I’ve had several names throughout my life.
As expected, the first was given to me by my parents. My surname represented my father’s family (also assumed by my mother when they married). My middle name was a common one for girls of my generation with a Catholic family background. I was one of a significant number of girls at my high school with Anne or a variation of Mary as a middle name.
My first name was chosen by my mother at the last minute, when asked by the hospital staff for the name of the baby (or so the story goes). Up to that point she had planned to name me Bernadette, but instead in the moment of truth another name was given. I’m kind of glad for that – that my name wasn’t one she claimed and cherished as she approached the birth of her first child. Given everything that has happened since that moment, I’m glad my name doesn’t feel like something precious that she and I share somehow, but which she retains ownership of. I am me, with a name allocated at random that I’ve made my own.
The second ‘name’, a minor variation of the original, was gained when I married at the age of 22. I took my now ex-husband’s surname without no thought of considering the options. A church wedding, Christian background, early 90s social expectations. It wasn’t even something I thought about, other than looking forward to having a surname that was easier for people to spell (my maiden name was of Irish origin with a ‘Mc’ invariably spelled as ‘Mac’ and generally requiring repeated spellings to ensure accuracy if I had to give it over the phone).
I was married for 22 years and that second surname (my ex-husband’s) was a label for ‘adult me’ in the same way the first surname (my father’s) represented ‘childhood me’.
Then I left my marriage in my early 40s and that second name no longer seemed right – it no longer represented me and it was a reminder of a version of myself that I no longer identified with. I know many women revert to their maiden name in such circumstances, particularly if they are trying to emotionally distance themselves from an abusive relationship (as I was), however my parents made it clear that they remained connected with and supportive of my ex-husband, and my childhood surname no longer felt safe. It was just a further reminder that I was defined by my connection with people who didn’t value me and treated me like an extension of themselves instead of someone with value in my own right.
I felt like neither name was the right fit for the transition into my new life, but picking a name at random also felt wrong, like assuming someone else’s identity. So, I continued to use my married name, changed ‘Mrs’ to ‘Ms’, and tried to suppress the wave of revulsion whenever I saw it written anywhere (or had to write it myself).
This revulsion became a particular issue as my third book was published, almost 18 months after I left my marriage. I had one book published pre-separation, and another that was in the final stages of production during those first months after I left the marriage. Both of these books were published under my married name.
[Side note: interestingly, this revulsion was never triggered by my children’s names, perhaps because there is no sense of them being something that belongs to me (like the books I’ve created or my own identity). Instead, their names reflect who *they* are and aren’t connected with the challenges and internal conflicts I face as I redefine myself.]
For the third book, where I had time to consider options, I decided to use a pseudonym, but I once again came up against the challenge of what name to use. I didn’t want my parents’ or ex-husband’s surname on my book (the thought actually made me feel physically ill), but I didn’t have a name that felt like my own to use. In the end, I chose a pen name that was a variation of my own first name and a surname that was a connection with my grandmother. It appears on my third book, and is linked by the publisher with the other two. If I write more books in this genre I will probably use it, but it doesn’t really feel like my name. It’s more like a label. It’s something functional created to solve a problem, not something I feel a connection with. It doesn’t really represent me, any more than my other ‘hats’ of wife, mother, sister, friend, secretary, writer, or any of a dozen others do. It’s a fragment of a whole.
I’ve married again and now I have another name, once again taking my husband’s surname as my own. This time I thought about it. I considered my options. I’m still working out how this name fits, but it’s a name I selected by conscious choice, shared by someone who made it clear that I was welcome to claim this outward connection to him, but it was certainly not something that was expected or requested.
And at the other end of the spectrum is this blog, a place where I chose to have no name, because I needed to feel safe and needed a space where I could simply be, without having to conform to or protect a particular identity. There were privacy issues too, of course. I wanted a space where I could write honestly and directly without worrying about extended family, who were actively trying to undermine me, taking things out of context. And I wanted to minimise the possibility of my writing being connected with my children and further complicating things for them as they processed the impact of the separation and divorce, and their father’s past and ongoing abuse.
But it’s been almost 3 years since the end of my first marriage, and my children have largely worked out what boundaries they need to maintain for their own wellbeing (although this is under regular review). The anonymity of the blog, though necessary, has always felt like a contradiction to its purpose, which was to help me feel less ‘invisible’ after decades of relationships that forced me to suppress who I really am. So, as I head into the New Year, I’m claiming back another piece of myself by establishing some tenuous links between these words and myself.
Hello world. My name is Susan.