What’s in a name?

A rose by any other name would smell as sweet, right?

I've been thinking about my name quite a lot recently. (It's been really bugging me actually!)

It all started because I needed to make a website to promote my writing workshops, and upcoming publications. I've had a few different surnames in my lifetime, and when I got divorced, I was confused about what to do with my name.

On the one hand, it was a very pretty name and I shared it with 3 of my children. On the other hand, I didn't want to keep my ex-husband's name, especially once he got a new partner. I wanted to be free of his controlling persona. I contemplated creating a whole new exciting persona, fabricating an exotic nom de plume, but in the end, I decided it would be 'healthy' to go full circle and reclaim my original birth name; Pure. Raw. Righteous, even.

At first, it felt fantastic to shed my married name. I was sticking a stiff middle finger up to my failed marriage and proclaiming independence from that ugly chapter of my life. Taking the name I had grown-up with symbolised a new era of self-acceptance. I was cleansing myself of all the negative 'BS' I had gathered in my marriage and proudly declaring 'this is me - take it or leave it'!

But, yep there's a but...inside my head, I still wasn't sure it was 'good enough'. Then, the nice lady behind the pharmacy counter did my head in completely when she cocked her head to one side and told me how much she had loved my married name.

Smith, after all, is an extremely common name; one people use when they don't want to be seen. Fuck, what had I done? Why had I resorted back to a name I had been pleased to leave behind? I began to doubt my decision and regret who I had become... again.

Born a Smith; where I grew up (a working class estate in Oxford - and believe me Oxford is not all dreamy spires and opportunities) being a Smith meant you were likely part of a large family known locally to be somewhat chaotic, unpredictable and, erhum, frequent lodgers of 'Her Majesty's Nick'.

My dad was one of those 'Smiths'; a drunk; a petty criminal, known for using his fists not his brain. He had come from a long line of Romany gypsies who had, like many, taken houses after the first war and tried to leave behind their roots. He wasn't very proud of his heritage and he had also had a tough upbringing. It followed that I wasn't very proud to say he was my dad. Infact, I was ashamed of our family and worse still, I was scared of him. When he came home from prison, trouble followed fast; along with chaos, uncertainty and shit. Fast forward.

Being a Smith was something I was happy to leave behind so when I got married, I was eager to take my husband's name. It sounded so exotic. I loved it and I was excited to rebrand myself. I quickly became known locally and professionally as Amanda Di Clemente; everyone said 'it had a lovely ring to it,' and yes, 3 out of 4 of my children also shared his surname. Happy days.

Hmm... we all know how fairy tales go don't we?

Fast forward. Sadly, only a few years later, we were getting divorced and I felt completely lost, on so many levels. I was ill. It was a sickness of self-destruction. I even began to repeat my father's own addictions and almost became an alcoholic myself. I needed to reclaim 'me', but I really didn't know 'who I was' ... and sadly I didn't like myself very much either. There was no running from this. It wasn't going to be an easy ride, but I did it. I got through the divorce by the skin of my teeth and I sobered up. (And that's a different story!)

This one is about my name. I realised the only way I could begin to accept and like who I am, was to return to the start, to where the self doubt rooted; to heal, I needed to strip everything right back to bare roots - just like a rose in winter. I needed to be OK with being me. I needed to feel it was safe to be me.

So, that's what I did. I walked slowly back towards myself, one step at a time, taking every opportunity I could to stop and smell the roses, until I became Amanda Smith again.