Thoughts on being a parentified eldest daughter.

One of the biggest issues in my existence is not that I am viewed as incapable.

I think as a woman you always traverse this precarious line of judgement where you’re perceived to be able to do or not do a thing. You’re damned if you do and damned if you don’t. 

If you’re very smart, very together, you’re perhaps a mean bitch, worthy of debate and assessing to see if that ‘Smart’ is truly ‘smart’ or just a smokescreen. If you have any kind of socially acceptable pretty traits, that capability is up for further inspection. Kind of a forcing of doubling down on your capability. 

It’s a pain in the arse at the macro. And it’s also a pain in the arse at the micro. 

My issue in life is that I’ve always been viewed, mainly as capable.

But that’s a good thing, right? 

You’d think so.

But being three years old being expected to be Mummy’s perfect little helper does something to a person. You go from being the person who is cuddled, played with and helped to a mini coparent who is denied these things, in favour of Baby Brother being held instead. And when you try and seek that affection- in the only way you know how- by darting for Mummy’s lap as she sits down, as you’ve always done, You’re screamed at because Baby Brother’s umbilical cord has fallen off, rather, forcefully, as a result of your pull for attention.

How was a three year old to know? That that relationship was so vulnerable, so easily usurped?

 How was a three year old to know that a baby was so fragile, that making a b line to Mummy’s lap would cause such an… issue. 

His bellybutton was fine... Perfectly formed. Along with a relationship that allowed for his baby-ness, all the way into a big adult age. “You’re older than he is, YOU should know better”.

But when those same ages were met by him, he was not tasked with knowing ‘better’. The goal posts just shifted.“You’re older than he is, YOU should know better”.

Meanwhile, I’m expected to be capable. Highly capable. 9-years-old and capable. 

It felt like this continued on in my life, and I conformed. Because when you conform, you are… not LOVED, per se…. But you’re certainly positively engaged with. Not punished. Not invalidated, as such. 

Making noise in the classroom- “It’s not like you to be talking while the teacher is talking!” So, I learned to stop talking, and be a goody two shoes. I also learned to stop other people talking- shaming them into doing as the grown ups asked.

What a GOOD GIRL.

The grown ups loved that- having a child back up their rules to their peers. Lessens them of a job.  Doesn’t exactly win you friends your own age, though. But appeasing to grown ups is safer than appeasing peers. Peers can't hurt you.

Cleaning the house- “I expect this house to be spotless when I come home from work and dinner to be ready” So, I learned from every cookbook that I possibly could. I was basically a gourmet chef by the age of 10. Chinese, Mexican, Caribbean, Mediterranean, pick a cuisine- I could do it. I picked up my Brother’s coat when he’d leave it in the centre of the floor in the living room. He’d giggle and throw it on the floor knowing I’d panic to pick it up.

Because we both knew the sound of an angry car pulling up, versus a calm one. The sound of an angry key in the door, versus a calm one. The state of the house either avoided or facilitated screaming, sometimes avoiding or facilitating a beating. 

Parent’s crying- I learned to comfort, listen and offer advice that would be ignored again and again, while the grown ups around me failed to take accountability or take stock of learnings for their own life, and apply those learnings. Giant ask-holes. You know the sort? Asking again and again for advice, next steps. But never quite following through on that which is given. Like a giant pit of nothing. Like sacrificing all of the resources you have access to to an ever-hungry volcano God. 

No wonder I grew into such a shit of a teenager. Like a pressure cooker ready to burst at any possible moment. BAM! Rice hits the ceiling, forever a metal scratch and oil patch that can’t quite seem to disappear, even after a few new coats of paint. Oil does stain, after all. 

And I mean SHIT OF A TEENAGER. I hit the ceiling a LOT.  Fighting at a given opportunity- ‘self defence’ obviously. But what about reason? Walking away. To fight meant to be capable. Because coming home and saying “So and so is bullying me/ picking on me/ hitting me/ pulling my hair” Was met with “I don’t want to hear about that p*ssy behavior- If someone so much as looks at you cross eyed you you hit them back and 10 times as hard”. 

THAT was taught to me as capability. To attack, meant capable. It meant not bringing the problem home to the grown ups who were meant to model conflict resolution. But in a high conflict home, that doesn’t really exist. To be capable, to be loved, respected, connected with, meant to fight, find your own way. A completely non dependent child. 

I’ve always been capable. 

Which is why, when I married, I had hoped that there might be some respite from being the capable one that did everything and held it all together. 

But that wasn’t really the case.

My beloved bought me the driving lessons so I would learn how to drive. So he didn’t have to do it anymore... well... He says so I can feel "more independant".

