My name is Veronica, but some people don’t seem to know that.
You see, when I was a child I was given the nickname Vickie. Most people thought either that my name really was Vickie, or that it was short for Victoria. Neither is true.
I spent years confused about my name, since Vickie NEVER felt right. (Of course, neither did Victoria, for that matter.)
I was trapped a Twilight Zone without a name.
Until I turned 18 and graduated from high school. Then I took my destiny into my own hands. Kind of.
I started my new life as an adult by dropping Vickie down a sinkhole. (No, I didn’t jump into a pit, I just dumped the name.)
But then I had a problem. The name Veronica is four syllables long. Would anyone take the time to spit that many syllables out of their mouth when they wanted to get my attention?
So I compromised and told people that they could call me Roni for short. It at least had a connection to my real name. veRONIca. Get it?
I should have known better than to compromise with anything as important as a name.
I suffered through Roni until I finally realized that Veronica is actually an easy name to say. People could handle it.
From my early twenties on I was Veronica, and only Veronica, to everyone I met.
Yet the nickname of Roni persists. It sneaks out of the mouths of people who have known me forever and into the brains of people I’ve just met. It spreads like a virus. There is no vaccine.
I try to let it go. But I don’t like being called a name that is not mine. It feels all wrong. It shocks me almost every time someone calls be by that name. A jolt of electricity shoots through my body and my heart skips a beat. And not in a good way.
You probably think I’m overdramatizing, but I’m not. My heart really does jump erratically when someone calls me by that abhorrent name.
I have a perfectly good name, a name that actually feels like me, and I want everyone to use it.
I’m taking a stand.
I am Veronica.