Tina v. Bertha, round 6417 . . .

I've written before about Hubert and Elmer; Hubert is the OCD part of me and Elmer is the depression part of me.  The other "people" that live in my head are Agnes and Bertha.  Agnes is the part of me that is anxious and worries about the worst-case scenario. Bertha is the bully.  She weighs 300 pounds, dresses in an ugly calico housedress, and walks around smacking a rolling pin in her hand.

It's Bertha I want to talk about today.

She's lived in my head since I was a kid, and she is extremely good about telling me how dumb, stupid, etc. I am.  Not only is she my inner critic, she beats me up at every opportunity.  We've gone many, many rounds in the metaphorical boxing ring of my mind, and too often, she wins.  Last Friday, I had what is possibly round 6417 with her.

Matthew, this weekend, went on a retreat with the college/young adult class at church.  I had messaged back and forth with the guys in charge asking about what the retreat would be like.  I didn't want Matthew to miss out, but I also didn't want to send him into a situation that might be over his head.  The guys in charge thought it would work out for him to go. 

But one of the things I needed to do was to get a letter giving one of the people in charge permission to authorize medical treatment for Matthew should it be necessary.  Since I have legal guardianship, Matthew cannot authorize medical treatment on his own.  So I wrote up a letter, had it notarized, and put it in my purse to give to the people in charge. 

Friday, we dropped Matthew off at the building.  One of the guys was driving the church bus down to the retreat location.  After convincing Matthew that no, he did NOT need to take his own pillow, blanket, bedspread and sheets, I kissed him good-bye and we got in the car to go to a retirement party for another church member.

We got to their house, I picked up my purse . . . and discovered the permission letter STILL IN MY PURSE.

I panicked.  Frank told me to contact the bus driver.  Which I did.  They hadn't left yet.  I said, "DON'T LEAVE," and I took off, driving frantically through the neighborhood, back to the church building. 

On the way there, Bertha took charge and started kicking me, saying, "How stupid!  You idiot!  You shouldn't have done this!"

This time, I fought back.

I used a version of a technique I use with Hubert:  instead of fighting the thoughts, just let them be.  Sometimes, I even say to Hubert, "Oh yeah, that sounds like a good thing.  I think I'll try it in about 10 minutes."  Then when 10 minutes are up, I can go another 10 minutes.

So I decided that I would let Bertha beat me up all the way to the church building . . . but after I got there, she would not be allowed to beat me up anymore. 

I talked out loud, saying things like, "You idiot!  You fool!  Worst mother in the world!"  And since I was being beat up, I yelled, "Left hook!  Right cross!  Kidney punch!  Gut punch!"

Saying the words out loud made me laugh, because really, it exposes my inner Bertha for who she is:  ridiculous and mean.  Laughter is a good weapon to use against a bully. 

I made it to the building, handed the letter to the bus driver, and then relaxed. 

Then I drove back to the retirement party.  On the way, I told myself why I had forgotten the letter:  One, I had it in my head to give it to a particular person, who had already gone ahead and was not the driver of the bus.  Two, I was distracted by telling Matthew he didn't need his pillow and blanket because sheets would be provided.

The takeaway?  Next time I have to have a medical authorization letter, I will write the letter, get it notarized, and give it to Matthew to give to the appropriate person.

As it turned out, Matthew had a good time and nothing happened where he needed treatment.   He told me that they talked about the book of Esther, and that he -- Matthew -- had said to someone that, if you didn't have enough of the spirit of God, you might be humbug.  Matthew has heard the word "humbug" before and interprets it as "something that is not good".  (In the case of certain characters in the book of Esther, he has a point.) 

Bertha and I have gone many rounds in the boxing ring of my thoughts.  This was not the first fight we had, nor, unfortunately, will it be the last.  Like Rocky Balboa, the movie and the sequels will probably go on until the day I die.

But at least this time, at the end of round 6417, I was still standing at the sound of the bell.

Just my .04, adjusted for inflation.