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The Middle Child?

I wonder if what I’m going through has anything to do with the plight of the middle child? Maybe it’s more of the plight of the child who cares what their parents say.

A little background–my family is horrible. I am horrible, and so are they. We hide behind a mask of “Jesus” and live the life of a perfect Catholic family who loves and cares for everyone. At home? We treat each other like yesterday’s garbage. Nobody believes anyone, and nobody should be trusted.

Unfortunately, I have an unhealthy love for my parents. I care so much about what they think, what they say, what they do, that I don’t care what my actual feelings are. I care what they want me to feel, what they want me to be, what they want me to do.

I want to throw my entire self out the window and become the perfect little daughter, the perfect second daughter, the perfect studious daughter, the straight-A student. I hate my inner thoughts more than I hate my appearance.

Next comes my sisters. I think I hate my sisters. Every time we “get along,” I’m silently cursing them in my head. I can easily ignore the thoughts in my head and send out the words everyone wants to hear from years of practice. With my sisters, it’s the very same.

I am the middle child. My older sister was allowed to make all the mistakes, to spend all of the money, and to ruin all of our lives. She grew to be an extremely two-faced person, showing compassion and love on the outside, and returning to us with an angry face of hatred. I don’t exactly have a horrible relationship with her, but she is so much older than me that I respect her as a person who is above myself. We don’t have a close bond. My younger sister is the main source of my frustrations, sibling-wise, she thinks she is better than me somehow. She doesn’t want to trod the path I have forged because she believes that . . . well, I’m not sure what she believes. I think she might be able to see that I am not happy with where I am, and what I’m doing, but she doesn’t care about my problems, she cares about her own.

I don’t know if anyone has had a roommate before, but my younger sister is the epitome of horrible roommate. Despite out household’s bug problem, she brings any and all types of food into our room and leaves her food-covered garbage in the trash can for weeks. She leaves her nasty things all over the floor, and refuses to pick up anything our animals may have peed or pooped on. Recently, she has been better with this next thing, but she usually comes home at two, three in the morning, turns on the light, and wakes me up with music, movies, and vine videos. Everything she does ruins my ability to stay “perfect,” to be “social” and “caring.” I wake up grumpy, and am unable to keep a smile on my face at school and work. I feel exhausted all the time.

I wonder if I would be able to live alone, but then I realize that I don’t have the confidence to move out. I wonder how it would feel to live on the streets, but then I fear the people who are out there. I wonder how it would be like if I asked some friends to search for a house together, but then I worry that I’ll be a horrible roommate. I know that I can get grumpy when I’m tired, and I wonder why my friends still stick around. How can they deal with someone whose face looks like the back of a baboon, and can never do anything but complain about their family?

My friends are amazing people. I love them to death. If I had to choose between my pitiful existence and my friends’ I would choose theirs every time. I don’t mind their flaws, I know there’s hope for them. But, I can’t seem to focus on hope for my own future. My friends tell me that they’re used to it, they shouldn’t have to be. My friends tell me they care, they shouldn’t have to worry about my. My friends tell me they understand, but they deserve to focus on their own lives rather than listen to mine every time we meet.

Whenever I go home, I regret what I talked about that day. I think back on all the conversations I had each day, and regret everything I said. I realize how much I talked about myself and scold myself for it, but it always happens anyway. I try to remember to think sympathetically, and to ignore my own self when I’m out, but I never remember to. At night, I lay down and regret doing everything I did that day. It’s hard to remember all the things I regret doing, and when I do them again, I regret it even more.

It’s so easy for me to talk about myself. But, it’s so hard for me to focus on and care about others. How do people do it? They can sit there for hours, just listening to what I complain about, and they don’t fault me for it. They can talk to each other for hours, and never run out of things to say. They can talk about each other, not about themselves, for far longer than I ever could. Every time I find myself talking a lot, it’s because I am ranting, or complaining about my own self. Just as I do here.

I hate myself for caring. I hate myself for not caring. I want to be able to forgive my siblings for what they do, I know it’s not within their abilities to realize what they do to me, but I can’t seem to forgive, or to forget. I care too much about them, I care too little about them. I give up on them so easily, but I can’t ever let them go. Is this just how family works? My friend would tell me so.

I can hear it now, “You just have to suck it up,” she would say, “people never change,” she would add, “you just have to deal with them.” Maybe she would go on to tell me about her parents, how she argues and resents. But could anyone ever realize the depth of my feelings?

When things happen, especially with my sister, I hear people tell me, “She’ll come around,” and “you can never give up on family.” But she won’t come around. And when she does, it will be too late. How can I never give up on family when I already have?

No, I take that back. I can’t give up on them. I want to believe that someday they will be different, but I can’t see that ever happening. Whenever it seems like they’re changing for the better, it’s like they take one step forward and two steps deeper into self-satisfaction, into arrogance.

It’s arrogance that allows me to say this. Arrogance that allows me to talk about my family as if they’re the problem and I’m not. I know that I’m a large part of the problem, but I don’t know what to do. Whenever I try to explain to people how I feel, what will set me off, what I can’t control, they just push all the buttons I told them not to. It’s like a horrible version of Guardians of the Galaxy II, when little Groot keeps trying to push the button Rocket told him is the only one he shouldn’t push. I tell them what not to do, and they do it. I tell them I am tired, and they push me. I tell them I can’t handle it, and they ridicule me. I don’t know what to do.

“You can’t fix your own family,” my teacher once told me, “yours is the only family you will never be able to fix.” I understand. I want to fix it, but I can’t. I want to live in a happy, caring place, but I can’t be the only one who wants it for it to happen. I think I’ll have to leave. One day, when I’m more confident. Maybe I should sign up for a school far, far away. Get myself into a new situation, and improvise. Stay far away from the people I care so much about that hurt me to badly. Maybe I’m the whole problem. Maybe they’ll be happier without me. Without the middle child, without the extra mouth, without the goody-two-shoes who they can live without.

I don’t mean to be a downer, I’m trying not to pout, but it’s so hard to work when hatred it about. Wasn’t that a great rhyme? I thought it up myself. I noticed a couple of rhymes while writing, and this came out as a result. I suppose this was off-topic. Not that anyone cares. I wonder: if I killed myself, would the police be able to find this and tell why I did it? I don’t know why myself. It’s so hard to think about death. It’s so hard to care about life. How can I fear dying so much, and hate living just as much?

Sorry, that last part probably made no sense. But nobody’s going to read this anyway, so who cares? Apparently I do. I’m the only one.