Oppressed and Depressed

the most oppressed n depressed child is the eldest daughter

— mehru (@mehrunlsa) January 28, 2019

I was randomly browsing the net when I came upon the post above this morning just a few minutes after I woke up. Still half asleep, it took my braincells a few minutes to process the whole thing until I verbally voiced my reaction: YES.

Oh, yes.

Being the eldest and a daughter at that, I've felt this my whole life. It's an albatross around my neck, a baggage on my back, the stamp of who I've been my whole life.

The eldest daughter. The unpaid nanny. The little maid. The role-model. The absorber of the punishments. The default shield against bullies. The organized one. The planner. The often-taken-for-granted right-hand (wo)man. The invisible help. The first receiver of bad news. The strong one. The resilient one. The third parent.

The progeny who's supposed to be a mini-adult by the time she reached five.

Not that being eldest doesn't have its perks. But like Uncle Ben said to Peter, "With great power comes great responsibility." Only in my case, most of my life, the responsibility mostly outweighed the illusion of power.

As early as four years old, I was already taking care of my little sister who was two years younger than me. By the time I reached five, I had two charges. It was, simply put, hell. I was constantly reprimanded whenever they were crying or they made a mess. Or if they won't stay quiet. Seriously, I don't remember a lot of things when I was very young, but one thing that stuck to my mind was that I had to make sure my two younger sisters were behaving or I will be punished severely. I felt that no one was on my side, then. My parents were stressed out so, in effect, I was absorbing all their bad humor. Many times I wanted to run away. I wanted different parents. I wished we weren't almost poor. Plain and simple, I hated my life.


But what else could I do? Despite the hard work I faced at home, I grew up practically protected and removed from "the world." I had no wish to live as a street kid! Besides, my parents were okay. Except when they weren't.

So what if they ignored my struggles? That complains were taken as unwanted grumbling and I had to shut up or have my cheek reddened or my bottom belted?

Eventually, gradually, I learned not to speak.

Maybe that's why I've turned into a melancholic child. Not that I was extroverted to begin with, but I think it added to it. I was a smart child. But very quiet. Very introverted. And very controlled.

Instead, I turned to art.

I was a very imaginative child. I remember that I usually had a lot of dreams which I remembered until the next day, but sadly, whenever I got excited enough to share it with someone, all I got were distracted nods, sometimes a pat on the head, or a hackneyed "Yes, that's good. Good."It was rare that someone actually listened.

A few times, I tried to share it to our Sunday School class whenever they would ask us to share our remembered dreams or visions. Too shy to raise my hand, I would stand on the far side of the board and draw my dream in white chalk. Usually my teacher would shoot me a smile and ask if I wanted to share something, but before I could answer her, a boisterous child would get her attention and I would miss my chance. After class, one of the other children would start erasing the board, my drawing along with it.

Such was my childhood. Though I know it wasn't deliberate, I was often ignored except when I had chores to do or chores that I missed.

Eventually I learned not to expect attention. I still loved art but it just became a source of personal satisfaction. In fact, I grew up hating attention. I practically perfected the art of being a ghost to the point that many times my classmates or friends would say, "Oh! I didn't know that you're there!" and I would just shrug it off.

One thing to note though is that I've learned many secrets and not-so-secrets over the years because people tend to speak a lot in my presence whether they know I'm around or not. Maybe it's because they know I won't speak? Or because somehow they know I don't have someone to tell it to?

How sad is that if it's the latter.

And to make the records straight, I do have friends. And a bestfriend. But we don't tell each other everything. We have silent personal parameters that I am absolutely flabbergasted that most people today don't have. Besides, I have this thing inside my head which prohibits me from sharing things I was deliberately told not to. It's just how my mind works.

In the usual struggles of teenage life, though I sought no attention, I, somehow, grew even more melancholic. I even went through the quintessential "emo stage" when there were a few times that I actually started talking about "What if I'm dead?" Not that I wanted to kill myself. No. But more like, what if I suddenly died--or disappeared--would anyone even bother to look for me? Sad thoughts for someone who was supposed to be a "scary but very dependable" youth leader at church, and a "silent bully" at school.

Yes, people were frightened of my silences. The silence which was brought forth by the multiple instances of being ignored when I was a child became my armor and my sword. For a while it was...fun. Like I had power over people.

But eventually, this sword of silence turned inward and I didn't realize that I was losing my vitality along with my voice.

Whenever I was sad, I turned silent. Whenever I wanted to cry my heart out, I hid behind stoic, stiff upper-lip silence. Whenever I was hurt, I turned even more quiet. When I get angry, I blow... inwardly. Instead of shouting bloody murder like most people, it's as if my mouth refuses to work. I literally am unable to speak. At the back of my mind, I keep thinking--it's either I eat my hurtful words or let them go while I physically hurt the person I'm angry with. Given my penchant for detective and police series, I sometimes even thought if I had--have--serial killer tendencies. (I think it's safe to say now that I don't.)

A couple times I remember my mom asking me what my problem was. I would be moved to tears by her sincerity, but I wouldn't say anything. Because I couldn't speak.

After these "bursts" of emotions, I would feel deflated. Sluggish. Out of focus. Constantly tired and sleepy. Most of the time I would feel like my life didn't make sense anymore so what's the point of struggling to hope? To fight?

It took me a while to realize that I was depressed.

Not just my-heart-was-broken or I-didn't-get-that-discount-or-win-the-lottery depressed but clinically depressed.

I struggled. I didn't want to stay in that dump. I, who always proclaimed and advertised that everything is mind over matter, was struggling to get out of my depressed state. Sadly, I struggled by myself. I couldn't talk to anyone. Once, I tried. But the person I told it to thought I was only "depressed" about something... more like disappointed. But I knew the cloud over me was more than that.

I was crying constantly. Deep in the night, I would cry non-stop because of everything and nothing in particular. Unbidden, long forgotten childhood memories would float into the surface and make me doubt myself. Pity myself, even.

It's a pitiful existence. But I learned to live with it. To be functional, even.

After my father died, there was no other choice. I had to ignore it. It was that or watch our whole family crumble under the pain of losing a love one and living in even worst financial circumstances. Constant, reliable little right-hand (wo)man had to reprise her role. Maybe that's wrong. Little right-hand (wo)man became the Knight in Shining Armor. There was no room for surrender. If I did, if I allowed myself to crumble even for a moment, the whole dominoes would crumble. And I couldn't let that happen.

Better that I suffer and pretend that I was unconquerable--unhuman--than show my weaknesses which would only scare them.

And so it continued. The legacy of silence and ignored pain. All for the sake of happiness and stability.


... that weren't really mine.



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