Last week, a friend queried a few of us ladies to get our thoughts on changing our names after marriage. Here's what I wrote to her:
I never really swung hard one way or the other before I was married about whether or not I would change my name. When I did get married, it was important to him that I change my name, so I did. And I'm not ashamed to admit I did like being Mr. and Mrs Same Name. One family. One name. I liked that.
As our marriage went on and I became more and more unhappy, I knew it was going to end. About a month before it did, I changed my name back to Shirley. Funny because at work, I sent an e-mail out indicating that my name was Shirley now and got a shitload of e-mails back either saying "Congratulations on your wedding!" or "Sorry about your divorce." And all I had to say was, "It's neither. Just going back to what I know."
I remember I took a day off to run around and get my name changed back, and he called me while I was doing all this running around and asked me what it meant. I told him it just meant that I wanted to be who I really am: Anne Shirley. But in my heart I knew that wasn't the reason. I didn't want his name because I didn't want him.
Going back to my maiden name was one of the best times of that time of my life. It gave me a lot of strength. My name is Anne SHIRLEY. I, Anne SHIRLEY, don't want to be here anymore. I, Anne SHIRLEY, am getting the fuck outta here. I, Anne SHIRLEY, am going to go save my own life now. (Yes, you can have whatever you want. You can have everything. You can ruin my life as much as you can over the next two years. Please please please just let me go.)
So now I'm Anne Shirley once more. I like it. It suits me. I love being a Shirley. There is an identity there that ties me to people who will always be there for me, no matter what. People who understand me. People who are crazy like me. There are traits that "Shirley's" have, and I have them. I know I do. That name makes me feel like I belong somewhere. I would love it if my married name had made me feel like I belonged, but all it did was make me feel more alienated from myself. (And there was already enough of that going on in those years, believe me.) I also didn't feel like I belonged in that family, so taking that name only made me feel like I was kind of losing my place in one family, but I didn't feel like I was taking up a spot in a new one.
I can't say for sure that I wouldn't change my name again (Anne Blythe? Really?), but I know it would be hard to do. Much harder than getting married again (which is still not something I can fully wrap my head around yet). I still like the Mr. and Mrs. Same Name. I still like the idea of one family, one name. If there were children involved especially, it would be nice for all of us to have one family name. But it would be hard. Really hard. Maybe too hard. Maybe not worth doing if it's going to be that hard, given that it doesn't matter to Gilbert. But I've changed my mind on such things before.
Oh yeah. I'm back, Bitches.
Monday, November 16, 2009
Saturday, August 1, 2009
It's All Up Here
Lately, I've been doing a lot of thinking. Just thinking. Not writing, not talking, just thinking. I've been meaning to get it all down on paper, but until now, overcoming the inertia to pick up a pen has seemed an physically insurmountable task. It's just easier to think. But I do recognize that there is value to getting it down on paper - working through my feelings, organizing my thoughts coherently, and like she said, "if you're a writer, put that shit on paper".
So after this almost two month hiatus, I'm back at it. Trying, yet again.
So after this almost two month hiatus, I'm back at it. Trying, yet again.
Tuesday, May 19, 2009
Nice Shot. Wrong Direction.
Last fall, I started playing disc golf and immediately fell in love with the sport. Disc golf is like regular golf, except instead of hitting a ball with a club into a hole, you throw a frisbee (disc) into a basket.
Yesterday, I went to play disc golf with a couple of people who are much better than me. One of them said to me, many times yesterday, "Nice shot. Wrong direction."
After I heard it for maybe the third or fourth time, it dawned on me that this would be a good title for my autobiography, were I to write it today.
Nice Shot. Wrong Direction. The Autobiography of Anne Shirley.
It pretty much sums up how I feel about how I've lived my life to date. I have tried. My intentions have been good. But somehow, it all seems to go askew. School, work, relationships with family, friends and partners. I can find many examples of this very sentiment throughout my whole life.
Nice shot. Wrong Direction. Truer words were never spoken.
Yesterday, I went to play disc golf with a couple of people who are much better than me. One of them said to me, many times yesterday, "Nice shot. Wrong direction."
