[[ MIDDLE CHILD SYNDOME ]]

          I am fascinated by how words can tell so much without revealing too much. Like how a letter can tell a lifetime worth of pain. Like how a diary can tell a story so much more than a day's worth. you'll know what I mean after reading below.

Monday, February 14,
2011

7:02 AM

            Dear diary,

            Another day started and ended like a
typical day for me. I went to school today, went straight home, and locked
myself inside my room. The house is full of joy today, everyone seemed to have
fun from a family trip. They went shopping and everyone bought something. I can
even hear them saying they'll bought this and that soon. But here I am cocooned
in my own world. Safe. From them.

           

            I thought I got used to this kind of
life, always being ignored. You know very well that I am a middle child. A
typical middle child syndrome sufferer. As a toddler, I was under the care of
my grandmother. I had to be given to her because my parents cannot take care of
me because they had another child to take care of. Perhaps that is the reason
why I never really had a memory of my mother cuddling me and saying sweet
things to me. Unlike my older siblings, they had a chance to have a mother. I
even remember those days when I lived with my grandma in a house separate from
my family. It was a small shabby house. I used to sleep beside grandma. No
wonder she is the only one here who shows that much concern to me and takes
care of me to the point where I get mad for invasion of my privacy. But I am
thankful. I didn't have a mother but a substitute one.

           

            But then again, looking back to all
these wasted years, two decades of existence without really knowing my parents
in a trusting and intimate relationship, there is much regret. I live with them
now but I still find it difficult to look at them in the eye. They hurt me too
much. They hurt me so more than too much. They me never admit this but I know
that I am never their favorite.

           

            Mom, Dad, remember when I was in
elementary, how you would scold me for not being the first honor in class?
Every grading I fear you, because my worth was measured by my grades. Remember
how you would compare me to my classmates, how good they are? No wonder I never
learned to play with other kids because I was the one who stays in her room
studying books too advanced for her age to compensate.  My other siblings enjoyed childhood without
the pressure you put on me. You never measured their worth based on their
grades. You singled me out. When my brother became an honor student for the
first time, I remember how you spoiled him. You gave him three-thousand pesos
worth of leather shoes. He was on the bottom list of the honor roll while I was
on top yet I was ignored. I tried hard. I tried so hard. My academic and
extra-curricular achievements went beyond the usual. Still, I was ignored.
Grade six. My graduation. I remember crying during our practice because you
told me we are not celebrating my graduation because I was merely second honor.
Never mind that I had other awards. Never mind that I was top one in all the
entrance tests I took.

           

            I knew. You may love me but not as
much as you love your other children. I have forgotten all these painful
memories but the events these past few weeks woke the dead from their sleep.
You told me not to go to my dream school because it is too expensive yet you
are buying expensive things for my siblings. That would be fine if you bought
me one too. But no. This laptop I use now, I have to shoulder more than half of
its cost because you won't buy me one. My first cam cellphone, I bought it with
the money I got from winning an essay writing contest. My closet is filled with
clothes too old that you can use them as rags. But I pretend I love wearing
them because they are "vintage" when in fact I just have no choice
but wear them because I have nothing else. Why is it that when it comes too me,
you cannot give me more that what I deserve? At the end of the day, I am always
measured according to my achievements and not how much you love me. There is
always a condition for you to love me.

           

            You hurt me too much. You hurt me so
much more than too much.

           

            Days go by and we drift farther and
farther apart. My dream of being treated like your baby seems impossible now. I
am grown woman, free yet trapped in these memories. These years of never
really learning to talk with you made me totally unable to. So I keep all these
bottled up. If you open my heart you'll see how scarred it is. My façade is one
that speaks of confidence and strength while my foundations are so messed up.
Because you hurt me. You hurt me so much more than too much.

           

            After I put the last punctuation on
this journal entry, I'll be hugging myself to sleep tonight, nursing all my
wounds within.

           

            Love,

           

            Middle Child