When I met you, you were the second “Catherine” I ever knew. The first, a childhood friend, was a “Katherine” with a different spelling and actually went by a nickname, so I hardly even drew an association with the name. You however, went by full name, Catherine. For most of my life, the only Catherine I knew was 5 foot 9 inches, had long auburn red hair, and was quintessentially Irish-Catholic American. (I would pause and correct myself here as we did have another mutual friend who was your name twin, but for the most part, I referred to her by nickname, so she’s exempt)
Since you died, I did not appreciate how serendipitous it was that I did not encounter any other Catherines. There was a slight blip when shortly after the funeral, a friend said he started to date a “Catherine”. I remembering thinking omg-what-how-can-he-do-that-how-can-I-ever-say-her-name-without-breaking-down-this-is-the-worst. This was during the immediate few months of blackout period with grief, so I was quite numb and hardly processed anyways. Eventually, my mind was able to separate because her “Catherine” spelling was so different in written form, they might as well not even be the same name. She was excused. She also turned out to be an absolutely lovely person and subsequently became his wife, so I forgive her for unknowingly entering my life at the worst time possible with a taboo name.
Fast forward five years, when in many ways, I have grieved and learned to live life, without a Catherine, and only have occasional struggles and painful memory lapses. When I thought all is well and the only Catherine I’ll ever need has been safely boxed away in memory land with emotions checked (because I mean, let’s face it, I’m not meeting new friends or people anymore these days), I am suddenly bombarded with Catherines.
It is literally as if the world has proclaimed that I can no longer be sheltered with a Catherine-void whereby I can preserve your memory by name association. In the span of a month, six new “Catherines” appeared in my work orbit. Sure, their “Catherines” have different spelling variations of all sorts and some go by verbal nicknames. They are nevertheless “Catherine” spoken regularly on a daily basis, surrounding me.
I have this unspoken abhorrence and personal vendetta against each of them. I hate hate hate these new Catherines. It is such a mental drain that I have been weathering these last few months, interacting with these Catherines, all of whom are far inferior to The Catherine, my once best friend. Not just by physical beauty and intellectual qualities are they inferior (their humors suck too) but their mere existence is painful to me. Because why, why is the world so unfair that these Catherines are here but you are not? And why do I have to call them by name with a smile plastered on my face while these thoughts run through my head?
It is an absurdity of my own that I have yet to overcome and cannot explain how strongly I detest these fake Catherines. I can only hope my disgust and internal stress is not visible every time I have to turn around and say “Catherine”. If only they would agree to my calling them “Ashley” or “Camille” or “Madam Curie” even, anything but Catherine. It’s not just the frustration of repeating a name I deemed sacred, but also the idea, that with each Catherine I meet, it dilutes the association to the Catherine I knew. This is what pains me. Can’t they all just go away and I never have to interact with a Catherine again?
