What's in a Name? Anxiety, Depression, and Trauma.

Fifteen years ago, give or take a few, I had an epiphany.

A friend of mine was using my back room to make some cool wall hangings for me and my kid. His project was all very hush-hush, so he was pretty far into it before I was able to take a peek. He had drawn several designs of my daughter’s name and hung them on the wall. He had finished her wall hanging, which was her name carved into wood, painted with wonderful swirling designs. She was gonna love it! I loved it.

I was tantalized as he pulled out the folder with designs for MY wall hanging. I could see pages with hints of colors that were definitely in my favorite color pallet. I already half adored it. I opened the folder and saw there were several pages with different designs of my name on each. I slammed it shut. “Nope,” I said. I took the pictures, folder, and all, and tore them to shreds. My friend was flabbergasted. I kind of was, too. I had no idea why I was so angry.

And then it hit me: I didn’t like my name.

As early as I can remember, I’ve been trying to change my name. My mom tells me I began calling myself Sally or Mary as a toddler. This may be apocryphal. It is sometimes hard to tell with my mom. I do remember that I wrote Susan in a book under “This book belongs to: . . . ”

Is it possible that even at such a young age, I didn’t like my name? Yes.

But why not?

People tell me my name is hard to pronounce. It really isn’t. My name is pronounced just like Monica but with a J. For some reason, most people can’t seem to wrap their heads around that. Instead, I have been called Juh-monica, Veronica, Jeronica, just plain Monica, Joeneeka, Juhneequia, Johnathan, or they shorten it to the very worst, Johnny.

I don’t know why I am so particular about a name that makes me so anxious when I hear it pronounced correctly.

People tell me my name is hard to remember. I’ve been plagued by the question: “What was your name again?” my entire life.

Every time this question is asked, I am forced to repeat the name that makes my stomach clench; that sets my teeth on edge. For most people, it probably isn’t considered rude to ask them to repeat their name. For me, it is torture.

When I was nine, my mom re-married, and we all took a trip to Hawaii. We stayed in a hotel with a pool. I think I swam there every day we were at that hotel. I made friends pretty easily and started playing with a friendly girl who introduced herself and asked my name. I told her and we ran, giggling, to jump in the water. All-day, my super friendly new friend would try to get my attention by asking: “Um? What was your name again?”

I repeated my name to her for what seemed like the one-hundredth time but was probably only the third. The next time she asked me to repeat it, I was frustrated, angry even, although I didn’t yet understand why. So I just told her: “My name is Kelly.”

My mom has told me this story from her point of view:

Every single day we stayed at the hotel, a friendly little girl would knock on our door and ask if Kelly could come out to play. Every single day my mom would tell her that no one named Kelly was staying in this room. Mom recalls asking the little girl once or twice if she had the correct room number. She insisted she did.

One evening we were dining in the hotel restaurant when I heard a shriek: “Kelly!! There you are!” She came running over and gave me a big hug before returning to her parents. My mom side-eyed me and said: “Oh, so YOU are Kelly.”

This story has become a legend in our family. I didn’t understand the squirming, sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach every time the story was told. I didn’t realize that the story was, ultimately, about my name. Until fifteen years ago, I was unaware that I didn’t like my name.

Only very recently have I learned why I get that anxious, nauseous feeling when I hear anyone except my husband say my name. When he says my name, I glow and blossom. Coming out of his mouth, my name sounds like love. From anyone else, it sounds like an accusation.

Mom’s version of the “Kelly” story may be true. However, I have a very difficult time trusting anything she says. Mom likes to embellish stories. Even outright lie. She can't help it, I don't think. I believe my mother may be a narcissist.

My mom is likely the direct cause of my name hatred. I know she is the cause of my deep seated shame and anxiety.

When I was a young girl, as young as four, five, and six, she would give me a look. I now call this look “eyebrows”. She would do something with her eyebrows; drawing them together and frowning. She would grow ten feet tall. She still does. So powerful is that look!

Pete Walker writes in his book COMPLEX PTSD From Surviving to Thriving:

“The look, in most cases, is the facial expression that typically accompanies contempt. Contempt is a powerful punishing visage backed up by an emotional force-field of intimidation and disgust.”

The look, Mom’s look, eyebrows, was always accompanied by my mom saying: “Oh, Jonica!” She said this in such an angry, exasperated, extremely disappointed tone of voice. She still uses it. My family all recognize them; eyebrows and the tone.

Walker goes on to say: “When a parent gives the look to a child,’ …(or in my case the look and tone). . . “she is telling him he is also a ‘sorry excuse for a human being.’ Over time, the look can make the recipient feel terrified and repugnant.”

I don’t like the sound of my name because it makes my stomach hurt; it makes me feel angry and ashamed, terrified and convinced that I am repugnant.

Unless it is spoken with love. Unless the person saying it is safe. Unless my husband says it:

“Jonica.”

Lead and first image Photo by Jon Tyson on Unsplash