“…Who Is Changing Their Name?”
In the last 60 days, I’ve been broken, not broken, sorta broken, definitely not broken, probably broken, and whatever today is.
Hey Justin, I notice your last name has changed…? That’s how the first zoom call of the morning began, and I didn’t expect to be caught off-guard. I’d been trying out the change for weeks, but I almost lost my words as the facilitator gently nudged for meaning. “Was there a wedding?” to which I replied, “No. Kind of the opposite.” I said it was okay and we continued with the meeting. And, it was okay. I sent them a follow-up email reiterating I wasn’t upset with them (but also needed a document for a task).
I’ve known the date was coming for 45 days (how long people must wait in Alaska between decision and court date). I didn’t expect to be emotional. It may be that, emotionally, I am just running near empty, especially with recent events — all the white people literally terrorizing other people due to fear of becoming a racial minority (or at least giving up white supremacy power).
I remember from growing up, when we stopped for gas. My mom would rarely put more than $5 or $10 in at a time. I don’t think it was always because we couldn’t afford to fill up; we just didn’t “need” more. That’s an interesting thought to come up today. Did I learn that ‘running on empty’ was normal? For people like us? Did we not feel worthy of moving through the world with a full tank?
It’s been an emotional day. A heavy day. I’m not even sure which emotions I’m feeling. All of them, maybe?
On Sunday, I couldn’t figure out why I went into what has been called a “funk.” When I woke, I was motivated, ready to take on the world, maybe I’ll run 35 miles today. Then, at some point after my therapy session I decided it would be best to just lay in bed forever. Fortunately I persuaded myself to at least get up and make food.
Two days later, I see what that was about: feelings are heavy. They weigh me down even if I refuse to acknowledge I’m holding them.
My therapist asked, “Do you find it hard to talk about feelings?” Instantly I knew the question was rhetorical. I’ve been in their chair. “Ugh… yeah, I guess I do.”
Despite all the effort I’ve put into vulnerability, authenticity — all my inner work — I’ve still found a way back to my shell; I’ve still yet to leave it, in many ways. I’ve long been taught to not burden others with my feelings. Who am I to put my problems on others? I mean, aren’t we all running on empty? That’s one story anyways, and often, the one I tell myself.
The other story is more accurate: I am afraid, just like the people I grew up around (or at least that’s the story I wrote). “There ain’t no use crying over spilled milk,” “pick yourself up; dust yourself off,” and, “are you just gonna complain or do something about it?” Action is important… but, what if I was really excited about the milk? I was taught to clean up my messes, and that there is always more milk. But I rarely took time to figure out why the milk was spilled, and what that meant for me emotionally. So, now I’m 31 and talking metaphorically in therapy about spilled milk.
Today, my name was officially changed, but oh was it a process!!! After 10 dropped calls (I pick up, they can’t hear me), calling back operator lines (talking to nice humans, but not the right humans), an hour of frustration, and an eventual email invite to a conference call, we got connected.
Susie actually got to join (we thought she might be at sea already), and that was jarring, but also a pleasant surprise. I think it helped me calm down and just say “yes” repeatedly and assertively. Until one moment. A moment that I’m still smiling about, angry about, entertained by, and kind of sad about.
“So, uh Ms. Zagorski, you changing your name back too — wait no… are you changing your name?… wait, Mr. Zagorski are you are changing your name… Who is changing their name?” I said that I was, and provided them my former family name.
I didn’t notice at the time, but the word play that was going on makes me smile even more now. When they were referring to either one of us, the judge used “their.” Honestly it all happened so fast I could barely mutter words, let alone process much of it. A couple of weeks from now I’ll need to start formally changing my name with the certificate, but today the decision became legally bound (as legal as it can be when you are asked to raise your right hand and swear over the phone).
I return to a name I’ve never forgotten, a name that connects me to the people who made me, who I love, and who once exclaimed that I was “disowning the family” by accepting another. Was the name change too much of a pushback to traditional norms? I can’t say. It seems like the wrong question. Do I regret it? Not one bit! I’m proud of that decision. Masculinity is frustratingly fragile, and patriarchy is a little too old school for me.
