For years, I’ve tried to be the model daughter of my family. As the only child to Asian parents, there were a lot of stereotypes that I had to contend with growing up. Beyond those, I also had to deal with constant comparisons: my achievements versus those of the family friend. Always, I had to prove myself. And almost always, I never received much acknowledgement for the things I did accomplish (which were done with minimal help).

Back when I was in school, to be the model daughter, I kept my head down and focused on acquiring good grades. After all, good grades meant that I would be able to get into a good university. A good university meant that I’d come out of it with a degree. And a degree, even just a Bachelor’s, meant that opportunities would flock to me in order to kick-start my career. 

Suffice it to say, despite the fact that these were all done with my best interests at heart, there was also a lot of pressure to perform well. My mother, although she would tell her friends that she didn’t hover over me as I did my homework, still exerted influence over how I would conduct myself with my peers and my approach to learning. True, she might not have demanded 100% on every test, but given the fact that I was in a selective high school, was Asian, I still felt that ever growing pressure to perform. 

So, when she called me to tell me my ATAR mark (I was in China at the time and wasn’t able to check it while overseas due to the Great Firewall), I could hear the disappointment dripping from her voice as she told me I’d only managed to scrape by with a 92.55. While that isn’t a terrible score by any means, the fact that I hadn’t hit as high as she would have preferred was still a blow to my self-esteem. She didn’t even have to compare with other students. I already did that and felt myself lacking.

In other words, a failure.

There are times that I wonder what might have happened if my father hadn’t passed away when I was twelve. Would things have been different? He, of course, was of a different temperament to my high-strung mother, who was a bundle of anxious energy even then. Instead, he was much more calm and focused, with a view of the bigger picture.

In so saying, were my father to be alive, I would not have to suffer the indignity of a stepfather that has only ever really done the bare minimum of what is expected and continues to insult and belittle the way that I’ve raised. The man has an opinion on everything and also expects to be considered in a high regard despite not putting in any of the effort. 

‘Call me father,’ he says despite the fact that he was essentially an absentee partner to my mother during my teenage years. Is it any wonder that I would make my grievances known when once again he put his own selfish wants before the safety of the family?

And therein lies the crux of the problem when it comes to the relationship between my family and I. Despite the fact that I’ve legally been deemed an adult for twelve years, never once have I been really been shown that respect. I might be three decades old but I’m often treated as if I’m still a stupid child that could never truly understand the ways of the world. But when, of course, I ask for assistance, I’m sternly told that I’m ‘bloody 30 years old’ and shouldn’t leech off my parents or even think of trying to solicit aid for an issue I don’t understand, seek companionship with my own mother, or even ask a favour.

Whether or not I’m an adult has forever run the gamut of whatever has been convenient to my mother and her partner, and what they want rather than what I need.

These last few years have also put a strain in what should have been strong familial ties. Every time I feel like my relationship with my mother improves, it all comes tumbling down in a heated argument of tears and accusations. I try to mend the rift but sometimes it just feels like my mother is constantly pulling away. My feelings and my attempts at explanation fall at the wayside because the best way to become happy is ‘just be happy.’

The definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over, expecting the outcome to change. In my experience, this certainly holds true the older I get. Yet, I keep on hooping for a bridge of understanding between my mother and I that never eventuates.

I am so sick and I am so tired of this never-ending dance. I’ve always thought that family were the people you could be the most vulnerable with. Love was unconditional, despite one’s flaws. instead, I live in a quagmire of misery, and never quite understood by those nearest and dearest to my heart. Is it any wonder that the thought of finding love with a total stranger seems so impossible?

In my family, I am never seen or heard. What’s the point of existing if I go through life as a ghost?

I suppose, though, that’s the price of the Faustian bargain I made with myself years ago. Of wishing for my mother’s happiness at the expense of my own when she was still raw from the loss of my father and having to raise a difficult teenager.

But maybe there is a fallacy to that argument too.

Everyone knows teenagers are trouble. They’re rebellious, rude, disrespectful. They’re trying to find their own way in the world whilst they’re going through a lot of physical changes.

Just because the teenage daughter you have isn’t as easy to parent as you might have thought doesn’t mean that the fault lies with her. Maybe, too, there’s a lack of communication between both parties on expectations or a mutual understanding of how the relationship dynamic should exist when the second parent is no longer there.

Whatever the reason, my self-esteem, self-confidence and self-worth are non-existent. I even have a text document saved on my computer to serve as a reminder of what a horrible and terrible daughter and human I am. 

For years, I’ve tried to atone for the fact that I haven’t been the perfect daughter that my mother hoped I would be. For years, I’ve tried to atone for being the selfish and spoilt only child brat that I’m perceived to be.

But am I really just the one-dimensional character that my mother, and stepfather, think I am? Have I truly taken advantage of their kindness for my own benefit with nary an expression of gratitude?

This may be a biased view, because I am that most horrible and wretched individual, but I don’t think so. All my life, I’ve strove to be good, honest and kind. Yes, I may be socially awkward and without the courage to confront strangers when I’ve been wronged – but is that a bad thing?

I like to read. I like to play games. My favourite genre is fantasy. Wolves are one of my favourite animals. My favourite colour is either cobalt or royal blue. Despite my claims to being an introvert, at work, I’m a social butterfly that’s curious about my work colleagues and always eager to interact with my fellow humans. Due to mother’s passion for musical theatre, I’ve also developed a healthy appreciation of Broadway shows. 

In short, I’m determined, honest and curious. 

Conversely, I’m also highly neurotic and incredibly anxious – especially when it comes to my appearance and body weight. There’s a lot of fear that sometimes is misconstrued as aggression. I’m also lazy, putting off a lot of adulting when I can. Then, of course, there’s the useless degree that sits on my desk.

At 30, there are so many milestones that I haven’t reached. No significant other. No marriage. No children. No six-figure high-paying job.

Even without my mother pointing out all the things that could be changed, I already know that I’m not enough. In my own eyes, I’m failing at life. Negative self-talk has always been my forte. Though I’ve been praised and uplifted by colleagues and friends alike, there’s still a part that doesn’t believe them.

How can I when I don’t believe myself worthy of any of it?

Were this a videogame, I’d have almost definitely reloaded the previous save file or restarted the game entirely. 

I don’t know if I’ll ever get over my feelings of inadequacy. Perhaps with the help of a therapist it might be possible. But for years, I’ve held onto these feelings and the thought of dumping it all on a single person feels like it might be too much. Maybe I’ll just refer them to this post instead.

Still, I think that it’s time to let all these emotions go and simply move on with my life. Yes, I’m thankful for what my mother has done for me over the years and that she has birthed me, but for my own mental health, as well as my sanity, I need to step away and celebrate all the wonderful aspects that make up who I am.

Next up on that self-improvement plan: moving out.