After I heard it for maybe the third or fourth time, it dawned on me that this would be a good title for my autobiography, were I to write it today.
Nice Shot. Wrong Direction. The Autobiography of Anne Shirley.
It pretty much sums up how I feel about how I've lived my life to date. I have tried. My intentions have been good. But somehow, it all seems to go askew. School, work, relationships with family, friends and partners. I can find many examples of this very sentiment throughout my whole life.
Nice shot. Wrong Direction. Truer words were never spoken.
Tuesday, May 12, 2009
The Wife
WARNING: BOOK SPOILERS IN THIS POST
A few days ago, I finished a really awful book titled 'The Wife'. The book was about a woman whose husband is a huge literary success. He has published a large body of work, received accolades and awards, and ends up winning one huge literary award in particular, immediately after which he dies. Of course, it is apparent to the reader very early on (though it is not explicitly revealed to the reader until later in the book) that his wife was the one writing all his books. The book is written in first person, from the wife's point of view, and though the plot is thin, the characters are flat and the story is ultimately not well developed (at least in the opinion of this lay critic), there were a few keys lines in the book which caught my attention.
Everyone knows how women soldier on, how women dream up blue prints, recipes, ideas for a better world, and then sometimes lose them on the way to the crib in the middle of the night, on the way to the Stop & Shop, or the bath. They lose them on the way to greasing the path on which their husband and children will ride serenely through life.
Everyone needs a wife; even wives need wives. Wives tend, they hover. Their ears are twin sensitive instruments, satellites picking up the slightest scrape of disatisfaction. Wives bring broth, we bring paper clips, we bring ourselves and our pliant, warm bodies. We know just what to say to the men who for some reason have a great deal of trouble taking consistent care of themselves, or anyone else.
"Listen," we say. "Everything will be okay."
And then, as if our lives depend on it, we make sure it is.
I read the above and wondered how many women would read it and, like me, think "I could have written that myself".
I was a wife. I may be one again one day. Some days I feel like one now, though I am acutely aware of the distinction in my own brain which is brought by signing my name on a dotted line. But the author very clearly captured what I have heard from women every day, what I have seen women around me do - what I did myself to a certain extent.
When we are girls, we have goals and dreams and sometimes a certain whimsy about our lives - what they mean and where they may go. We imagine who we will become. But even those of us who imagine becoming wives (and mothers - an angle which I speak of with a certainty born not of experience as a mother but of experience as someone who has been mothered, and who is highly aware of the sacrifice which often comes with the title) - do we ever imagine what we will give up to do so? How our lives - big decisions and small - will be shaped so sharply by the dreams, desires and even comforts of another person? Do we all step off our own paths to pave the way for someone else?
Maybe a successful relationship is when each does that for the other. Or perhaps it is one foot on your path, one foot paving theirs. I never imagined that I would so easily make the sacrifices I did when I held the title of Wife. And they weren't all bad. But I made them quickly and easily and without much thought to what I may be giving up to ensure the comfort, success and desires fulfilled of another.
Ultimately, the problem for me was paving someone else's way without neither him or I paying attention to my own. Let's try to avoid that again.
A few days ago, I finished a really awful book titled 'The Wife'. The book was about a woman whose husband is a huge literary success. He has published a large body of work, received accolades and awards, and ends up winning one huge literary award in particular, immediately after which he dies. Of course, it is apparent to the reader very early on (though it is not explicitly revealed to the reader until later in the book) that his wife was the one writing all his books. The book is written in first person, from the wife's point of view, and though the plot is thin, the characters are flat and the story is ultimately not well developed (at least in the opinion of this lay critic), there were a few keys lines in the book which caught my attention.
Everyone knows how women soldier on, how women dream up blue prints, recipes, ideas for a better world, and then sometimes lose them on the way to the crib in the middle of the night, on the way to the Stop & Shop, or the bath. They lose them on the way to greasing the path on which their husband and children will ride serenely through life.
Everyone needs a wife; even wives need wives. Wives tend, they hover. Their ears are twin sensitive instruments, satellites picking up the slightest scrape of disatisfaction. Wives bring broth, we bring paper clips, we bring ourselves and our pliant, warm bodies. We know just what to say to the men who for some reason have a great deal of trouble taking consistent care of themselves, or anyone else.
