I could not choose what was called forth for those who placed my name on me.
Did they call me this because they hoped it would make them happy to say it? For me to hear it? Am I what they wanted? Bargained for? Prepared for?
When they said my name, were they teaching me how to be what they wanted? Was it an incantation they repeated to forge their image for me out of the malleable reality of what they were given to work with?
When does the name you are called become your own?
When your life does.
When you start seeing choices instead of circumstances. Opportunities instead of obstacles.
When you decide what should be instead of concede to what has been.
When you are exhausted by the prospect of rolling over to hear the sounds of the tinny-toned lies and swallow the prescriptions in the wrong doses intended for shallower souls.
I stacked up three decades worth of shrinking, kneeling, cutting myself in half to be what I was called, not who I am. I cried as I watched them shrink, overshadowed by the height and breadth of who I was becoming.
Who I call my self to be.
I call my name and it is my own. It belongs to me.