A Letter from the Eldest Daughter (Trigger Warning)

The Eldest daughter

To whom it may concern,

I am the eldest daughter.

I'm the one in charge when nobody wants to be in charge. I'm the boss, up until my parents think that I'm too young or they want to pick up where I left off. I'm mature enough at times but not mature enough when it comes to making my own choices. I can do so many things by myself, but I can't do the things that they think I can't do. I'm independent enough to take care of the household, of the sick in the family, but it doesn't earn their respect. It only shows that I can do something for them to take advantage of.

I can't get angry, or I look like my father. I can't shout, or I look like my mother. Why was it ever a sin that I look like my parents in other aspects other than the physical ones? Why am I not enough for anyone, why am I not pretty enough and judged so harshly when I look like both of the people that gave life to me? What's wrong with me that it looks good on you, it looks good on my siblings but never me? 

Control your emotions, sweetie. Control it. You're the eldest. Your siblings look up to you.

I hate to be burdened by this. Please, just let me be a child. Why do they get a different set of parents from the one that I have? Why were they babied, why were they listened to, why were they given the best of the best when every move I make may mean defying them. I deserve those parents too, right? Why should the first pancake in a set always have to be imperfect...? Maybe plan for me? In the future?

But at the same time... I can't hate my siblings. They don't know what happened, though I know they see. They aren't blind, they aren't deaf, but at the same time they're younger than I. I don't want to burden them like I was mature at such a young age that I could be left alone and given the responsibilities that no child should have. No, I don't want to leave until I can take everyone to higher ground with me... even my parents.

The Guilt...

Gosh, the guilt that they put in me. That they still love me, care for me. My parents do still love me (or do they?) and though they made mistakes, at least they aren't doing the same things to my siblings. I'm the practice child, the ones with the responsibilities— everything that I do was a trial and error, everything that I am is a show of what should we have done differently for our next child. And... yes, I'm glad that I was the one that suffered from all of that. Because my siblings would never have to feel it. That they would have a better version of the parents that slapped me, punched me, and berated me.

The Mind?

Oh yes, peculiar, isn't it? That parents won't listen to a word you say up until they need someone to talk to. Now you're the smartest person in the world, now you're a therapist. They vent to you, you give the best words that they have ever heard of. "Oh gosh! You're right! You're so mature. You always know the right words, the right actions." Yes, yes, it's all so flattering. I acknowledge your stress, your depression, but when I get it, it's nothing right? I remember the way you always told me that I have nothing to be stressed about; all those words while I take care of a lot of things, including a dialysis patient, three seniors, and another child. Who am I to say anything right? I can do it, I can do it after all!

I CAN DO IT! AFTER ALL, I AM THE ELDEST DAUGHTER. I AM...

I am... 

I am...

Surviving. And I think that's enough for now. Even while I was writing this down, someone was knocking on my door, telling me if I could cook lunch. I really should do it, it's 12 PM where I'm from and no one could cook it other than me. And I have to clean the whole house too because I don't want my mother (who works from 8 to 6 every weekday and even sometimes at weekend) to be burdened by it. I helped my younger sibling do their homework yesterday so that's done with that— I cooked breakfast for my grandmothers and my siblings.

Haha, I forgot... this is a letter for venting. Why am I listing down the things that I have to do today? Everyday? And I wake up at 5:30 AM to start my day because I have to help my mother in fixing her stuff before she could go to work. It's tiring, exhausting... and I'm on my third year of college. It takes me two hours to go to my university, and two to three hours to get home everyday. I still have two research papers to do— good heavens am I busy.

Coughing, coughing... it's just nothing. I'm riddled with exhaustion and anxiety. I can do everything. I can do everything— I am all that they have now. No one can do the things that I do. Except for my siblings, but I don't want to burden them. At least I have a roof over my head, at least I have a food on my plate—

—I have to cut this short. I have responsibilities to do. It's nearly 12:15 right now... I have to cook lunch. I don't have the time for this letter. Why am I even writing it?

Sincerely,

The Eldest Daughter