I hate my name.
I hate it with every fiber in my being. The mere sight of it, the six letters in their exact placement, hate it. I know its the person that makes the name. The person that brings life to everything they associate with it. I just never felt that way with my name. It’s a part of my identity that I wish could be taken away. Parts of my life that I wish I could erase from people’s memory. I am not that person anymore. I am not that name. Still the legions of people who knew me before, thats all they can say.
My name makes me feel like a second choice. That my name had never been chosen for me, which in reality it hadn’t. Sometimes I wish I didn’t know the backstory of how names are given. If I could go back I would change everything. Change my name and the stories that go with it. Maybe I would be less afraid. Maybe I would be less timid. Instead I sit and watch my hands shake, and shoulders cringe when people call me by my name. I hate the way people say my name. I hate that people think they know me. I hate that no matter how many times a person can change, their name seems to follow them. That’s not me, thats not even close to who I am. Still this name follows and I can’t help but try my best to escape it.
The more I make excuses, the more I lose a part of myself. A name doesn’t make a person, but I don’t feel like myself anymore. Names make you lose a sense of your identity. Names make you into someone that people expect you to be. I just can’t be that person anymore. Every new person is a chance to start fresh and new with a new name. A chance to be someone bigger than my past expressions. My past follows in the form of introductions, between people who think they know me best. I cringe, then smile, and hold out my hand and pretend I don’t hate the sounds. But I hate the sounds. I hate that, I hate my name. This name isn’t who I am anymore. It never was and it never will be.
That’s not my name, even if you say it and I answer. It’s not my name to me.