“That’s funny, George. You’re very quick. I feel like I don’t have to explain every little thing to you.”

The Depression Monster ambushed me in my sleep.  I got about an hour of rest first, so there’s that.  I just hate when he gets me at my most vulnerable.  My bullshit detector doesn’t work when I’m asleep.  (It barely works when I’m awake.)  I haven’t managed to find a way to avoid this sadistic slumber party, yet.  Aside from not sleeping, that is.

I wake myself up from weeping in my sleep when this happens.  Then my bullshit detector has to warm up.  It usually takes about an hour before I manage to talk me back from the ledge.  Humor is my most effective (and probably only) weapon against the Depression Monster when I’m half asleep.  It’s the one instance where being a smart ass with a twisted sense of humor has paid off.

He usually plays the race card first:

Depression Monster: You should just kill yourself. You know damn well it’s just a matter of time before a cop shoots you for existing while being black.  And autistic.  And mentally ill.  Um…  How are you still alive?

Half-asleep me: I knew it! This sucks!

DM: Even I have to admit it’s pretty messed up.

HM: But I don’t want to die.

DM: Everybody dies. It’s the only thing you can assume without putting your foot in your mouth, which is something you often do, I’ve noticed.

HM: Hey! I’m eleven days into creating a new habit to correct that. You’re mean.

DM: At least I’m honest.

HM: No, I don’t think that’s right…

DM: You think? Since when? I thought you medalled at First to Reply, not First to Edit. More like, reluctant to edit, right?

Me: I hate you.

DM: So?

M: When will you be dying?

DM: What do you suppose Stevie Nicks would think if she heard that evil question?

M: I don’t know… Shut-up.

DM: Make me.

M: I don’t make trash, I burn it. (Not really, I use city sanitation.)

DM: Rote!

M: You’re a figment. Fig Newton. Farfegnugen.

DM: Rude much?

M: Nope. I save it for you.

DM: I’m touched.

M: I know.

DM: You know… It’s too bad you’re not at least a man. At least then you’d have fewer people who hate you for existing. Also, you wouldn’t have needed a Ph.D. if you were born with a penis. It’s your paper penis.

M: (singing) Have I told you lately that I hate you?

DM: This is why all the hashtag gamers hated your guts. So much. You don’t even understand what funny means.

M: Remember figgy pudding? It was the rudest part of that song. So demanding. Fig.

DM: If someone says the n-word around you in any context, you cry. Every. Single. Time. I don’t think normal black people do.

M: Now I’m going to live just to spite you.

It drags on for a while, but I ended up laughing at myself, (after bawling a little.)  Once I’m fully awake, it doesn’t take long to shut him down.  It’s no wonder I get lost in the shower if I don’t follow my checklist diligently.  The only strategic hint I got out of today’s adventure:  Work on having fewer insecurities.  Sigh.