What’s in My Name?
I was named after my parents. Yes, my parents thought it would be clever to name their last offspring, a combination of their single halves to create a whole, after themselves. Edinette. The first half comes from my father, Edgar, Eddie, Ed, he goes by so many names. The latter from my mother Nenita. Growing up, it was never a question whose child I was, for it was literally in my name. What’s in my name? From the first half of my father, I got his tenacity and strong will; from my mother’s latter half, her kind heart and Seussian imagination, though she has not read much of Dr. Seuss. My father is stubborn, but his name did not give me that. My mother is overbearing, but her name made me compassionate instead. My name has horrible dance moves, never able to stay on beat as it rolls off your tongue. It always wants to go by its own tempo and march to its own drum. Sometimes it wants to be long, Ee-din-et. Sometimes it wants to be snappy, Ed-net. Usually, it wants to skip and hop, Ed-in-et, which is how I prefer it. When meeting people for the first time, long Edinette and snappy Edinette make their appearance, though skip and hop Edinette does not show up until much later. I understand, I am like that, too, a little shy to reveal myself. It is intimidating to hear my name and it not be my name. It rolls off someone’s tongue but it is not familiar, it is not a name I would respond to. Instead, long Edinette and snappy Edinette come out front and center, entertaining an audience with a façade. My name has no meaning; it does not mean strength or hope. It does not mean innocence or grace. Its meaning is that I may assign significance to it however I choose. Edinette means wonder and whimsy, as I am in constant pursuit of something fascinating. If it were a color it would be aqua; blue but not sad-blue, more ocean-blue, which is ironic because I have a fear of drowning. Edinette is that still period between slumber and consciousness where it feels like you are floating in bed. My name would be curled up on the couch with a cup of tea on a beautiful day because although my name seems bold and daring, it prefers to live simply. But if I could have an alter ego, I would name myself Lulu. Not short for Louise or Lourdes. Lulu. Who is bold and French, strong like coffee.

No One Belongs Here More Than You
6/13/2016
No one belongs here more than you
No one belongs here more than
you. There are stars in your eyes
that make constellations as bold
as Orion and as beautiful as
Andromeda. The passion which
flows through your veins is as
strong as the ocean’s current and
the wonder in your soul fuels
the fire in your heart.
No one belongs here more than you.
There is kindness which radiates
from your smile and honesty
that tumbles from your words softly
spoken.
No one belongs here more than you.
There is sincerity in your touch
and authenticity in your thoughts.
Love emanates from your being.
No one belongs here more than you
Because there is no one else
like you that adds beauty to this
world.
e.d.
I use to hate writing…& then I became a writer.
I use to loath writing in all of its forms. Essays for class, messages inside of greeting cards, & even the very tweets about my trivial life in 160 characters or less.
I never saw the point, if I’m being completely honest. I never thought I needed to put to paper what I had in my head. But here’s the thing… eventually my headspace got overwhelmingly crowded & I realized that jotting things down was a great way to alleviate some of the stress.
When I was diagnosed with anxiety I wasn’t sure how to cope. It felt like the constant chaos inside of my noggin was there to stay. Worrying about what I needed to get done, remembering to buy milk, making sure I knew the formula for the math test…suppressing all of my feelings about all the craziness of life in general.
I turned to reading to help cope with my anxiety. I found comfort in the words of others, especially when they were able to articulate how I was feeling. This came up in passing with my therapist, and she asked the million dollar question: “Why don’t you try to write?”