"Listen," we say. "Everything will be okay."
And then, as if our lives depend on it, we make sure it is.
I read the above and wondered how many women would read it and, like me, think "I could have written that myself".
I was a wife. I may be one again one day. Some days I feel like one now, though I am acutely aware of the distinction in my own brain which is brought by signing my name on a dotted line. But the author very clearly captured what I have heard from women every day, what I have seen women around me do - what I did myself to a certain extent.
When we are girls, we have goals and dreams and sometimes a certain whimsy about our lives - what they mean and where they may go. We imagine who we will become. But even those of us who imagine becoming wives (and mothers - an angle which I speak of with a certainty born not of experience as a mother but of experience as someone who has been mothered, and who is highly aware of the sacrifice which often comes with the title) - do we ever imagine what we will give up to do so? How our lives - big decisions and small - will be shaped so sharply by the dreams, desires and even comforts of another person? Do we all step off our own paths to pave the way for someone else?
Maybe a successful relationship is when each does that for the other. Or perhaps it is one foot on your path, one foot paving theirs. I never imagined that I would so easily make the sacrifices I did when I held the title of Wife. And they weren't all bad. But I made them quickly and easily and without much thought to what I may be giving up to ensure the comfort, success and desires fulfilled of another.
Ultimately, the problem for me was paving someone else's way without neither him or I paying attention to my own. Let's try to avoid that again.
Tuesday, April 21, 2009
Bleed, throw it out, move on.
Years ago, I took a road trip with a couple of friends. Two of us were going through bad breakups at the time, and the lone voice of reason in the car gave us some sound words which I still carry with me today:
Losing a relationship is like a plate breaking on the floor. It sucks, and there's glass all around, and you get cut and you bleed but you pick up the pieces and move on. But a few weeks or even several months later, you'll find a piece you missed. You may find it by moving a table or chair and there it is. You pick it up, deal with it, throw it out and move on. Or maybe you find it because you accidentally step on it. You bleed a bit (though not as much and not as long as you did with the big pieces in the beginning), but the bleeding subsides, you deal with it, throw it out and move on.
Losing a relationship is like a plate breaking on the floor. It sucks, and there's glass all around, and you get cut and you bleed but you pick up the pieces and move on. But a few weeks or even several months later, you'll find a piece you missed. You may find it by moving a table or chair and there it is. You pick it up, deal with it, throw it out and move on. Or maybe you find it because you accidentally step on it. You bleed a bit (though not as much and not as long as you did with the big pieces in the beginning), but the bleeding subsides, you deal with it, throw it out and move on.
Monday, April 20, 2009
Orphaned
I read a book recently which included an idea that triggered something inside me. Though the exact line escapes me right now, it was something like we are orphaned over and over again.
I thought about this for a long time.
Merriam-Webster defines orphan as a child deprived by death of one or both parents, a young animal that has lost its mother, and closer to home for me, one deprived of some protection or advantage.
I am lucky to still have both my parents alive and kicking, but I imagine the loss of a parent to be significantly greater than the loss of another in one's life, because this loss represents not just a person, but a resource, comfort and security. The loss of this person, or people, changes everything, forever. I am a 31-year-old woman who has only very recently accepted that her parents are mortal beings with their own lives, feelings, problems and dreams. To lose one or both of them now would be unimaginable.
But the loss of resource, comfort and security - a loss that would change a life, is not necessarily that of a parent. In my life, I have lost two best friends and a husband. Each of those losses affected me greatly, and after each of them, I knew things had been changed forever. To use the term "orphaned" to describe how I felt when these people were no longer in my life is not a stretch. They each touched me greatly, and though their hand prints remain on my heart, the cool breeze over the spot which their hands kept warm has been felt for a long time.
I thought about this for a long time.
Merriam-Webster defines orphan as a child deprived by death of one or both parents, a young animal that has lost its mother, and closer to home for me, one deprived of some protection or advantage.