But being on the road fills me with dread. Like an overwhelming cloak of darkness, too tight at the neck. I try to lessen its grip and simply wear it, but it suffocates me. It reminds me of all the harm and injury I am capable of causing if I make one wrong move. It puts me on high alert, blood pumping through a vein in my head I had forgotten has even existed. A shallowness of breath that could have me pass out into a puddle of mush the second I step foot out of the car. 

I tell him that it stresses me out beyond words. 

He assures me that if I just practice more, I’ll feel less anxious. It’s all in my head. If I just learn to overcome this I’ll heal into more of the person I’m supposed to be. 

But it just feels like another way I’m forced to be more capable. So I can possibly do more, be more, ascend even further to my “highest self”. 

It feels like bullshit sometimes. Because what if I just want to be HERE? Now? Without the continuing striving to be capable all the time. It’s exhausting. It’s a never ending goal. This constant expansion. I just want to be here, now. 

I constantly wonder, why does my connection to loved ones rely on how capable, and hyper independant I am able to be?

I don’t want to be codependent either, for the record. But the support of people around me, without having to ask for that help, the anticipation I give, I would like that for me. 

I had asked him to change the batteries in the carbon monoxide filter. An incident that led to me shouting down the phone “I ASKED YOU TO DO ONE THING, JUST ONE THING”. But my frustration was met with strict instruction: NEVER talk like that to me again. I felt like a child again.

I sobbed. I wept from a child-self. 

Pleading with the support to do something I otherwise was fully capable of doing, but in desperate need of one of the multiple tasks being taken off my list. So I could simply focus. On my art, my learning, my being. In those last two sentences I’m quite aware that I don’t know if I’m talking about my child self or my adult self. It could absolutely be both. 

He’s 6 foot 2 and a half. He wouldn’t need to stretch and reach for the ceiling. He works with tools, he’d be able to unhinge, unhook and screw things in as though second nature. I’m 5”5, an artist. Handy, but by no means, a tradesman like he.

I’m capable, but it would have meant a chair, uncomfortable reaching, tiptoeing, striving. It would take him seconds. It would take me time out of my day, mental shifting, away from my craft. Plus, I asked nicely. Multiple times. A reminder in his calendar before the inspector arrived.

The issue with him is that to some extend in his childhood, he was also expected to be the highly capable one.

So I see his pain too.

He wants me to drive, to "be more independant" so he doesn't have to have that responsibility

Sometimes, his pain and my pain meet, and clash. They want to fight and prove who is in more pain. They’re competing in the pain olympics. It's a recurring battle that I’m exhausted from fighting. 

His desire to be incapable and my desire to be incapable, at odds. 

I am capable. 

But does that mean I always need to be put in the driving seat of doing, caring, actioning, planning? What if I want a moment to simply feel- not incapable- but supported. Drop the hyperindependence. 

The need for capability in my relationships has continued on into adulthood. Marriage. Friendship. Even when I display my art. All of my relationships. 

At an art fair this weekend, people liked my art work, but BEGGED for my spiritual readings. Like I was capable of telling them the way. To be fair, It's all I've know since my Father leaving. Aged 5, telling Mum "it's okay" as she'd sob in loneliness. Predicting her future- OUR- future "We're going to be okay, Mummy".

Capable of pointing her moods in the right direction. Capable of comfort. Capabale of telling everyone "It's going to be okay", even if, deep down, I couldn't tell anyone that about myself.

And I think that’s how, over the years, I’ve shown up and introduced myself:

“Hi! I’m Love, I’m highly capable!”

Not in those words exactly, but in the way I carry myself. Perhaps my insight. I’m sure if I give it enough thought I could tell you exactly what it is. I mean, I’m capable of doing so. If I sat long enough. 

But what if I wanted to use that time to paint? Or to walk in the woods?

Sad to say, I don’t actually have a solution to this. I think this is a theme that I’m exploring, ongoing.

I’m learning to drop the negative circling thoughts that make me feel 3 and forced into capability before I was tall enough for the ride . To shake off the shouts and horrors “OH MY GOD LOOK WHAT YOU’VE DONE TO YOUR BROTHER!!!! YOU’RE A VERY NAUGHTY GIRL”

I'm not the first parentified eldest daughter. I won't be the last. And I don't really or truly have a solution. That's it.

Perhaps I need to unlearn the labels that come with seeking support. Seeking someone ELSE to be capable, loving, supportive. 

Drop the parentified 3 year old, and let the 3 year old be a child every now and then. It's difficult when you're surrounded by people who won't let you be that, though.

I’m careful what I wish for.

I dread the day that comes where I’m completely, and utterly incapable.

This piece doesn't have a name yet, and I'm sewing into the canvas with glass beads. It imagines a place where the inner child, perhaps even the eldest daughter can simply be a child by being held by Mother Nature. No expectations. Mother Nature is a place where I feel held, but in reciprocity. Like I don't have to perform capability. Like I can just be me. Do you know that feeling of just being held in nature?