I come from a family of all girls—4 of us.  Our given names are Evelyn, Barbara, Elizabeth (that’s me) and Jessica.  Connie Francis was very big when my oldest sister was born and even though she was named for my paternal grandmother, Evelyn became Evie from an early age. So started the tradition - Barbara became Barbie, Jessica become Jessie and I became Libbie. All ‘ie” never “y”. My sisters called my Bibbie because Ls are hard to pronounce but Libbie was who I knew myself to be then.

I almost never used my given name. Not through elementary or middle or high school or college. Not even when I went to Divinity School. When I talked to myself, I always thought of myself as ‘Libbie.’  After college I taught in an all-girls Catholic high school. I was 22 years old but looked 15. I was and still am barely five feet tall. There were only three girls in the whole school who were taller than me. So, to feel and look like I should be taken seriously I was Miss (no Ms. then) Stellas. I wore a lot of makeup and very high, high heels. I think I fooled the students but inside I was Libbie—insecure, anxious, and drinking a bit more on the weekends than was good for me.

After seminary I took a job in Seattle with the Catholic Archdiocese. I moved across the country and knew I was going to work with many priests. I wanted to be taken seriously!  So, I changed my name—I would use my given name Elizabeth. It was a big name for a serious job. It took some time to get used to being called Elizabeth. For over ten years I was Elizabeth. I changed jobs and worked with many leaders in most every Christian denomination as well as those in the Jewish, Muslim, Buddhist and even New Age congregations. Elizabeth seemed to suit me in these situations.

At the same time, I was drinking more and more. I had married, had a child, was heading toward divorced, and lost my childhood friend to cancer.

In Seattle, at AA meetings, people sign in with their first name and then contact info (if they want). I remember distinctly looking at the sheet at my first meeting and pausing - Who was I? Was I Elizabeth, Libbie, or something else? I only really knew that my life was totally unmanageable and that my drinking had something to do with that. I knew I needed help and I wanted to believe I had found the place and the people that would help me.

And so, I wrote my name: Libbie. It was the name that I used for myself, the name that was the real me, and I wanted the real me to get the help I needed to be sober.  Naming myself was important. It was a way to claim myself and own that I was an alcoholic. I have the disease of alcoholism. Diabetics know they have the disease of diabetes. There is little shame in the knowledge that their bodies don’t metabolize sugar correctly.  I am an alcoholic. I do not metabolize alcohol correctly; it is a poison to my system. The only “cure” is to not drink it.

Who I am is more than an alcoholic but when I wanted to be sober it was the only thing I connected with, and I wanted others to know me as I really am. I am Libbie, and I am an alcoholic.  They said to me “HI Libbie.” I knew I was in the right place, with my right name.

Libbie S.