What's in a name? I haven't been sleeping very well lately (Inception-induced or not), and I've been thinking a lot about things I haven't thought about in awhile. Those things happen to come from the highlights of my heartdrive. Although I have loved many people in my life, there are certain souls who will always stay with me. And that is because of one thing: the way they said my name.
Who the person was, is, or is not, is not significant. When said individual calls your name, references you in a story, or introduces you to someone, you know exactly how they feel about you. But beyond that, I've had people who I thought liked me alright, but said my name with the utmost pride, and it changed everything. You wonder what you did to appear so grand in their eyes, but that doesn't even matter. What matters, (in the big picture) is the unforgettable feeling you got because of it: that you are someone important, dear, worthwhile.
One of my dear friends is going through an overdose of bullshit from her supposed best friends from college. Classic case of Mean Girls, but it's just gone too far (& we all know how Lindsay Lohan fucking turned out). If you allow people to spit on your name, and belittle you in diatribes, then who the fuck are you? And when do you draw the line? It's much easier said then done; easier to spot from the outside than inside. But how much shit are you supposed to take 'til they're satisfied?
Until you're a broken, hollow shell of a person?
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