Guilt, Money, and Thank You Notes

I often say that I have a guilt complex. I think part of that comes from being a young, able-bodied, cis white lady who has many family members that would put her up during a rough spot. But sometimes I think that my guilt goes beyond that.

I’m really quite bad at accepting gifts or loans or a tissue from people. I’m often quite aggressive about saying, “you didn’t have to do that,” or “I will pay you back,” or “I owe you one,” which can seem incredibly ungrateful. But I see it as being too grateful. So grateful that I know that it’s my job to even the playing field.

I don’t feel that way just about gifts. I feel that way about my parents paying for my existence, even though that’s what they signed up for. I feel that way about anything I asked any relative or received from any friend’s parents or from adult mentors growing up. I feel that way about anyone giving me a ride, since I can’t drive. I feel that way about things that my ex-boyfriend got me while we were dating, even though I was not old enough to have a job while we were dating and he claimed he wanted to, until after we broke up.

So, I write thank you notes obsessively. I write thank you notes for immaterial things, like for going on a walk with me. (I have a weird penchant for finding people’s addresses without asking.) I write thank you notes to everyone who donates to a fundraiser I run. I write thank you notes for people who are doing their job, like people who train me at work or people who went out of their way to say “hi” to me. I even wrote a BuzzFeed article on writing the perfect thank you note. My dad thinks I should write a book on writing thank you notes, because I have made an art of it.

But writing thank you notes never assuages my guilt. Even if I make blanket statements in them like, “thank you for keeping me alive,” which goes into almost every one. I had a friend who – maybe this is not unrelated – won’t answer my texts anymore, because I used to give him twenty-five cents every time he hung out with me. I try to give every person with whom I’m on regular speaking terms between two and five presents for their birthday, for moving in, and for the winter holidays. Even if they have never given me a present in my life. And I still feel like I owe them something. For, as I see it, pretending to be my friend. For being nice enough to ignore all the stupid things I do and say. For allowing me to take up space in their busy and meaningful lives.

Life doesn’t work that way, of course. You can’t obsessively keep track of what you owe someone. It’s not like I expect people to pay me back when I pay for dinner or send them a book I think they’d enjoy. It’s not like you can really get “even” anyway. When Thresh saves Katniss in the Hunger Games because of what she did for Rue, she knows she will live with the guilt of his eventual death for the rest of her life. I feel like that weight pushing down on my chest and shoulders and neck just because I broke something of my brother’s when I was younger, and even though I got him a new one, I knew he would never have the original, his first copy of the extended edition of Return of the King. 

I feel like I have upset the balance of the ecosystem by merely existing. I have ruined so many people’s lives, used up so much money and time, and given nothing in return. That’s pretty self-centered, I know. To imagine that I make that much of an impact on anyone’s life. But what can I say? I’m a self-centered person.

I’ve been checking in with my therapist every day since moving to New York, as well as my parents, whom I scared to death with my stupid panic attacks when they so graciously moved me in, and several other lovely friends who are more patient with me than I deserve. I want to write them all thank you notes. But what would I say? I don’t want to say thank you. I want to say I’m sorry. And it’s not fair to do so, especially when I’m going to ask for so much more.

I’ve been listening to this brilliant podcast, Bad With Money, hosted by Gaby Dunn. Gaby crosses over these ridiculously taboo lines of not speaking about how money effects people, particularly those in their twenties. The thing is, I thought that this podcast would be useful to me, so I could get even better at money. During university, I always had at least two thousand dollars in my bank account, because I budgeted obsessively and I didn’t have to pay rent because I had a housing scholarship and I worked more than twenty hours a week (which is illegal in a work study, but whatever.)

Now, I have about $25 that isn’t already spoken for in my bank account, I am in credit card debt, and I owe my grandpa and two loan servicing companies more than $1,000 each. Way more than $1,000 each.

I’m still so much better off than probably most people. I will be fine and out of the pink in a couple of weeks at the latest and I’m nowhere near my credit card line. Not to jinx it, but I have a job on the horizon, which I have interviewed and auditioned for. I also have some checks back at home that I could feasibly have my mom put into my bank account, and family members who wouldn’t let me starve. I actually, at a low point, asked my mom and dad to borrow money, and when they did offer to give it to me the next day, I became ashamed and told them to keep it. (Hopefully they won’t see this until everything’s “okay” again.)

This is not to complain. I know that I made some purchases that were not wise. (See: two to five gifts per birthday for people with whom I am kind of friends.) I sent twenty-six boxes of books to Puerto Rico recently and offered to foot the bill if others donated books, which meant I didn’t raise much money to cover it. Maybe ten boxes were covered. Both my dad and my grandpa offered to pay for some. I said no. It’s much more noble not to talk about this, because I don’t regret spending my money on that at all. It’s much more important to me that these kids in Puerto Rico who have suffered so much at the hands of hurricanes and the American government receive any means of escape they can than that I get something other than, I don’t know, lentil soup to eat today. I know that’s a lot. I know that’s melodramatic. But there it is.

I think I was just naive. I always thought I was smart when it came to money. I always had enough to take care of myself, and to treat the people who cared so generously for me. But today, being careful and being kind are not enough. And what I do with my money and with my words is not enough to keep things even.

But, because there’s no heroic arc in these blogs – I haven’t returned home in three whole days, for one, and I haven’t changed that much – I still want to take this opportunity to thank some people.

Thank you to mom and dad, the best parents in the entire world, and that’s not an exaggeration. My parents moved me in, keep telling me it’s okay to come home if I’m still stuck in this pit, that we’ll figure out the money later. They talk to me every day. They keep their own worries inside to put on a brave face for me. They assure me I’m not a failure and that they will love me no matter what.

Thank you to my grandpa who gave me money for the fees that come with moving in at a prime interest rate. (I’ve paid the interest back, but not the fees yet.) He listens to me yell a lot, because he happens to be around when I go mad, and everything he does, he does to help someone.

Thank you to my sister and brother-in-law who send me pictures of my nephew and tell me that they will love me no matter what and that I am brave and that I will still be brave if I come home. Thank you for understanding and, seriously, for keeping me alive.

Thank you to my therapist, with whom I check in every day, and who tells me that treating my anxiety and depression comes first. Who cares about me even though I’m not paying her for the check-ins, even though I really, really want to.

Thank you to Liz who has listened to me complain and talk about death more than any other person. (And thank you to her mom, who also checked in and schemed with me to get Liz to come live with me, which would make everything better, possibly. I guess I’d still have depression.) Thank you to Julia and Kate for checking in. Thank you to Carly for reminding me that it’s always okay to go back to God, or whatever it is we want to call the invisible hand of the universe, even when you’ve been neglecting Zir for maybe like two years.

Thank you to my friends in New York. Thank you to Christine who probably thinks I’m super entitled but does not let on and answers all my questions even though she never gets enough sleep. Thank you to Catie who braved a headache to sit with me and watch me desperately try to hold my tears in even as she was trying to distract me with stories of our former workplace. Thank you to Miranda and Mashal and Louisa who sympathized when I texted: I’m here but I want to go home!

Also, thank you to all people everywhere who work in customer service. You know why. That’s all.

I don’t know what I wanted to accomplish with this. Maybe there’s a person in the world who feels similarly about guilt, money, and thank you notes. Maybe they’ll read this. Maybe they won’t. Maybe no one will. But hopefully this helps. Otherwise, I don’t yet know what else to do.