I use to hate my name. I thought it was an ugly name. I thought I was ugly too! I always wanted to change my name to Mary-Jane. I have no idea why. Maybe I had met a nice person whose name was Mary-Jane. Maybe I thought if my name was different, I would be different. If I had a pretty name, maybe I would be pretty, or maybe I would be a totally different person.
Quite honestly, I think I wanted to be a whole different person. I never really questioned myself when I was younger as to why I wanted to change my name. I only knew that I didn’t like it, but now realizing our subconscious minds act in mysterious ways, I’m starting to realize there were most likely the above-mentioned reasons for wanting to change my name.
Even in my adult life, I did not like my name. When I was in a group and was asked to introduce myself, I dreaded saying my name out loud. I felt it was an ugly name, and I felt ugly. Everyone else had a nicer name.
Recently, I have started to “get use to” my name. I’ve started to accept it in this past year. I’m not really sure what changed, but in talking with my mother about what she knew about my childhood and feeling sympathy for what she has lived with all these years, I’ve started to realize that it wasn’t me who was ugly. It was my grandfather who was ugly. The childhood I had was ugly, but the child was not.
It seems to be getting easier and easier to say my name, think about my name and be proud of my name. Still I must remain anonymous until after my mother is gone. That could be one month, one year or ten years.
My mother, as much as I despised her growing up, I feel sorry for the life she lived. She was such a negative person and she made it so obvious to me that she blamed having kids for her crappy life. I don’t think she meant to, but she did. Her life wasn’t crappy to anyone else, but she blamed getting married and having kids for her “poor me” life. My dad provided the best he could, he loved my mom and the kids with all his heart. She didn’t see that part of it. She got married to get out of the house, away from her own childhood hell. She got out of that, just to be tied down with kids and would never be rich. I can see now, how much hell she must have gone through when she knew I was being sexually abused. Not only did she have to live with that, she couldn’t protect me and I was one more thing she needed to be ashamed of. I think, once I knew why she thought her life was so crappy, I understood why she talked to me the way she did.
Funny, isn’t it? Now I actually am starting to like my name and I can’t use it here because I am anonymous. I don’t think I need for my mother to find out I am writing about her father, her life, her negative self and what she thought was crappy, the abuse. She was ashamed all her life so I am not going to add to it. I have actually forgiven her (within myself) for not protecting me. I can understand now why she didn’t, why she couldn’t. I have waited this many years to write about it, I can wait a few more to let people know who I really am. I don’t particularly want my family to find out either. I’m sure they would not believe me anyway, after all, they grew up in the same household and never seen any of it. I don’t know why I am worried, since they wouldn’t read my stuff anyway. Just in case, I will remain annonymous. My mother does not have to feel any more shame. She quite often says she is so stupid. I’m sure she was told as a child, it was her fault things happened to her. It only makes sense that she would think it was my fault things happened to me. She was uneducated and only knew what she was told.
These days when I talk to her on the phone, she is a bit confused about things. Alzheimer’s or dementia is starting to kick in. She always says she is stupid and I correct her. I tell her that just because she doesn’t know how to do something or can’t remember, doesn’t mean she is stupid.
I am debating if I should actually tell her I forgive her for not protecting me, but what if she then feels worse because she will really feel like it is her fault? Maybe she would feel better knowing that I don’t blame her but it is in her nature to think the negative way. I’m pretty sure she would feel worse. I’ll just have to think about it until the next time I see her. Then I will decide whether to leave it alone or forgive her in person. Do I really want to go there? Do I really want or need to bring it up to her at her age?
I do like who I am today. I am not anonymous because of my mental illness. I am annonymous for the sake of my mother. I will remain, unknown for now, thank you for reading, feel free to comment.
I’m Frazzled Again.