Despite my sweetness and light lately, I realised something important this week: my name is a huge trigger for me (my proper name, not my nickname on this blog).
I’d been puzzling for a while why I hate it so much when people say my name, or even when I see it written in an email or something. And why I inject hatred and anger into those emails, even where there is none.
My therapist thinks it’s because when I hear (or see) my name, I ascribe my father’s voice to it – his harsh tone, his accent, the gravel in his voice, everything.
I’ve thought of changing my name, but that doesn’t seem like such a smart thing to do. Actually, a total pain in the proverbial when you consider all the stuff you’d have to change, and the documents you’d have to carry around to prove you really are who you say you are – banking, health insurance, driver’s license, etc etc etc.
My therapist says this might just be a phase, and may be it will pass. I hope so. It’s really hard living in a world where your name makes you wig out whenever you hear it, or see it in print.