A Rose by any other name ...

What's in a name? Why is Rosalie Lillian Hale so exacting, so precise, so demanding — yes: so b!tchy! — about her name?

I think I know why a little bit.  At least for myself, I know, because ... well, read on.

You see, I have three names.  Most of you know me by 'phfina ... which is a nickname of a joke of a joke.  I don't even know the original joke, but it involved my two brothers, both twice as old as me, and an XBox and Halo.  Me, it sounded Greek enough, so I bore it, and then really took it on, especially as I've been told its meaning in other languages.  And so now that name has a new joke, a new life.  I like it.  I call myself "'phfina" all the time in my self-talk.

My 'public' name is Violet.  I wear that name at work.  I wear that name to group.  I like that name, too. It matches my eyes.  It matches my disposition.  Yes, I'm blue, but blue can also be electric, ... feisty, even. And my death glare? You do not want to be on the receiving end.

I also wear that name to protect myself, because ... well, because I have been stalked ... well, not really stalked stalked but I get a little nervous when an old flame sends me a note where I work. I'm not all that sure B-... is aware she's an old flame — I mean, she's sweet, and all, but it was a little weird, her being older than my mom and her son older than me and her wanting the 'two of us kids to ... play'? and then the mothering? ... well, I'm not sure she got the hint with me up and leaving the State leaving no forwarding address — and a visit to the sbux where I'm working where none of my coworkers/partners know of my ... preference ... No, I'm not 'out' at work, and if she were to make a scene?

Shudder! Big time.

I also wear that name to hide from ... well, nearly everybody, except family. And lovers. And dear friends.  These know me by my name-name. If you've read Rosalie and Me, you may not know it, but I really, really did expose myself there.  I even gave my name.  Do you know how sick I got writing and then publishing that story?

I was actually afraid I'd end up back in the hospital ... again ... publishing that story.

But that name is actually my second first name.  I don't think about my first first name.  I haven't since I've been ... well, fifteen, 'cause, you see, at thirteen, something happened, then at fourteen I was in the hospital for a ... while, ... 'a while' meaning like for six months ... and then when I got out and got back to school, I didn't use my first first name anymore. 'Speak of the devil and she doth appear.' Well, one visit was more than too much for this little girl.

Yes, I'll tell that story ... that's coming up in Sirens and I am afraid chapter 2 will be where my first first name comes up.  And maybe I can put that to bed, and maybe I can't.  Maybe it's not for me to bed it.  I don't know.

"Love until it hurts"

But that does bring up something: "dear friends." I mean, obviously you know what a dear friend is.  Some of you have dear friends. Some of you are my dear friends. So you know what that means, right? Of course you do. Do you know that sometimes I've saved a friend's life? Do you know that sometimes — more times than you will ever know — they've saved mine? That's a dear friend to me, but, of course, it goes much deeper than that, even.  A complete stranger can pull me out of the way of a truck as I'm thoughtlessly crossing the street (yes, that happened), which shows me, as I'm writing this that, sometimes, people fundamentally do care and are caring.

'phfina, lesson for you there, and for your charity and patience with other people ... and yourself.

A dear friend will do that, like I'd gladly take a bullet for one, but a dear friend also listens to me, puts up with me sometimes, and other times, either patiently, kindly, or angrily points out how full of sh!t I am.  I think my dearest friends are the one who are the ones who get angriest with me when I'm hard on myself; I think they are the ones who test me the hardest.

"Love until it hurts" I heard at Mass one day, and it's not the Samantha-loving-Chris-hurt the priest was talking about. I'm pretty confident about that one.  No, it means that, God! Ouch! This just hurts! you are scared out of your mind for yourself because the other person is looking right into your heart, and the blunt honesty is a cudgel. It really hurts what they are saying.

But after the hurt, do I come out a better person? No, I come out a new person, and the neat thing? The person delivering the hurt? She's still there, loving me, gently, patiently, unforgivingly, demandingly, but still there, propping me up, but then pushing me forward to walk where she knows that I can. And she sees the good in me, too.

Yes, she'd save me from a truck that would have flattened me whilst crossing the street, but more importantly, she saves me from me and my self-wounding self-talk, so I can be me, so I can take off the mask of suffering, shrug off the Atlas weight and now be me, unencumbered with the worry of being me.

That's circumlocutory; so it's a round-about way of saying with my dear friends, I can be more like me, and when I'm not, they pound away at me until I am.

That's what 'love until it hurts' means to me, I think. 

[Edit: "'she,' 'phfina?" Yeah, there's my prejudice raising its head. Some of my friends are 'he's and would probably appreciate more inclusive language, right? Like I appreciate being included in a conversation? *sigh* I just have so far to go, ... all the time!]