How to Go to Court AND Discover a New Anxiety Symptom

In writing about how changing my name could affect my ability to vote, and I’ve done it twice, I was reminded of the internal chaos when I changed it the first time. I’ve always been a bit of an overachiever. I talked super young and passed that along to my own progeny. I read way above my grade level, and I encountered and accepted that life is full of existential horror well before my years. (You’ll note that none of these achievements involve physical activity. While legend has it I walked young, I run like a dehydrated ostrich suffering from end stage liver disease. And my yoga is done in home for the safety and general visual comfort of others.) My family used to call me the woman, when I was like, 8. Probably part compliment on my excellent vocab but I suspect more in a what is going on with the strange child, kind of way.

When I was 11, I decided to change my last name. You might, rightfully, be concerned. Why odd child? Don’t marry so young! Your best years are ahead of you! (Frankly, I’m hoping that’s still true at 37.) Or perhaps, even, what kid hates their last name so much they want it changed? What kind of horrific last name did this poor child have?! Thankfully, none of this is true. Although if I’d been given the option to just pick a name, I’m sure it would have been fabulous. In reality, I was raised by my step-father. I’ve considered him just my dad since I was about 8, as my bio dad wasn’t in my life. I had actually been using his last name in social settings for years. Also, I had two siblings who, at least when they were 3 and basically a baby, I completely adored. I didn’t yet know that they were still in the adorable stage. Times would change and I’d get the annoying sibling experience. (I kid, slightly, but I totally love you guys!) I hated that I was the only one with a different name. So I changed it. Cool beans. Simple right?

Obviously not. Back in the good old days of the Millenium, we wore gelly shoes and in my state, could change a child’s name just by filling out a form on the back of the birth certificate and mailing in a few bucks. As long as both parents signed. Ah, the catch. There’s always one. Lacking the dual parental signatures that would have made this a blip in my life that I probably wouldn’t remember over 20 years later, we embarked on a journey to get my name changed. My parents did a lot of lawyery stuff that I was blissfully unaware of at the time. Letters were mailed, things were put in the paper…creepy. Ultimately, in ended up having to go to court.

As most 11-year-olds, my understanding of court was casual. But also kind of brutal. I loved watching some good court TV over at my Gre’s house. A passion we share to this day. So to me, it was a dramatic shouting match where we just had to hope good conquered evil! Honestly, I’m not sure what I expected the evil to be in the case, but I assumed there had to be some. And presumedly the evil was after me. Possibly I was going to be possessed or sent to prison where I would be slaughtered in my sleep by a 45 year old serial killer. (I had no real concept of child facilities and could only imagine an adult one. Obviously, I would be sent there for considering and being rejected for a name change.) This is more or less what I was thinking about as I put on a nice outfit, already a negative for the day, and packed into the car for the trip. Such normal child type concerns. My parents had told me it would be a simple thing, in and out, and that it was really a done deal. Obviously, they were not considering all possibilities, and I had much better catastrophizing abilities. This remains true to this day.

We drive into the city, a 30 to 40 min drive and it’s probably before we leave the neighborhood that I notice something’s off. I feel bad. I’m sure it’s just the nerves. By now, I was already used to my crippling anxiety and just wouldn’t know it was abnormal for about 15 years. People should be worried. About everything. Ten minutes later and it’s clear that this is physical sickness. Something I’d yet to associate with anxiety. But I sure would after today. My stomach aches, not throw up, kind of, but like I have to poop. So bad. I didn’t even need to 5 minutes ago, and it was getting dangerous. I’m sweating 10 minutes later. The internal pep talks have started. Hold it in. We’ll be there soon! But parking is crazy in town. Can I walk? No, no, you got this. My dress feels pretty uncomfortable. Hot and sticky. The car is cold but I’ve got the Sahara inside me.

Even my mom and dad have commented on how quiet I am. I respond with minimal words. Just a little nervous. Talking would take away from the concentration required to keep the shit inside. It’s now be about 30 minutes and I finally speak up. I have to go to the bathroom right the fuck now! Probably without the cursing. I started that in my 20s. Of course they’re like, oh girl you can hold it! Then I have to drive the point home. Parents, there are def con 5 levels of turtling in this SUV. We will need to stop or I will shit a monstrous amount everywhere. Was what I meant, but I probably said, um no I reeeaaallly have to go.

Thank the sweet lord they stopped. I was not going to make it. The walk to the bathroom in some random downtown office building or coffee shop or store I don’t even remember because I was fully concentrating on the poop situation was like a death march. Would I even make it?

I did. And I changed my name. I spoke no words at the court date. But I didn’t shut up on the way home. From that day forward, I had a new symptom that would sometimes, to this very day, accompany extreme stress. I call them the anxiety poops. My children are not fond of this term. To be fair, I don’t recommend them, they just happen. May your anxiety be low but keep a bathroom nearby just in case. (An Irish Proverb…probably)