What’s in a name?

 I’ve been trying to kill off one of my identities for decades.

I didn’t know until recently that that’s what I’ve been trying to do. When a couple decades ago, one of my bosses pointed out that I was vaguely schizophrenic in all the ways I self-identified, he wasn’t wrong. There’s a story here, so bear with me while I unwrap it.

There’s a name I grew up with. It’s not quite a dead name, since there are people I know and love now who don’t know me by any other name. But that name connects me to shame, so starting about three decades ago, I began using another name. This is the name most of the people in my life use now.   

Why? 

When I decided to use the new name, I was trying to put some distance between the then ‘new me’ and who I perceived to be ‘loser me.’ That’s a whole ‘nother post, but the upshot is that I learned some stuff and wanted to be better—not necessarily someone else, but some one who is wasn’t some one else’s goat.

“Why all the names?” Boss asked me. I couldn’t articulate it at the time, but I can tell you right now I was trying to shed some baggage.

Then some other stuff happened, and some people tried to bully me into killing myself under that name.

The name didn’t die there, but it came close, and would have taken me with it if it did.

Then my kids went through their paces, their turns through the school district, and the voice that is the me you know from this blog emerged.

And this is who I am.

Greener Pastures

So many thoughts right now.

I’m having a little paralysis in all the things that need doing but have a handy little checklist and am going through it one item at a time. The job is done, and there’s lots to do here. I’m mindful of time and how I spend it. I’m mindful of energy spent and making conscious, intentional decisions about what deserves them.

I’m back to reading The Body Keeps the Score and have hit a resonant chapter. Hubby and I celebrated 35 years together this month, and only now are we both reckoning the whys of our journey. The boys are both getting ready to fledge, and I think this moment is perfect for getting them to try out their wings.

A lot of my list pertains to their flight checks, their next steps, and where we all go from here. There’s a lot to do. But we’re ready.

After all, we were made for this.

Both Shoes Now

 So I had my 30 day or quit follow up call. Sitch ends Wednesday.

I haven’t done much since that call besides sit and feel things. Had a couple conversations in which the person on the other end would never have guessed the other shoe dropped and it landed in an abyss that I’m not going to even look at (let alone stare at).

There’s a stair case and next step, but I can’t see either at the moment. And it’s okay. Knowing they are there is enough right now.

That Bullying Thing

 So…while I’ve been trying to manage my own head over, well, everything, something else has come up. Because, you know, there’s always something else.

Upcoming is younger’s wisdom teeth extraction; he has all four, and all four need to come out. He’s understandably anxious about it; anxiety has a way of unmasking other things.

To wit: we’re in the car heading from point A to point B. He’s reviewing what that week is going to look like; what foods he can and cannot eat. “Steak!” He exclaimed. “I won’t be able to eat steak!”

(Side note: steak is a rare treat, but the idea that he will not be able to consume it at will has him a little upset.)

I assure him we can do a celebratory steak when his mouth is healed—why not? Then his musings take on a sharp digression.

“So I can skip work that week.”

He has my full attention. I’ve noticed the last couple of weeks that he has come home from his job of two years quiet, a little surly, and deeply reflective. He suddenly is not talking about work at all, and that conversation brought him here screams for probing.

G doesn’t do well with screaming. I side-eye him waiting at the light. His jaw is set, and he’s staring ahead. The next couple of minutes are going to be tricky, and I need to choose my words carefully.

“So. Why do you want to skip work? You’ll have almost a week behind you by that point.”  I’m trying to keep my tone inquisitive but neutral: any excitement will shut him down.

He shrugs. “The guys like to mess with me.”

I pause. “Do you mess with them back?”

“I try to be patient.”

Holy shit.

“Have you talked with your manager?”

He shrugs again. “She says they like me, they’re only fooling around.”

And this is where I take a deep breath to shut down the screaming in my own head. The calmness in my response shocks me, because I AM NOT CALM. I have spent the better part of the last decade learning to trust my own senses and feelings after a lifetime of being told that I “take things too personally,” or whoever was “just kidding around” or  that someone “hopes I get the help I need,” for clearly, I am crazy for feeling what I feel. 

I’ll be damned if either of my guys get stuck in that particular prison.

“That,” I reply, it seems a billion years later, “is unacceptable.”

He shrugs again.

“No, really. This is where you tell them to stop. And if they don’t, SHE needs to tell them to stop. And if she doesn’t,” I shrug, “there are lots of other places where you can work.”

“But they feed me.” Very matter of fact.

I laugh. So G. “But is it worth it, if they are making you feel a certain way, and it doesn’t stop?”

We leave it there for the moment.

He comes home from work yesterday, not happy, bandaged hand. Apparently one of the coworkers threw hands when G told him to stop and scratched him. He then apologized profusely and applied first aid. His manager wasn’t there.

He took pictures of his hand, and he’s going in this week to have a conversation about what happened.

And he’s going to figure out what next.

His brother, a hardened veteran of bullying, has lots of things to say about what G needs to do. G listens. And quietly tells brother that he needs to do things his own way.

He’s writing his own script. And he may or may not share it.