I was a nasty wreck, lazy, bitch, half-ass, whore, lame, poser, shit stain, sickness, disease. I was a confused little girl. I was not enough and too much. Who gets to define what I am other than me? I am confused, I think. It makes me feel little again when he calls me Samantha. Not in a good way. I hate being called Samantha because of how my mom used to say it, so viciously spitting it, screaming it. Then my ex husband would say it in a certain way, like this- semENta -when he would reprimand me in Spanish. I find a new man and I hope for better, I hope he will call me Sam because that is what my friends call me. Imagine a man calling me Sammie, oh what a man that would be. I dream of him. Not the one who INSISTS on still calling me Samantha and introducing me as Samantha, knowing it makes me feel small. He says Sam is a boy name. He calls me Sparker, but with a tone of mockery. I am no one, I am nothing, just don’t call me anything anymore unless you are the lady at McDonald’s. I go there every morning for iced coffee- not because the coffee is so great, but because when I place my order online it shows them my full birth-given name and I love the delightful way she says it.