I am lucky to still have both my parents alive and kicking, but I imagine the loss of a parent to be significantly greater than the loss of another in one's life, because this loss represents not just a person, but a resource, comfort and security. The loss of this person, or people, changes everything, forever. I am a 31-year-old woman who has only very recently accepted that her parents are mortal beings with their own lives, feelings, problems and dreams. To lose one or both of them now would be unimaginable.
But the loss of resource, comfort and security - a loss that would change a life, is not necessarily that of a parent. In my life, I have lost two best friends and a husband. Each of those losses affected me greatly, and after each of them, I knew things had been changed forever. To use the term "orphaned" to describe how I felt when these people were no longer in my life is not a stretch. They each touched me greatly, and though their hand prints remain on my heart, the cool breeze over the spot which their hands kept warm has been felt for a long time.
Thursday, March 19, 2009
They're Just Dreams
Just over a year ago, I had a dream that T&R had put Nadira into an institution because she had been diagnosed with depression, at the ripe old age of 4. The dream took place in the institution - I was standing in a room with T, looking through a one-way mirror into a room where Nadira sat on a chair in a circle with several other children, who were presumably there for the treatment of similar ailments. There was a woman there too, on her own chair in the circle. She was talking to the kids, and Nadira was sitting there calmly listening, but I lost it. I began to cry, and begged T to bring her home. I told her that I knew it was hard, but that we'd all help her, and please please don't keep Nadira in there, please bring her home.
I woke up from that dream crying, and called T immediately to make sure Nadira was okay, which of course, she was.
Almost exactly a year later, I have another dream. This time, I'm on the second floor of a school, looking through a window into the gymnasium on the first floor. Nadira is there, as she is now at 5 years old, in her gym class with several other girls. Nadira is content playing on her own, but I can her the other girls talking behind her back, saying "she's so mean" and "she's so selfish, she never shares" and "I hate her". Then one of the girls walks up behind Nadira, grabs her by the hair, throws her on the floor and proceeds to beat on her. And nobody does anything. I begin crying and screaming for somebody to help, but for the few more moments that I lived this dream, nobody helped her, and I didn't know how to stop it.
Again, I woke up crying hysterically. I couldn't even talk for several minutes to explain why I was crying - probably not a nice situation for the company I kept that night to wake up to himself.
I relayed this dream to T, and we talked about the similarities to the dream I had the year before. Nadira being in a bad situation, being unable to help, always watching from the outside. Nadira of course is fine, and T asked the inevitable question: "Are you sure these dreams are about Nadira? Maybe in your dream she represents someone else...maybe you?"
Nadira is a crazy, kooky, amazing kid. She's loud and outgoing, and in many of her loud and boisterous ways, she's like neither of her parents. They are both so easy going and relaxed, and she's always on 11. She does remind me a lot of me when I was little. Maybe it is me in the dreams after all.
I woke up from that dream crying, and called T immediately to make sure Nadira was okay, which of course, she was.
Almost exactly a year later, I have another dream. This time, I'm on the second floor of a school, looking through a window into the gymnasium on the first floor. Nadira is there, as she is now at 5 years old, in her gym class with several other girls. Nadira is content playing on her own, but I can her the other girls talking behind her back, saying "she's so mean" and "she's so selfish, she never shares" and "I hate her". Then one of the girls walks up behind Nadira, grabs her by the hair, throws her on the floor and proceeds to beat on her. And nobody does anything. I begin crying and screaming for somebody to help, but for the few more moments that I lived this dream, nobody helped her, and I didn't know how to stop it.
Again, I woke up crying hysterically. I couldn't even talk for several minutes to explain why I was crying - probably not a nice situation for the company I kept that night to wake up to himself.
I relayed this dream to T, and we talked about the similarities to the dream I had the year before. Nadira being in a bad situation, being unable to help, always watching from the outside. Nadira of course is fine, and T asked the inevitable question: "Are you sure these dreams are about Nadira? Maybe in your dream she represents someone else...maybe you?"
Nadira is a crazy, kooky, amazing kid. She's loud and outgoing, and in many of her loud and boisterous ways, she's like neither of her parents. They are both so easy going and relaxed, and she's always on 11. She does remind me a lot of me when I was little. Maybe it is me in the dreams after all.
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