BOUNDARIES / RETURNED

Letter 026 NEW

Return to Sender.

For years, I accepted every package with my name on it.

That was my first mistake.

I never checked who sent it.

Never checked whether I’d ordered it.

Never asked why something that supposedly belonged to me arrived carrying somebody else’s handwriting.

I just signed.

TOO SENSITIVE.

Signed for it.

DIFFICULT.

Signed for that too.

HARD TO LOVE.

Apparently expedited shipping.

EVERYTHING IS YOUR FAULT.

That one came in bulk.

And because my name was on the box, I assumed whatever was inside must be mine.

So I unpacked it.

Put it away.

Made room for it.

Eventually, I forgot there had ever been a delivery at all.

I thought I’d always owned these things.

That’s the impressive part.

You can give someone your shame so many times that eventually they start calling it theirs.

No receipt required.

For years, I became a warehouse for things other people didn’t want to store in themselves.

Their anger.

Their insecurity.

Their guilt.

Their inability to apologize.

Their explanations for why hurting me was somehow a response to something wrong with me.

I had excellent inventory management.

Everything labeled.

Everything organized.

Everything somehow filed under:

ME.

Then I started opening the boxes again.

Turns out, the paperwork is a mess.

The guilt has the wrong billing address.

The shame isn’t mine.

The responsibility for somebody else’s behavior was never supposed to clear customs.

And this giant crate labeled YOU MADE ME DO IT?

Interesting.

There appears to be no record of me ordering that.

So I’ve updated my delivery preferences.

I no longer accept packages simply because someone knows my address.

TOO MUCH?

Return to sender.

NOT ENOUGH?

Return to sender.

YOU’RE THE REASON I TREATED YOU THAT WAY?

Insufficient postage.

Return to sender.

IF YOU HADN’T—

Delivery refused.

BUT YOU MADE ME—

Wrong address.

THIS IS WHO YOU ARE.

Recipient unknown.

Some packages will probably keep arriving.

That’s fine.

People get attached to free storage.

But there’s an important difference now:

I check the label.

I ask who packed it.

I ask who benefits if I keep it.

I ask whether this is actually mine or whether someone just got very good at putting my name on things they didn’t want to carry themselves.

And when it isn’t mine, I don’t open it anymore.

I don’t defend myself against the contents.

I don’t write a six-page explanation to the sender.

I don’t carefully repackage it so nobody’s feelings get hurt.

I don’t pay the return postage.

I leave it exactly as it arrived.

Unopened.

Unclaimed.

Undeliverable.

There are things I actually do own.

My mistakes.

My choices.

My apologies.

My healing.

Those have my name on them.

I’ll sign for those.

But your shame?

Your cruelty?

Your guilt?

Your version of me that conveniently makes everything you did understandable?

I checked the tracking number.

That package was never mine.

And according to the updated delivery instructions,

this address no longer accepts it.

RETURN TO SENDER.

No forwarding address.