I tried, many times over my life to start a private diary. But, I feared writing down my thoughts would get me in trouble with my family and friends. I feared someone would find out my secret. I felt the same way about signing my name.
The other night at the support group, I was given something to sign. I didn’t want to sign my male name. That didn’t seem right. Not in this setting. So, as the meeting got started, I sat there, pen in hand, moving it around above the paper. I tried to imagine what I wanted to put down on paper.
I spent so many years not even daring to try it, that it felt a ridiculously difficult task. I eventually decided that I better just try my best. I knew it wouldn’t be perfect. So, I wrote. The R was simple. But, the ebecca was more difficult. Especially since I gave up on cursive writing almost as fast as it was taught to me in elementary school. What ended up appearing on paper was a mixture of what I imagine looks like a child’s writing and an adult trying to forge a signature.
At the end of the meeting, I handed the paper back to the moderator and made a statement outloud, directed at no one in particular. “I just signed my name for the first time.” A friend sitting to my left, said “Practice makes perfect.”
Yes, it does. I suppose I should be doing that. Either that, or just perfect a scribble nobody can decipher.