Someone asked me how I was today, and they were confused when I told them that Judy was getting on my nerves.

Whether you get physical panic attacks or mental hysteria, heart palpitations or cognitive chaos; whether you feel isolated or watched; whether you’re terrified of a crowd or terrified of interacting with one person at a time; your anxiety is a part of you. But it doesn’t have to define you.

Root cause analysis is a strategy used in many fields as a way to get to the absolute base of a problem by continuously picking apart each piece and questioning its validity until you’re at the core. Separating lettuce, tomatoes, cabbage, cheese, and croutons help you to understand a salad. Although, humans are closer to being a baked good, where separating ingredients isn't as easy once the final product is produced. But flour is not the only thing that makes a cake, just as anxiety is not the only thing that makes you.

In order to logically wrap one’s head around having anxiety, therapists have suggested for people to name their anxiety. This acts as a way to validate the terror, stress, or worries, whether it is rational or not. Naming your anxiety personifies it; it’s no longer “my anxiety” or “my disorder,” which many people are scared to talk about outright (and many people are scared to hear about outright. It’s more acceptable for people to talk about irritable bowel syndrome than it is to talk about anxiety). Yes, it’s still your disorder, but now it’s Rebecca. Or James. Or Carly. Or The Artist Formerly Known as Prince. (Too soon?)

My point is; name your anxiety something that makes it seem (and makes you feel) more of a human and less of a monster. Because you are not a monster.

When I first heard the “name your anxiety” theory, I did that nonsense shout laugh that villains do when their plan is challenged. How ridiculous is that? Why would I name my anxiety? I am a young adult, not a child who believes in creatures that go bump in the night. But then later that day I was too afraid to even step onto the train to go to the airport for work, so during my forty-five-minute commute I humbled myself and tried to think of names.

That’s the other thing: don’t name your anxiety after someone who has hurt you or terrified you in the past. I thought about naming my anxiety after my ex-boyfriend, because in retrospect I realized that he helped create my anxiety and build it up to where it is now. Yes, that would personify my anxiety, but it would just make me more anxious to say “oh, Chris is back at it again” whenever I would have overwhelming doubts about the ones that I love remaining in my life and believing that everyone would drop me like a hot potato sooner or later.

The name “Judy” came to me because it was a generic, relatable name of someone that I’ve never met. Judy isn’t a name that life has tainted for me (not until now, of course).

You might be wondering: how could I name something that I can’t even imagine? How do I name sudden feelings of panic or dread? Of a rushing heart and clammy hands? How could I give intrusive thoughts a name?

Let me paint you a picture of my anxious days:

The other morning when I woke up, all I heard was Judy’s frantic, high-pitched screams. I didn’t even know what she was freaking out about. I was like “Judy, what the hell?” and she was like “What are you doing? You have work in four hours. Everyone knows you’re still new working at the hotel. Your co-workers hate you. How dare you make them baby-sit you. You’re so annoying when you ask them questions all the time. The guests can’t stand you either. You’re gonna make a huge mistake someday. You should have stayed at the airport. Why did you switch jobs in the first place? WHAT IF SOMEONE PULLS OUT A GUN AND-”

Ashley, you will calm down.

Usually Judy gives me peace for the first fifteen minutes after I’ve woken up, but this morning it was as if she was whispering in my ear all night, which would explain the three consecutive stress dreams.

As I took my shower, Judy kept shaking my shoulders, making me drop my shampoo bottle three times. Judy got frustrated that I wasn’t working properly, so she screamed at my shampoo bottle: “FINE, STAY THERE YOU PIECE OF-”

Ashley. Calm. Down. There is no use yelling at inanimate objects.

By the time I was out of the shower, my roommate had woken up and was using the vanity that we shared to put on her makeup. We each exchanged a soft “hey” and I joined her at the neighboring sink. She changed the song playing on her phone and I heard it muffled through the earbuds in her ears.

“She hates you,” I heard Judy whisper. I closed my eyes and opened them as I stared at my reflection, my hair wrapped tightly in a hunter green towel. “I mean; do you blame her? Look at you, and then look at her. You’re not even in the same ballpark.” I tried to ignore her as I brushed my teeth, reminding myself that my roommate and I are actually very good friends. “But Ashley, you are so irritating. Don’t you think she’ll get tired of your mood swings and panicked look all of the time?” Judy, I’m not panicked all of the time. “But you look like you are, and because you don’t communicate your feelings you look like an angry-yet-timid field mouse!”

As I began applying eyeshadow, Judy flicked my temple and created a radiating pain that lasted for five seconds. “Oh my God what if you’re having a stroke?!”

Shut up, Judy.

Throughout the rest of my morning, Judy threw a fit over not having milk in the refrigerator, she made me tear up when I couldn’t find a complete pair of socks, and she balled up her fists tight so she could punch my heart for the duration of my trek to work.

Perhaps that was an exaggerated example, but each of those instances have and continue to happen, and I literally blamed Judy for all of them. Similar to Catholics utilizing “the God Box,” (putting all of your worries into God’s hands), I’m kind of making my own “Judy Corner.” Because I imagine Judy as a wide-eyed woman in a purple power suit who’s convinced that the world is ending and that everyone leaves and that if things don’t go precisely as planned then the day (and whatever you were doing) is completely ruined. She screams and cries and shakes and she never speaks calmly. The only way to calm her down is to give her responsibility for her own actions and to make her realize that everything will be okay. Sometimes she requires sedation, but most of the time she pities me when I break down into heaving sobs and she gives me some peace.

But, notice how I named my rational mind after myself. This helps to make me feel better because I am the one in control of my body, after all. Judy just happens to be a part of it.

So now instead of wondering why I’m so emotional, or why I’m so angered by minor inconveniences, or why I’m so petrified of doing daily activities like speaking to people or leaving my apartment (or not leaving my apartment), I use Judy as a scapegoat. Naming my anxiety has begun to help me understand it a bit more, because I’m seeing it as a concrete being rather than as an abstract thought. I am a person, so I know how to talk to a person. That is why, in my example, the dialogue is between Ashley and Judy. Ashley (the core, rational essence of me), is telling Judy (my anxiety) that Ashley (the literal me) will calm down despite Judy’s outlandish claims. It’s like chanting mantras to yourself, but directing it to your anxiety (your Judy) as a way to combat the irrationality.

Ever since I’ve started naming my anxiety, it has been easier for me to distinguish it from my rationality. Just because sometimes Judy’s voice is louder than my own, doesn’t mean that I don’t have my own voice. I am still a rational human being, just as everyone else is rational in their own right. Don’t let your anxiety take away your right to have everything make sense.

Please note: I am nowhere near a psychology major. I am nowhere near a therapist. I do not offer “fully educated advice.” I am just a young woman with anxiety disorder, and I am sharing with you all something that I’ve found beneficial. Because sometimes “just getting over it” doesn’t work the way we all want it to.

Stay strong. And know that despite your Judy, your Omar, your Clara, or your Diego, that you are important and worthy.