are you normal or are you the eldest daughter?
reflections on how being the eldest daughter has affected my romantic life and how i knew it was time to leave an unhealthy relationship
Troubled words of a troubled mind
I try to understand what is eating you
– “Black Star”, Radiohead
As the oldest of my siblings, it’s always been the default for me to be referred to as the role model child in my family, and the standard to which behaviors are generally held to while we were growing up (and still to this day). As a rule of thumb, whenever I do or take part in something, it inadvertently sends the green light for my siblings to follow suit. Because I’ve always been the first of my siblings to experience certain things, there was always a ripple effect that occurred as a result of me emerging from scenarios alive and/or enjoying them—conveying a message to my siblings that not only is it possible to do, it’s also fun, and they should probably try it for themselves.
But, as things always seem to, it doesn’t just apply to the good: sometimes, I’ll mess up and make a bad decision, and despite it being enjoyable during, my behavior is interpreted as approval for them to do something of a similar nature. Especially if I was able to get away with it or with seemingly minimal consequences. For the most part, the habits I’ve developed as a result of being the eldest are a plus: I’m nurturing, assertive, organized, goal-oriented, and good at troubleshooting and making the best of a bad situation. These tendencies are ingrained to my very being, so is it really any surprise that they carried over into my romantic relationships?
“I think you need to feel needed. It might be why you’re drawn toward troubled or wounded guys, because if a guy seemed like he had everything together, you might not feel like there’s room for you in his life.”
This is something my mom said to me during a heart to heart conversation, something we do quite often. When she said that, I just started laughing. Not because I was offended, but because it made absolute perfect sense. It made me rethink every “romance” I’d been caught up in before, and the realization was both liberating and sobering—when I see brokenness, I instinctively reach out to mend it. And now, I find myself constantly questioning the reasons I feel drawn to a person: is it because I feel a genuine connection, or does some part of me sense a problem that needs solving? Even worse, do I contain some inherent urge to fix people in order to feel valuable?
When it came to my last relationship, there were a lot of blocks in the road that prevented him from being an ideal partner, and I was aware of those things. I just figured that I could help carry more than my half of the weight for now, to make being in a relationship easier. I only did it because I believed in his potential and that the love we shared was strong enough.
I sometimes have this tendency to actively make things happen for myself, because I don’t know if those things will ever happen for me if I’m not the one to do it. My parents always tell me that my favorite phrase as a toddler was “I do it!”—I wouldn’t let them help me do simple tasks like put my shoes on, fasten seatbelts, or turn the pages of a book while being read to. It’s something that is so deep-seated within my character that it has followed me all the way into adulthood. It’s a funny little anecdote to tell people, and a great mindset in terms of ambition and self-reliance, but not so great when placed in the context of a romantic relationship. Or relationships of any kind, really. I knew that our situation wasn’t ideal to even begin with, us being long distance and all, and him having personal qualms with traveling that I didn’t prod in fear of starting a fire. So, one of the biggest areas I assisted in making our relationship accessible was by being the one to travel. I was under the impression that I’d just be taking one for the team for now, that he’d follow through on his end at some point in the near future, but as you can probably tell, he didn’t.
While I was in the relationship, especially at its height, I didn’t see much wrong with it. I knew I was taking more initiative, but I thought it was just for now. I didn’t realize just how much effort I was giving in actuality, and how uneven the balance was, and always had been. I suppose I also just romanticized it way too much, and figured the dynamic just made sense: a confrontational, headstrong girl who doesn’t like being told what to do meets an indecisive, unassertive boy who lacks a sense of direction. I had an innate need to be in control, and I assume he preferred to lay back and let me take the wheel. But that only ever works out in the movies—couples with that dynamic in films who end up together by the end are prone to breaking up after the credits roll.
I knew that along with love came its hardships. For that reason, I never once expected it to be handed to me on a silver platter. I knew it was going to be difficult in some way. I thought that problems were just a part of it, and I was used to being challenged anyway. That’s the thing: I’m not afraid of challenges. I actually find joy in taking them apart and finding possible solutions. On the other hand, he lived his life in constant fear of them, so much that when any arose, he avoided them almost completely, and for as long as he could get away with doing so. The difference between myself and him was that I was willing to power through, and he surrendered the minute things got tough. But despite all of this, I still believe wholeheartedly that I met him for a reason, it just wasn’t the reason I expected. I suppose I am a weird sort of thankful for having gone through it all, because I don’t think I would have learned my lesson any other way. Isn’t it strange how that happens—never wanting to go back to something while simultaneously acknowledging that it was an experience you needed to go through?
But a part of me also wishes I had never done any of it, because I would never want any of my little siblings to go through anything remotely similar. It’s one thing to make poor choices for myself, but an entirely different level of anguish to think that my mistakes could lead my siblings down a similar path of hurt. I know that they’re all their very own people with individual experiences and paths in life now, and that any negative experiences they have are not a direct result of an example that I’ve set, because they aren’t robots that copy my every move, and never have been. But I don’t think I have too much to worry about—they’re all incredibly smart, and each one of them is already a better person than I was at their age.
I want to clarify that writing about negative experiences, whether through essay or song, are my attempts at understanding complex situations. My aim is never to throw anyone under the bus or send hate their way. Writing is how I unpack and process my experiences, and in situations like these, I can only speak on what has happened to me directly—so that’s what I’m doing, and will continue to do.
