I thought it was over. But it’s like the infomercial that never ends, where they keep pushing on you all this stuff you don’t need and don’t want. Just when you think it’s finally finished, they say, “But wait! There’s more!”

I thought it was over.

I thought we were past the stage where my mother was sending gifts to my house (mostly for my daughter who she has never met and never will). I thought, after nearly dying a year and a half ago, that she was infirm enough that online shopping was no longer doable. Or, alternatively, she was poor enough after having to pay for medical expenses of an extended stay in a nursing/rehab center, that spending money on gifts for a child you have no relationship with would be considered ill-advised.

I thought that maybe, just maybe, after eight fucking years of radio silence from me, she’s gotten the message that she and I are done.

…Maybe, just maybe, she actually has gotten the message that she and I are done, but is holding out hope that she can still get her tentacles wrapped around my daughter. (No chance in hell.) She has the gall to sign the gift receipts Nonna which is Italian for grandmother. The only thing my kid understands about her is that she exists but we don’t talk to her because that decision keeps us safe. Simply put, my kid thinks of her as a villain, because that’s how she makes sense of the situation. The woman who gave birth to me is many things, but Nonna she is not.

This time, the Amazon package was a set of Ramona Quimby chapter books. Not necessarily the best gift for a girl who just turned six, since reading levels can vary greatly at this age, but she wouldn’t know that my kid isn’t reading chapter books yet. That being said, it’s not as much of a shot in the dark as it seems. She’s only got her memories of me to go on as a reference, and I was a reading prodigy, devouring classic literature since toddlerhood, as well as any other books I could get my hands on, including Ramona books. I particularly loved Ramona. I loved her spunky spirit and her perceptiveness. And my mother knows that. She sent a gift addressed to my daughter that was full of subliminal messaging for me. “Hi, remember me? Your mother? The woman who gave birth to you and knows that you used to love reading these books as a child? I’m still here…!”

Previously, I wrote about the fact that Amazon can help you with reporting unwanted packages and blocking it from happening. I did that process. So either the process didn’t work, or she used a different account to send this new package. I expect it’s the latter. But it’s also a moot point.

I’m so aggravated that she’s at it again. I feel violated all over again. It triggers feelings of anxiety, worrying that I’m not safe from her at my own house. For years after I stopped talking to her, I was plagued by nightmares that she would just show up and try to force her way back into my life. I’d finally put myself into a place where I was making sense of “the end” of it all with her, figuring she was not doing well. The arrival of this unwanted package devolved me right back into hypervigilant mode again. I’ve been exhausted all week from it.

Ironically, later that evening on the day this unwanted package arrived, I was on Facebook (more or less dissociating), and came across a post that struck exactly the right chord I needed to hear. It said, “the memory hurts, but does me no harm.” I would attribute an author to it but I couldn’t find one. Anyway, what I’ve tried to keep in mind, very actively, is that while her actions hurt me, they are not causing me harm. In other words, the painful memories and feelings she has stirred up suck, but I’m not at risk of danger or injury or loss of any kind from her. Not anymore. There’s a difference between feeling pain, and being in danger. I’m no longer in danger of falling victim to her narcissistic spell. I won’t be caught in her webs anymore. I have figured it all out. I know better. And I won’t be played for a fool ever again. It’s taken me a full week of actively reminding myself of this crucial fact, but it’s finally sinking in. And I want to keep reminding myself of it, even when all that is left of her is memory.

The memory hurts, but it does me no harm.