Amelia Begins Again

Amelia. Yes, Amelia. That's my name. Though the sound of it gives me pause. Like it never really fit. The great Dale Carnegie said, "Names are the sweetest and most important sound in any language." My Hospitality Management professor once told us that hearing the sound of one's own name is the most precious sound to a person (which is why we require service agents to say a customer's name in their interactions). But I always had trouble with mine. Seriously. Always. I have vivid memories of lying to my classmates in kindergarten about my last name, for instance. It wasn't my father's, or my grandmother's (whom I lived with), or even my mother's at that point. It was my mother's maiden name. And I was the only one in my vicinity that carried that god-awful thing. Tunstall. Pronounced "tuhn-stuhl." Ugh. Worse, I'm not called by my first name. Hell, or even my middle name, really! Kaslynn Amelia Tunstall was called Milly. What in the 1984 hell was going on? Anyway, the fact was - and still is- my name was never a sweet or precious sound to me. Instead, a reminder that no one could quite figure out who I was supposed to be, which remains problematic some thirty+ years later.

You'll need to understand the dynamics of my upbringing before we can start to dive into the current state of affairs. I'll try to be brief.

Born and raised in the most southern part of Mississippi by Pentecostal grandparents, one can only imagine the myopic acumen all good little girls were taught - with the best of intentions, of course. Bless their hearts.

However, I never really felt right about any of that. An avid reader, I sought books on the opposite end of the spectrum. Read Seventeen and YM magazines. Studied Wicca and Buddhism. One does become quite resourceful when growing up in the age of information and technology. Not to mention, at the onset of pre-teendom, disabilities rendered my guardians unable to work, thus unable to provide for me as I was accustomed. Initially, the hardship felt like a punch in the gut, a why-hast-thou-forsaken-me desolation. Then, ding! A lightbulb. Freedom. I was 14.

Okay, so not really freedom as most would use that term. The plot did include me actually taking on more responsibility. Ah, but therein lies the path. New financial hardships required me to work for more than ice cream money, yes, I needed a J.O.B. For bills. And groceries. And clothes. And toothpaste. And senior portraits. You get the drift.

My fourteen year old self contemplated the mission and accepted. Two weeks before my fifteenth birthday, I was granted a special hardship license to work part time for a family owned restaurant and even drive a car to/from work and school. So began what looking back now seems similar to a really bad road trip laced with mediocre cocaine and Smirnoff Ice. Just all over the place, tired but manic, naïve and maybe even nauseous.

Once I became myself out there I didn't want to go back in the box. But I had to. Then, for the next 3 years I shifted my focus to work and used any excuse I could find to do more of it. The more I worked, though shackled in one sense, the more independence I found.

Sounds exhilarating, right? It was. After all, isn't everything life threatening somewhat FUCKING EXHILARATING??? I had no clue. Not an inkling. Walked straight into proverbial traffic practically naked. I had no idea the reason I was so sheltered was because I would actually need, uh, shelter.

(Insert: Definition of shelter.)

Okay, okay, okay...lets get back on track. In fact, lets just wrap this section on up. Long story short, I've spent the better part of my entire life running. Essentially, I became an escape artist. Work became an intangible fortress that protected me from my very own home.

Fast forward, 20 years. I resign from a prestigious position out of anger, hurt, and exhaustion. Forfeiture of that paycheck and all duties required to earn it resulted in much worse things that boredom and food stamps. I was forced to be an active part of my household (which includes two elderly parents). I had plenty of time to examine myself, often after arguments, psychotic episodes, or me just behaving badly. The new mission: detoxing from a life that had taken over every part of my being.

Unfortunately, I didn't handle the withdrawal with grace. I couldn't stand being talked to. I felt smothered, but so alone. I drank. Daily. I gambled. I lied. I hid. I yelled. I slept too much. I didn't sleep at all. Irritated. Restless. Sad. Angry. Manic. I was screaming inside, but couldn't explain why. Not to mention, this hot mess was really packing on the pounds. And so pale.

Needless to say, I was about to lose what I did have left. I was really unraveling. By the end of the year, my relationships with those closest to me had either dissolved or imploded. Without question, I was the single common denominator. I had no choice but to fix myself or lose everyone I loved.

Son of a bitch, it hurt! Like looking in the mirror on acid. Ugly. Flawed. Distorted. So pale. The worst part was having to allow my loved ones to be honest with me and accept their criticisms with humility. Ugh. That sucked. As it turns out, I am a real piece of work.

I came across a meme a while back of Leonardo DiCaprio posed with a cigarette (The Wolf of Wallstreet?), with the caption, "Real growth happens when you're sick of your own shit." Wait, I think maybe it was Lip from Shameless, not Leo. You get it, though. Spot on and so simple. I was sick of my own shit. And relieved to admit it.

Alright, past the denial stage. I'm on to reconciliation and self-improvement. But who will this person be? I didn't even truly understand her predecessor. And what would my value be if I wasn't a provider, the worker, the boss, the manager, the one who made it...? So many years of work and training and sweat and sacrifice just wasted? Irrelevant? I had to grieve two decades of a life now gone. I also felt so guilty for betraying the me who built that life. She really deserved better than a quitter.

Simultaneously struggling to prioritize self care and recovery from a heartbreaking end to a long fought battle to become someone who mattered, I tried to justify my breakdown. I couldn't find joy or peace at home, though. Surrounded by people, but completely disconnected, I was a stranger at home. All the time I invested in a company had been concurrently spent in my house by people who had become accustomed to my absences and negligence. A whole ecosystem was in force and my presence disrupted it. Or so I believed. I didn't know these people, even the little ones I grew in my body. They didn't really know me. Hell, I didn't know me. I was exposed. Felt like an emotional sunburn.

I thought about my name. Remembered that as a first grader, I took it back as my own. I would NOT be called "Milly" at school. I would be Amelia. How could I be weaker than the 6 year old version of me? I'm a grown ass woman.

Let the journey begin.

Hello, 2022.

Goodbye, husband.....