Gifted Strings

My phone chimed as I drove. Most often, it says, “Potential Spam,” and I’ve come to not over stress when I hear it ring. Because I own a business, my phone number exists in the world rather readily, and with that comes extra spam calls. Not this time. On the little magnetic clip over the air vent, my phone said, “Aunt Carol.” Man. I love catching up with my Aunt Carol! But, I was nearly to my student’s house and knew I’d need to let it go to voicemail and call her back later.

But.

Then, my text alert sounded.

Here’s the thing: If a friend calls, then texts to avoid a voicemail, I’m not overly concerned. But, when any family member does so, I start to worry. Any double communication lights my anxiety like a little flare. Dear lord, what happened? Why does my family need to get a hold of me right now? I was driving when I got the call that my father had gone to the ER in an ambulance with yet another heart attack, and that they were waiting to see if he made it or not. Nothing like pulling into a random Subway parking lot to hear your sister calmly tell you your father might be dead, but maybe he’ll be okay.

I parked my car in front of the student’s house and read her message.

“What’s your new address? Your mom wants to send you a Chirstmas and birthday card.” My heart stopped. I don’t want to give my address. Of COURSE she asked my aunt to ask me. Thing is, had my mother texted, I’d have given her at least the address of my business mailbox. I quickly type out my real, home address, and an apology that I was in a lesson and couldn’t answer.

I walk in to teach, with a mind elsewhere. I help look over rhythms and key signatures. I fret that she’ll try to send me money again. Last year, she sent me a $200 check for my birthday. I ripped it up and threw it away. Had I taken it, there would’ve been some level of understood obligation to begin speaking to her again or be labeled an ungrateful little brat. I can hear it in my head now, “Oh. You can take my money, but you can’t answer your fucking phone?”

Always so classy.

It’s the end of January. A Christmas card… seems pointless. My birthday is mid-March. What could that possibly mean, in the language of my mother? She wants to send a check she feels would cover both a Christmas and birthday gift in one, and see if, a year later, I’ll give in and cash it, essentially agreeing to start speaking to her again.

It’s taken until my mid 30’s to start receiving gifts without panic and shame. When you were raised by a narcissistic hoarder, anything “given” to you comes with many, many, many strings. Is it an item of any sort? They likely expect you to keep it forever. You must be prepared to show it off to them if they should finally choose to visit someday. I’ve lived over a thousand miles from my immediate family for eleven years. My mother has come to visit me once, and saw one apartment I lived in for a few days before my wedding. Yet, I kept a teal IKEA mug in my cupboard at every apartment until this one because she insisted I have one ready for her visit. Best part? When she came for my wedding, she never used it, because she doesn’t drink much coffee.

Soon, I’ll need to check my mail. And face whatever manipulative game lies inside that little, metal box. Gifts should be a joy to give and receive, or at a minimum, generally harmless. Someday, I hope to reach a place in my life and my heart where it feels that way.