"That's Not My Name!"

Hey. Okay. Say, you just meet someone new. What’s the first thing you usually ask them? ….Usually, it goes something like, “Hi, I’m so-and-so. What’s your name?”

Their name. You’re usually concerned with a person’s name because it stands for the entirety of their identity. Think of famous people you know, and as soon as you think of their name, you think of something associated with them. The same thing is true for family members, close friends, co-workers, acquaintances, etc. A name holds a lot together, so you can be especially sure that I began to have difficulty when my name and identity began to get mixed up. Before I get ahead of myself, let’s start at the beginning.

Hello. For those of you that do not know me, my name is Rosemary H Hazard. But for some reason, the hospital got it all confused. To them, I was Rosemary D Hazard. Many times over, I told them, “That’s not my name!” But for some reason, the bracelets, tags, stickers, etc. all said the same old thing. “ Rosemary D Hazard”

Wait a minute. Hospital was mentioned. Ah, yes, probably too intense for a first meeting, but most of you know me, so I thought I would just step right into it. As I did, I realized that I left out some important background information that would be helpful for you all to know. Some have already been asking about it; some have just sat back and wondered. So, today, I’ll go ahead and explain it all away in the best way I know how.

It all started at the end of July, when for about a week, I would wake my husband up at all times of the night with these stories that didn’t quite add up to reality (yet I believed them to be truth at the time) and culminated in a trip to Florida to visit my family and “get away for a while.” That weekend trip quickly landed me into a psych ward for about a week (because the episodes of thoughts-not-matching-up-to-reality just kept coming). I went in with a wristband stating my wrong name “Rosemary D Hazard," and I came out on the other end with a wrong diagnoses of “bipolar.” Some doctors believed I was experiencing postpartum-related difficulties, and others simply labeled me bipolar and kept the medication train moving along. Either way, they told me the two are treated similarly and that I was being treated appropriately for the symptoms I exhibited while in the hospital. Excuse my uneducated opinion, but bipolar is not my name. Postpartum could last for quite-the-season, but it also is not my name.

All was going well with the medication I was placed on, until we started weaning me off of the medication rather quickly. While I was being weaned off, I began to experience difficulty breathing and tightness in my chest, which the doctors said was due to anxiety. Although I was having serious bouts of anxiety-related “attacks”, anxiety is not my name.

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Around the same time, I began having bad thoughts, thoughts of harm and worse. I kept reminding myself of Philippians 4:8 and pouring podcasts and worship music through my little Apple headphones, but soon realized I needed more medical help than what I was currently getting. {In case you were wondering, ill thoughts, thoughts of harm, and suicide are also not my name.}

The end of August, I went back into the psych ward at Baptist Medical for about 4-5 days this time. They got me “stable” with more medication than I can count on my little left hand and let me go back home shortly thereafter. (Name tags still read wrong, mind you.)

Once home, I struggled with a lot of things. Like being able to multi-task or do anything at a speed which I once did it ( including speaking). I struggled mostly with being on medication and letting all these medical terms become my identity or my new norm or my new name. Truth is, all of these things have happened to me. I didn’t ask for them. I didn’t plan for them. I didn’t expect them. But now, they’re here and they’re a part of my story. Rather, God’s story that He’s writing with my life.

Just because they’re a part of my story doesn’t mean they have to be a part of my name or my identity. They’re my brokenness. My weakness. My vessel for letting God use me in huge ways, if necessary. 

I wonder, what weakness or brokenness are you carrying today that few people or no one knows about? What would happen if you shared it? Could God possibly use it to encourage others to share their stories? The Bible talks about bearing one another’s burdens. How can we not do this if our burdens are never even shared?

Just something to think about because, my friend, we all know it’s true that we have brokenness and weaknesses. The problem isn’t that they’re there. The problem comes when they’re hidden or excused away. Accept that they're there. Own that they are your weaknesses. Just do me a favor, and (no matter what your hospital bracelet says) don’t let them become your name.