What’s in a Name?

My parents named me Elizabeth, a moniker of Hebrew origins that invokes lofty hope – it can mean either God Is My Abundance or God Is My Oath. Alas, Elizabeth was two syllables too many for the brother that preceded me by two years. The best he could manage was Bizbeth, which was shortened further to Biz. Pretty cute, huh?

The cuteness ran out in the 1970’s, when a marketing campaign for a product named Biz Laundry Pre-Soak sent me spiraling from the grandeur of embodying the very Abundance of God down, down, down to the shame of joining the dirty laundry being stuffed in The Biz Bag! I have no recollection of this particular commercial, or of any particular response to it on the part of my siblings. I can only imagine one of them laughing gleefully at the imagery of the dirtiest laundry being stuffed into a bag labeled with my name. I can only imagine the mortification I surely felt at seeing and hearing my name so brutally misused. I can only imagine how long it took for the rest of my siblings to notice the tears that were almost certainly running down my face. I don’t even have any recollection as to how much or how little my siblings and neighborhood children mocked me with sing-song chanting: “Biz Bag! Biz Bag!” They may have stopped as soon as the commercials stopped, but it was too late. I came to hate my name, along with the girl that wore it. She belonged in the Biz Bag.

Somehow, I managed to remain Elizabeth to my teachers and classmates until about mid-way through the eighth grade, when my best friend referred to me as Biz in a classroom setting. The teachers thought this was an adorable name, and I was mortified by the exposure of my dirty laundry. Already stuffed to maximum capacity with self-hatred, the Biz Bag could take no more. I wish I could say that I emptied that Biz Bag and entered high school with a solid sense of my own worth. Nope. Since I had no more room in my bag for more self-hatred, I expanded my circle of hatred to include those around me. I shoved Biz and her bag into a dark corner and buried her by making it clear to everyone that I WOULD HEREAFTER BE KNOWN AS LIZ.

Liz was a survivor, but I didn’t realize that Biz had better survivor skills. So I ended up carrying Biz’s shame, Biz’s pain, Biz’s self-loathing, and Liz’s hatred of others. Liz didn’t have a bag as deep as Biz’s, so when my bag filled up, I would empty it on whoever happened to be standing in my path at the moment it overflowed. On many occasions, I attempted to seek help, but no thing and no one ever seemed capable of reaching down deep enough to soothe the beast festering in my core.

Until I had a “Road to Damascus” experience. Bear with me as I describe my failed foray into the world of fundamentalist evangelicalism. Yes, I “found Jesus!” Or is it that Jesus found me? Either way, I was empty and it was what I needed at that period of life to maintain some semblance of structure and meaning. I was sitting alone in my living room pondering my life, when I heard someone whisper the name “Beth.” And that whisper was accompanied by a sensation that words could never do justice to. The closest I can manage would be words like buoyancy, light, spirit, freedom, energy.

I embraced Beth right then and there! However, it would take quite some time before Beth could embrace both Liz and Biz. I started with Liz. And I took full advantage of all of the bits of the bible that helped me to find healing and hope. And my anger softened. And I began to un-bury Biz and believe she might be worth loving after all.

Until I started paying attention to the cracks found among the pages of the bible. Until I started noticing that the bible reads very similarly to Rudyard Kipling’s Just So Stories. Until none of my church friends wanted to engage in conversations about these things.

And I no longer knew whether or not I believed in the existence of any god. And I made a choice that triggered a precipitous fall from grace in the eyes of the church I attended at the time. And as I tumbled, the Biz Bag came loose, leaving Beth and Liz and Biz overwhelmed by shame, uncertainty, and loneliness.

I spent the next ten years building new community on Biz’s terms. My primary goal was to skim the surface, deep enough to not feel so lonely, but shallow enough to prevent catastrophic pain if relationships ruptured. Then I had a TIA, resulting in two mind-boggling realizations: a) I am loved by a lot of people! and b) I want to live – really live, not just skim!

With the help of a really great therapist, I’ve spent the past two years learning to invest faithfully in my own self-development and in the development of healthy relationships with myself and others.

What’s in my name? Stories that have changed me, for better and for worse. But I am not any one of those stories, nor am I the sum of all of those stories. I am the story-teller and the meaning-giver. As I invest in my own well-being, the meaning I give to so many of my stories is shifting to a healthier perspective. Children have a remarkable capacity to be cruel. That is the meaning I can now assign to the story behind the childhood taunts. And I am able to pull Biz out of the Biz Bag and let her know that she doesn’t have to stay there, and in fact, she never belonged there in the first place.

My nickname is as unique as I am, and I can now wear it proudly!