even heavier, starting the whole process over again.

Or maybe it’s different for you. You could have that feeling every day, or it comes toward you slowly with each tiny stressor, or appears as mania, makes you eat, makes you not eat, stops you sleeping, stops you from getting out of bed. It can take a million different forms, and that’s because mental illness is a big family, with a million terrible siblings.

I call mine Cathy.

Cathy has been with me for a long time, but she only recently got a name, after another difficult conversation with my husband. My poor long-suffering husband is what you would call a Normal. He doesn’t have depression, does not know how it operates, only sees its effects. He regularly says things like “you have nothing to be sad about” or “everybody likes you, you’re being silly.” This doesn’t mean he’s not being supportive — he really tries to help me when I get too far inside my own head, and his ability to care for me in the dark times has improved exponentially in the ten years we’ve been together. Unfortunately, in some way or another, Cathy’s been here too.

Cathy takes many forms, but usually manifests as a short woman with an unflattering dark bob. She has an answer for literally everything. If I am doing well, she brings up all of the projects I have yet to finish. If my diet is on track, she reminds me that it won’t be, someday. If I sew a dress or block a sweater, she is quick to point out every error that will be invisible to anyone else. She doesn’t ever get off the sofa, and will ask me to bring her things because “I’m already up.” Some days she wants to be called Cynthia, for no reason at all. Cathy doesn’t “believe” in voting or recycling, since we’re all going to die anyway. I think, but I can’t be sure, that I once saw her pick her nose and eat it.

She is a perfect manifestation for all of the things I am feeling, a shitty coworker I can never go home to escape. She is also a perfect way to describe how I feel without the weight of responsibility for those feelings. If she has a name, I can blame her. If things are her fault, they are not mine. I may occasionally do things to egg her on — drink too much coffee, neglect myself or my body, run out of meds early — but in most cases, she is the villain, stirring shit just because she can.

“You wouldn’t believe what Cathy said today,” I told my husband.
“Uh oh,” he replied.
“Yeah, she told me I only write web content because I’m too stupid to write a good book.”
“Did you kick her ass?” he asked.
“I told her to shut her hole, because she would never write anything, and she’s jealous of me.”
“Oooh, nice.”
“Then I said her hair sucks.” I mutter.
“Well, she did start it.”

Of course, we both know I’m really talking about me. All of the worst bits of myself, the laziness that lets me rationalize anything, the apathy that would swallow me whole if I let it. But one of the many things I’ve learned about marriage is the mutual acceptance of comfortable lies — especially ones that let you shorthand and shelve a longstanding problem without having to relive it. My husband doesn’t hate me, but he hates the hell out of Cathy… and suddenly, it’s two against one. By her very presence, Cathy brings us closer together. And I’m sure it pisses her off.

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