I hate my parents for making me the “good daughter” and I feel gross admitting it I’m 29F and on paper I’m the success story. Good grades, scholarships, a “nice job,” I don’t get arrested, I don’t post messy stuff online, I call back, I remember birthdays, I show up. My parents love telling people how “easy” I was compared to other kids, like I came out of the womb already apologizing and folding laundry. The thing is I wasn’t easy, I was scared. I learned really young that being quiet, helpful, agreeable was the only way to keep the temperature in the house from spiking. If my dad was stressed, I’d become invisible. If my mom was upset, I’d become her tiny therapist. I was the one who smoothed fights over, rewrote texts so they didn’t sound “disrespectful,” reminded everyone to keep the peace.
I was the kid who got praised for being mature, when what that really meant was I stopped being a kid. I don’t even remember what I liked because my whole personality was “don’t be a problem.” And now as an adult I’m stuck with this sick reflex where my chest tightens if I think someone might be disappointed in me. I jump when my phone rings. I over explain everything.
I say sorry when someone bumps into me. I can’t rest without feeling guilty, it’s like my brain thinks relaxing is dangerous. What makes me feel like a monster is that I hate them for it. I hate the way they brag about me, like they built me, like I’m a trophy they earned.
I hate hearing “we raised you right” because no, you trained me. You trained me to be low maintenance so you could forget I had needs. And the rage is so embarrasing because they also did “good parent” things. They fed me, paid for school stuff when they could, showed up to events, hugged me sometimes, said they were proud.
So when I feel this anger it comes with this immediate second punch of shame, like I’m ungrateful, like I’m making it up. But I’m so tired of being the one who absorbs everything and then smiles. I visit and my mom starts venting and I can feel my body go numb, like I’m back in that same role. I leave and I sit in my car shaking for no reason.
I’ll see a little girl being loud in a store and my first thought is “she’s gonna get in trouble,” and then I realize normal kids are allowed to be loud. I don’t know how to stop grieving a childhood I technically had but never got to live. I’m not cutting them off, I’m not making a speech, I’m just admitting somewhere that the “good daughter” thing didn’t make me better. It made me hollow, and I’m pissed about it.
