Today my social psychology professor asked us what roles we are playing in the current moment and with my brothers’ own online classes echoing in the background. I proceeded to answer with “student.”
“But aren’t you a daughter or a sister?” He asked me.
Aren’t I? It’s all I’ve ever known.
Being the eldest daughter, the eldest sister, the responsible, the wise, the supposedly caring figure is all I have ever known. It used to be as easy as breathing, but my lungs seem to need a little help these days. The words weigh on me, drowning me in the sea of expectations and responsibilities they hold. Or have they always done so?
“You sound mature for your age.” An adult would usually comment. Impressed with the way I held myself, or the way I expressed my thoughts. I used to bask in these words, offer shy smiles, a little proud of myself. Today, I’m 21. These words feel like a slap to the face. They ring in my ears long after they’ve been said.
Maturing too early comes with a cost.
Sometimes, I mourn my childhood. Dolls and fake bottles of milk were replaced with brothers, and real warm bottles. Mistakes I never got to make in fear of being shamed for committing them, so my brothers will learn. I mourn my teenage years too. The “I’m proud of you.”’s I never got to hear, because what I achieved became the bare minimum. The instinct to rebel that I buried so deep, I convinced myself it wasn’t there to begin with. “I’m here for you” ’s I never found comfort in, because no one was allowed to see me break.
“How old are you?” I get asked for a routine test a few months after I turn 21 and I almost say 19. It’s not that I forgot how old I was, it’s just another thing I mourn the loss of. Wishing so desperately I could go back in time and hold my 19-year-old self in my arms. Tell her she’ll find herself, but she’ll do it alone. Like everything else she ever does.
I learned from a young age to take care of myself, because no one else was going to take care of me. They would criticize my body with words as sharp as glass, but never be there to help me clean the wounds in the aftermath. They would hold expectations over my shoulders and when I crumbled under their weight, I would be unworthy of love. When I would cry under the covers, pretending I was asleep became a silent agreement I never signed. So I cleaned my own wounds, picked myself up, and wiped my own tears. I learned to be Atlas, carrying what felt like the world on my back. Too young to have backaches because of it, but not too young to carry the expectations. They’d ask me to lighten up despite the pain. To set an example for my brothers, even though the anxiety of keeping something so substantial over my shoulders was eating me alive. Eventually, I got accustomed to the weight. I learned to adapt, like I’ve always done.
If you ask me today how I’m doing, I’ll probably tell you something along the lines of “I’m okay”. For the most part, I’ll mean it too. Some days are easier than others. But I’ll still have moments where I’d be caught off guard. Where I’d be forced to question myself or maybe even cry myself to sleep. Other days, I’ll revel in the fact that I’m a daughter. I’ll boast about being a sister to three brothers. I’ll tell you how proud I am of the men they are becoming.
When things got too hard, I used to wish that they did not put me into these roles. I hated that I couldn’t just pack them up neatly, and hand them to someone else.
In that same social psychology class, I learned our experiences make us who we are.
For that, I am proud of the person I am today. Even if I won’t ever get to hear it out loud. I love my brothers. Even though, in my weakest moments, I feel resentment rattling in my chest like loose change. I appreciate how resilient I am, how I push forward despite the circumstances. I can be the sanctuary and the stability my brothers seek. I admire my strength, my adaptability. I can recognize that at the end of the day, I am a mere human. I am allowed to grief, shatter, and heal. I’m a mosaic of broken pieces painted in a gold so pretty it feels like the sun.
The next time someone asks me what roles I play, I hope I’ll be able to say “I’m the eldest daughter.” Without feeling like I’m drowning in it, because I’m slowly learning how to swim.
-h.b
2:02 Am
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