I am sad today, but I also feel something I haven’t in a while. Gratitude for our marriage and the love we share. I am grateful for how hard we fought to love each other, and even more grateful for giving ourselves this opportunity to love again. I thanked her for this opportunity, and I think I silently thanked myself… that must be what healing feels like. For a moment the day didn’t feel quite as heavy. Did I just learn how to recognize healing? Maybe.
In my last 60 days of writing, I’ve been broken, not broken, sorta broken, definitely not broken, probably broken, and whatever today is. While I’m not brave enough to share all my story with all people, I am ready to at least be honest with myself. My therapist said, “it’s gonna be hard.” I knew that, but also, didn’t I already do the hard stuff?
Last night, I had a lovely conversation with another human via the interwebs (I’m giving the dating apps another try). We talked about divorce, their kids, dreams, and singing karaoke to Avril Lavigne. I didn’t turn on the tv. I wasn’t planning my tasks for next day. I just ate the dinner I made and wandered around the conversation we were having. I felt lighter in this moment, too.
I was honest in my profile. My gender is non-binary. I put a photo of me wearing a dress and heels, and I did my best to illustrate my masculine and feminine interests (otherwise just known as my interests). Knowing all of that, this person engaged in a conversation with me and that was most affirming (I swear, I’m giving up forever on apps if this person is also a scammer!!!).
Two months ago, I wasn’t ready and I can tell based on how differently I feel now. I was broken, but more specifically, too broken. The breakup was raw and fresh. I’m still broken, not healed fully, but I think that’s okay. I chose not to share my whole story last night. And then I felt guilty about it; it felt like hiding or lying.
Is it okay to withhold my story until I’m ready to share it? Or, is there this unspoken rule that divorced people must immediately unpack and lay out all their baggage?
I internalized those questions, thinking I owed my story to others. I didn’t want my worth to be only those things though. I wanted to lead with my value, joy, and passion. I want to build relationships from an authentic beginning, but would it really be authentic for me to lead with my pain? I am more than my pain.
I chose to reduce my chances of being immediately reduced down to a single detail of my life; a divorcee. A damaged divorcee. A damaged divorcee who’s missing teeth. I’ve decided that somewhere between conversations 1 and 5, I will share those parts of my story, or at least that I’m missing teeth. With our meetup this weekend being a masquerade (due to Covid), I probably won’t awkwardly proclaim I have poor dental health. After all, it’s been fascinating to move about the world fully smiling without worry of judgment.
I plan to share more eventually, or, I may just let people find out naturally. Is there actually a need to vomit all my inner truths? It’s for them to decide if I’m worthy of their energy and love; I’ve decided I’m not going to make that decision for them. I’ve done that for far too long. And I’m focused on friendship first anyways. There is no hurry. The year has just begun!
I acknowledge I haven’t shared many feelings in a post I intended to be about feelings. I am afraid. Afraid of feeling rejected. Feeling unworthy of love (romantic and plutonic), feeling ashamed of my body, feeling mad at a society that makes me feel like I’m the problem (being non-binary), feeling anxious about identifying as trans or even non-binary, feeling furious at how hateful people can be (I mean the Capitol riot was just the tip of the racism iceberg), and… ugh, I’m saving it for therapy.
I have much pain to unpack, process, and grapple with, and therapy is the most appropriate and effective place for most of that to happen (thanks to many friends guiding me toward that conclusion).
Being single doesn’t have to be lonely. I don’t have to feel sad, rejected, or unworthy of love (I will keep reminding myself). I might find this to be a blissful adventure. For a long time, my biggest focus was on a happy marriage; I don’t regret that at all, but by leaning into therapy and daring greatly into the unknown, I think 2021 can still be epic.
I’m paying attention to what I want in life, what’s in front of me, and what’s inside of me. Here is my starting point, a bucket list, a list that demands vulnerability just in sharing, which is how I know it’s authentic. To quote from this weekend’s reading, “Until we enter boldly into the fears we most want to avoid, those fears will dominate our lives” (Parker Palmer, “Let Your Life Speak”).
