Day 78: The Names We're Called

 
I've been called a lot of names in my (almost) 38 years.  I was sitting here, trying to come up with a list, and I realized I probably can't even remember them all.  Isn't that amazing?  I've had so many labels and slurs applied to me that I literally can't remember every single one.  Here are just some of the ones that made an impression:


Bookworm
Know-it-all
Weirdo
Show-off
Fatty
Teacher's Pet
Attention Whore
Drama Queen
Bitch
Slut
Control Freak


Those are pretty good, right?  I mean, they cover a decent selection of qualities.  And I could go into a lot here, about how maybe I never would have heard some of these if I'd been born a man, or how quick we are to turn on those that are outside the norm, even if they're outside it in a positive way.  But that's been discussed ad nauseum, and I think we all know the reality.  Anyone different gets bullied about their differences.  It's one of the less attractive features of being a pack species.

At any rate, I don't really want to talk about the names we're called in an attempt to hurt us.  I want to talk about the names, labels, and titles we're given by people that mean no harm.  Sometimes even people who love us.

And how very damaging those can be.

*deep breath*

Once upon a time I was in a relationship with someone, and they were very important to me.  I loved them very much, and so, when they told me something was true about myself--when they named a part of me--I tended to believe them.  When the mean kid in school had called me a bitch, I knew better than to believe her.  When everyone in college called me a slut, I knew where that rumor came from, and--although it hurt--I didn't let it sink into me and claim a piece of my identity.

But when someone I loved told me "oh yes, this is just who you are.  I'm not saying it because I'm mad, it's just true about you." I had no defense in place against this kind of announcement.  I didn't think I had to defend my sense of self against the opinion of someone so close to me.

"Surely," I thought somewhere down in my subconscious, "if they are saying it then it must be true.  Because they love me, and they would not lie about who I am."

Perhaps they would not have lied.  But that didn't make what they were saying the truth, either.

 Living as a version of yourself that is defined by someone else 

is like being a painting that someone has colored all wrong.

I spent years believing things about myself that were untrue.  Every time some part of me would try to refute the lies--to rise up and remind me that this wasn't really who I was--I would explain it away, dismiss it, refuse to listen to the inner voice that insisted that I was living inside a facade that wasn't really me.  I loved the person who had named these parts of myself, and I thought if I rejected their explanation of who I was, I would be rejecting them as well.

It never really dawned on me that, by accepting their labels, I was still rejecting someone.  I was rejecting the me I really was.

Eventually that relationship ended.  There was a cataclysmic fallout.
I was unhappy for a long time.
I was angry for a long time.
I was mourning for a long time.
Both the relationship and its ending left marks on me that will never fade.

But one day--one random day, with no particular significance--a piece of me that I had been denying for a very long time decided to come back and give it another go.

And that--that was a joy.

They've come trickling back.  Some of them are tiny things.  Some of them are bigger.  Some of them are life altering.  But having each one return is like having a long-lost family member walk through the door and announce that they're home.  I greet each one--big or small, good or bad--with such relief and affection.  I should never have let them go.  Now that they are back I will accept them as they are, because to accept them is to accept myself.

Not all of me is great.  But all of me is me.  And no one else--friend or foe--should decide what "me" means.