Anxiety/name change initiation
Quick entry today.
K brought up the mention of anxiety. I know it’s her job, but even just the little anecdotes cause her to delve into my thoughts and emotions.
For example, I went to meet up with the commissioner (to have him stamp, sign and notarize the document). The receptionist greeted me as I was 30 minutes early — whatever, I can play Wordle and read on my phone. I had a deja-vu feeling as I sat there in the chair, sweating from the dash through the subway system and to make it to the building on time. Not to mention the humidity.
So anyway, I’m sitting there and trying to relax… and I realize how awkward I must present as. My clunky pink rain-boots, casual leggings, my worn-out pink raincoat, my sweaty bangs and a backpack with my name documentation in it.
This is in contrast to my many, many memories of being called for an interview, sitting down in black dress pants, a neatly fitting blouse, a folder with my resume & references, and my hair nicely washed and trimmed: to make the best presentation possible. Instead of fiddling around on my phone, I’d normally have my hands folded in my lap, ready to be called to attention, with a solid, firm handshake.
But I wasn’t there for an interview, and that’s what gave me the strange feeling. The receptionist wasn’t observing me from her peripheral and possibly taking notes for their hiring department; I was simply meeting someone for a quick signature and stamp.
Back to the receptionist: when she went on break, another receptionist took over and asked if I had been greeted. I told her yes. She asked if I knew the commissioner knew I was there, and I said I had e-mailed him when I left to confirm the time. She asked “But does he know you’re here at this branch?”
That singular question just about made the blood drain from my face. I knew K might delve into this feeling, as anxiety has followed me for much of my life, and she likes to analyze it in relation to the ways I have grown up and tackle my every day self, as an adult — how I tackle obstacles in the workforce, how I deal with my relationships, and how I process and handle anxiety as a principle.
On Saturday afternoon, I took a deep breath, organized the forms, made sure all the pages were in order, and that my personal documentation was ready. Confirmed everything was signed, dated, and checked off according to the rules.
I arrived at the post office. Paid for a set of manila envelopes, as I couldn’t cram all those papers into a single regular envelope.
And then… for what I hope is the final time… I printed my legal name on the envelope.
It would be great to call up my doctor and tell him I go by my preferred name now. It would feel amazing to get a call from the dentist and tell them I want to go by my preferred name and could they please change it in their system, here is my new Photo ID for proof. I would call into my insurance and have my name match my ethnicity and it would feel wonderful.
But for the past 3 years now, that felt like an unsurmountable pipe dream. A Herculean hassle — the bureaucracy of my province, complete with trying to arrange my schedule for two separate signatures from two separate people. And should it be approved — a ripple effect of changing my identity for everything else.
Regardless of whether or not the Registrar approves of the documentation, they’ll return all the stuff to me. To be clear, I’d written my birth name on envelopes before, and it didn’t seem to matter; if it was anything particularly expensive, I’d use my legal name and that way my Photo ID would be able to back up authorization if the courier needed to confirm my identity. And with family & friends… they just use my birth name.
But this was ideally, the last time I’d *have* to use my legal name.