I know that mental health challenges can complicate relationships and make them hard to navigate. That being said, I experienced this firsthand, as my ex often experienced intrusive thoughts as the result of a mental illness. I was aware of this from the start, but not so aware of the extent of it—or rather, its severely untreated status, and how he refused to get treated for it. I understand that a mental health issue like the one he had must be torture to experience firsthand. I understand that he can’t control whether or not he thought certain things because of it. I gave him a lot of leeway because of how much of a crutch I understood it to be. But what I couldn’t understand toward the end of everything was that he didn’t seem to think he needed to seek actual help for any of it.
The whole reason I was so understanding was because I knew he’d already been waging wars inside his own head—I didn’t want to make things more difficult for him than they already were. However, there were a few times where he’d spiral out about our relationship and say some things that I’m not sure he really meant. To this day, I’m still in the dark on whether or not he was speaking from the heart, or if it was an unwanted thought that he wasn’t completely sure was true yet allowed himself to say out loud.
But I couldn’t just take the emotional hits forever, and a lot of the things he said were a knife to my chest, regardless of whether or not he truly meant them or just the byproduct of a spiral. Whether or not he was being truthful, the fact of the matter is that he still said them out loud to my face. I felt the effects of his words as truth, regardless of their origin, and I felt myself become smaller each time I decided to be the strong one; shrinking until there was so little of myself left that I couldn’t be brave anymore. Each time he verbalized one of those intrusive thoughts, I would reply with “you don’t really mean that”—which I’m realizing now was not only something I would say to help snap him out of a spiral, but also to reassure myself of what I’d hoped was true.
And if I would've known how sharp the pieces were you'd crumbled into
I might've let them lay
Are you really gonna talk about timing in times like these
Let all your damage damage me
Carry your baggage up my street
And make me your future history
– “Renegade”, Big Red Machine (with Taylor Swift)
Nearly two years into being involved, I realized that his issues were bleeding into my life and creating ones of my own. He’d allowed the illness to fester and build, and let me deal with the effects of his breakdowns until I finally decided to step away. The second I understood how damaging it had become, I ended the relationship. I was torn between leaving to save myself and wanting to stay and help him, but I couldn’t keep giving to someone who not only didn’t give back, but also wasn’t working toward a state where they could be able to one day. I realize now that just because you can understand why someone treats you the way they do doesn’t mean that you have an obligation to stay and tolerate it.
Before I understood what was going on, I had simply been living in bliss. I was never lying in any love songs or essays I wrote, or posts I made; I just didn’t know. I thought it was romantic that I believed so much in the love I thought we shared and in him that I was willing to stick it out and see it through. But I had to realize that, the entire time, I was deteriorating, too. If I continued to put all my effort into caring about his wellbeing for him, I wouldn’t have any energy left over to tend to my own. And Lord knows he wouldn’t have the capacity to pick up any of my slack because he didn’t even have a handle on his.
I wanted to see his growth into fruition and to be one of the reasons why he got better. The idea of being his catalyst for change was intoxicating. I would imagine a day in the future when he’d look back on his journey and credit me as the turning point, the one who believed in him when no one else did. And it wasn’t entirely selfish: I did genuinely want him to heal from his past, that want just happened to exist in tandem with my desire to be the reason for that healing. Even more so, I wanted to be someone worth getting better for.
This might’ve been the crux of it all. In his transformation, I sought my own validation. If I could be the reason he turned his life around, wouldn’t that prove my worth? If he chose to combat his fears for me, wouldn’t that mean I was special? But this mindset was a double-edged sword: every step forward in his progress filled me with purpose, but every backslide felt like a personal failure.
Looking back, it might’ve always been destined to fail. Being almost a year out from it now, the realization is clearer than ever. For him, the weight of my expectations must have been suffocating—how could anyone thrive under the constant scrutiny of someone waiting for them to get better? And how could I live comfortably when I had the self-imposed responsibility of being his savior to maintain?
Baby, you’re a vampire
You want blood and I promised
I’m a bad liar
With a savior complex
– “Savior Complex”, Phoebe Bridgers
I’m not saying we can’t help others out. We should do what we can to help, especially someone you love—it’s more than okay to pick up any slack that might trail behind when they’re having a hard time and unable to carry the weight on their own. That’s what love is. But what it’s not, is putting it all on someone else until they break. While love is not and should not be transactional, it’s important to recognize that it takes tenderness and care from both sides for it to exist in its purest form. Someone who loves you wouldn’t utilize your presence in their life as a container in which they store their own personal damage.
Love is not drowning yourself to keep someone else afloat. With each shortcoming I let slide; each intrusive thought he said aloud that felt like a punch to the gut—I was being hollowed out, piece by piece. The past year has been primarily spent rebuilding my sense of self outside of that situation and putting my energy into people and spaces that return it back to me without having to ask. I think it’s going well so far, because I’m feeling good these days. I’m starting to feel like myself. Love once again feels like something I am capable of falling into.
Love should feel like coming home, not like you’re constantly fighting to keep the roof from caving in. Sure, there’s work to it, but you shouldn’t be pulling teeth. There should be a sense of contentment and willingness to it on both ends, and the love should be so obviously abundant that any work put into keeping it alive doesn’t feel laborious at all. It should be easy. And I believe that it can and will be.
Reading this felt like the literary equivalent of looking in a mirror. I wish you all the best ❤️
such a beautiful voice and soul, this hits my heart to the bottom so bad, thank you for speaking with the truth 💓