The Dissociative Disorder of Pen Names

This was a name I’d kept to myself as much as I could. Not because there’s something wrong with that name, but because I fell victim to the same insecurities of childish mockery and teasing as anyone else. Every time someone saw that ‘R.’ between my first and last names, they always wanted to know, “what’s the ‘R.’ stand for?”

Adults would compliment my middle name. Other kids would make stupid jokes. I’ve heard them all. Rasputin. Razzamatazz. Ramalamadingdong. Raspberry.

So, I tucked it away. I kept it to myself. On occasion, if someone asked, I would explain to them that my great-grandmother, who was born in Denmark, had the same middle name. I’d tell them that I’d been named after her, that it’s an old Danish name and not very common anymore. Then I’d hide Rasmenia away again and go back to being a Jacki.

For the most part, I continued on as a Jacki. From time to time, I was Jacquelynn when I felt like being fancy. Rasmenia hid away, not used for much more than an email address or occasional message board handle.

She only came out on those rare moments when I couldn’t be me. When I needed a mask.

With time, the more I wrote and the more I wanted to share my writing with other people, Rasmenia became more than a mask – she became someone stronger for me to hide behind. Jacki said she didn’t give a shit what you thought of her, but she kind of did. Jacki’s feelings could be hurt by rejection, criticism or a negative reaction to her writing.

Rasmenia didn’t give a shit. No one could hurt her feelings. No one could scare her. She said whatever in the bloody hell she felt like saying and feared no consequences.

Jacki was the real world person who went to work every day. Rasmenia was the writer who stayed up all night. Jacki was tired every morning. Rasmenia said, “Fuck you and your whining about sleep.”

Then we met a guy, got married and decided to publish stuff for real.

But… whose name to put on all these stories? The decision was pretty easy – Rasmenia tacked on her shiny new married name and sent those stories out. Partly because Rasmenia was the writer. She had more of a voice, bigger balls and more things to say.

Also, because if you Google “Jacki” along with my maiden name, who knows what the hell will show up. I have no idea who those people are. If you Google “Rasmenia,” well… go ahead. Try it.

There were practical reasons to keep using that name. It’d be simple to say that’s why I didn’t revert back to being a Jacki. However, it isn’t quite that simple. Once you put on a mask and create a sort of persona, you can’t take it off. It becomes a part of you. The more I was writing, the more I realized that having my first name hanging around was just too confusing, so I removed it from places like my email address and Facebook.

It felt good. I imagine molting spiders and snakes experience a similar relief. Okay, maybe that’s gross… but accurate. It feels good to leave old pieces of yourself behind.

My husband, he never calls me by either one of these names, as we — like many couples — have our own names for one another. On a daily basis, I have more people addressing me as Rasmenia than anything else.

After a while, this began to feel… normal. My first name, when I hear it, often feels like it isn’t mine, as though the speaker is addressing someone else.

Because when you put on a mask, you can’t always take it off. Unintentionally, I sort of became two people.

But then I realized Jacki was just as bold and tactless as Rasmenia; that maybe Rasmenia could actually function while sober and desperately needed to quit smoking.

Eventually, we all sort of jumbled together to make one messy, mixed-up person. Who that is, I have no fucking clue. But the three of us seem to be living together without much of a problem.