#-jamie

What’s in a name?

Names are everything. It’s the first thing people learn about you. It’s how they distinguish you from others. It’s how they know that you’re you. When you name your child, you choose something for its meaning or its history. You don’t just name your child something that doesn’t matter to you.

Every name has meaning. My name has meaning. Jamie comes from James, but I was never called James. It means replacement. It’s a meaning that suits me quite well, but I didn’t know that when I chose it. All I knew when I chose Jamie was that I didn’t want to be called by my real name anymore, and I liked Jamie fine. It was unassuming enough, and I’d be able to remember it when people asked me.

A name is a curse. It tells people more about you than you’d ever like them to know. It sets their expectations, makes you a display of mistakes and history. You tell them your name, and you don’t get a chance to show who you are before you’re looked down on for it. They judge you for what your name is. It doesn’t matter that you didn’t choose it.

I didn’t choose my true name, but that didn’t matter. My name was a curse. It was a burden, and I didn’t want to carry it any longer. I erased my real name from everything and changed everything about myself to hide who I used to be. I took on a new persona, a new identity, because who I used to be isn’t who I wanted people to see. My name said everything about me.

My existence is a burden. I wasn’t supposed to exist. She doesn’t know how or why I do. My name said everything about me, but said even more about her because of the simple fact that I existed and what that reflected for her, so I stopped existing. I threw him away and took on a new form, for my own sake and hers. I couldn’t bear the looks they gave me, or the way they ridiculed her for my existence. She never said it, but I knew she hated me for it, because my existence made her look bad.

I took on a new existence. Everything about me is an act. My name, my accent, my personality, my energy. I don’t even know who I really am anymore. I don’t even know how old I am. Does it even matter? When I get to be myself, it’s Jamie, not me, but after being Jamie for so many years, are we really separate?

I don’t get to complain. I had a choice and I chose Jamie, and I threw away who I was and built myself up from the ground. Who cares who I really am anyway? Nobody liked me then, everyone looked down on me and made fun of her, but when I tell them I am Jamie, they don’t care. They don’t judge. They give me a chance. It was better for everyone that I made this choice. It was better for me, and better for her.