Restored

Welp, it happened.

After living apart for two and a half years, after 11 years of marriage, 19 years after we first met, John and I got divorced. Actually, we dissolved our marriage, but do the technicalities even matter? In a small courtroom in the middle of the day, we stood in front of a judge for exactly 6 minutes and we all signed a piece of paper that effectively ended our marriage. It had all the pomp and circumstance of paying a traffic ticket. It was all done in under an hour.

And now I’m at home and while I swore I would take advantage of the day off and be productive, I’m resigned to my couch watching Bachelor in Paradise and judging these fools that think they can find happiness with someone else for the rest of their lives. What a bunch of pretty idiots. Oh, you had an “ahhhmaazing” 2 weeks with a hot stranger on the beach and now you’re ready for an engagement? Mmmk. Let me know how that works out, Maurisa.

I’m not going to talk about why we got divorced, so if you’re reading this to try to get the scoop, you’re in the wrong place. I’m also not going to minimize this period with a blanket statement like the kind celebrities put out. “After deep reflection, we have decided to move into new directions separately. While we have great love and respect for one another, we’re better suited as loving co-parents and best friends. Please respect our privacy at this time.” Two and a half years is a long time to go through a divorce disillusionment and there is no statement that can sum up what we’ve endured. Finally, I’m not here to pretend that I’m ok. Sometimes I am and sometimes I’m not. I’m ashamed. I’m embarrassed. I’m unhealthy. I’m empowered. I’m struggling. I know it’s for the best. I know it was probably my fault. I know I could have done better. I know we were never going to make it. Grief is an unpredictable cycle.

The reason I’m here to is introduce myself. Rather, I’m going to re-introduce myself. Hi. My name is Deborah Andrews. I know that most of you have known me as Deborah Day for over a decade. Many of you call me D.Day. This blog handle was created based on that nickname. But, after a strong suggestion from my now ex-husband, my maiden name is now restored.

Can I be honest? I feel weird about it.

So much of my identity is wrapped up in my married name. It’s on my Master’s Degree. It’s the name I share with my children. I’ve made a name for myself professionally with it. And let’s face it, it’s catchy! Strangers tend to smile when they ask me for my name. “oh, that’s cute. Like Doris Day!” Some have told me it sounds like I’m a Meteorologist for a news station. Others have said it sounds like a porn star. No matter what end of the spectrum people associate it with, it’s a memorable name. But it doesn’t belong to me anymore.

Now, I get the take on the arduous task of updating my entire life. Good thing I haven’t done anything major this year like buy a house or renew my passport! Hahahahah OH WAIT! I am also the least equipped person to do this. I hate filling out forms, mailing stuff, standing in line at government, you know, adult stuff. Beyond the administrative burden, there is also the social awkwardness of updating people.

“No, no, I WAS Deborah Day when I was married but now I’m not so it’s back to Andrews. Yeah, I didn’t get remarried, more like unmarried. No, my kids are not hyphenating their names. They’re keeping their father’s name. What’s that? Oh, yes, it is sad, thank you for bringing that to my attention.”

The other part that makes me feel weird is trying to re-identify myself with Deborah Andrews. The girl that had that name feels so foreign to me sometimes. I mean, she was a hot mess. If you knew me in my early 20’s and still stuck around, God bless you. Young Debbie Andrews could only afford to furnish her first apartment because the guy that lived there before died and she asked the leasing agent if she could keep his furniture. Lil D once had to call in sick for work because she couldn’t afford the gas it required to get there. This is the girl that, on more than one occasion, passed out eating pizza on her lap and then woke up and ate it for breakfast. She used to have to delete her boyfriends number from her phone when she went out drinking because she would send too many angry texts to him. Deborah Andrews fell off the roof of a house on New Year’s Eve because she thought she had forgot her house keys only to find out the door was unlocked the whole time.

No one she went to high school with expected her to go on to get her Graduate Degree, let alone go to a good college. Not the same girl that could barely break a 20 on her ACT’s. Not that one chick that was two grades behind in Math and never saw the 2nd round of a spelling bee. That girl? I wonder what happened to her…

(Clearly, I have a loud inner critic and a very difficult relationship with the past. I’m working on it.)

As I prepare to restore my name, I’m trying to combine these two versions of myself. The mess and the mother. The introvert and the extrovert. The single one and the divorced one. Suddenly, I feel like I don’t know who I am anymore.

I was catching up with a very dear friend of mine, one of the friends that has stuck around after knowing me in my 20’s. I told him about the name change and how weird I felt and he gave me a response that changed my entire perspective.

“That’s not a change for me at all. I’ve never really known you as Deborah Day. You’re still in my phone as Debbie Andrews. That’s the person I met in the first place.”

I realized that while it doesn’t roll off the tongue as easy and the nicknames are limited, it feels good to be an Andrews again. It’s the name I share with my parents and siblings. It’s the name on my Bachelor’s degree. Deborah Andrews did some pretty cool shit. She worked on a television show. She packed up her life and moved to Austin without a plan and made it work. She made her best friends there and kept the old ones close, too. She met a good man and got him to fall in love with her and marry her. She believed in unconditional love. She endured hard things.

She still can.