When I was 10, I had an assignment to write about the worst day of my life and I wrote about how I wasn’t able to say goodbye to my mom, and my teacher took me aside to ask if I needed to talk to the school counselor about it. In high school I finally found out that my mom killed herself by stepping in front of a train. It was awful but they could’ve told me something before that. After I found out, I was “forced” to see the guidance counselor all four years of high school.
I miss my mom and I’m horrified by what happened, but I’m not her. I do lean kind of goth in my dress and I’m not talkative or bubbly, and my family is constantly “checking in” on me. My aunt texted me after seeing me at a family gathering, saying she wanted to make sure I was okay — this made me so uncomfortable and upset. I talked to almost everyone at the party and ate and had a good time.
I am a responsible adult, I have a job and friends, but my family acts as though I’m always on the verge of losing it. I also feel that I can’t ask about my mom, who she was, or else they will freak out. I want my family to respect me and not worry about how I’m doing, and also be able to tell me about her. How can I make this happen?
Anonymous: I wish your family could recognize who you are on their own.
But they can’t, apparently, so you’ll have to spell it out for them.
I don’t know why they’re stuck on this fragile, needy vision of you, besides habit, but I can guess: They, too, were traumatized by your mom’s death, and shifting their concern to You the Poor Child allows them to put their own grief someplace else, where it can feel productive. Grief is awful and weird and hard to manage in even its simplest forms, so it’s common for us to shift its weight around until we find some way, any way, we feel able to carry it. It would make sense that your relatives feel stronger themselves when they are performing in a strength role for you.
If my guess is accurate, then this reflexive condescension you describe is still misplaced and still unfairly erases you, but also comes from a place of compassion. Therefore, summoning your compassion for them is an appropriate place to start.
Let’s say, as an example, your aunt comes away from a family gathering feeling the pain of missing your mom. If she throws a Band-Aid on that by texting to check in on you, then she’s not just treating you as two-dimensional; she’s also distracting herself from her own emotional work.
So when you alert them to how they’ve missed the point of who you are, do so kindly, with respect for the difficulty of all your experiences.
If it helps: You were always going to be the right person to stand up for what you need, because it’s your life and you’re in charge. But your letter says you are unusually well equipped to speak on your own behalf. Your letter is a lucid, affecting, persuasive draft of the message your family members need to receive if their interest in your well-being is genuine.
Telling your family the truth also sets an example of what you want from them. Again, I wish for your sake that your family hadn’t lapsed into role-playing with you, but to get out of it, you’ll have to break out of your role as young person to whom adults just happen. Choose one relative to start, the one you like most or who is most likely to get it, and share like a fellow adult: “Am I ‘okay’? Yes, I am, especially when people have conversations with me, about their feelings, about mom! (there’s so much about her I don’t know) or about anything else. What doesn’t feel good is always to be the one people worry about.” For a less talky alternative, try, “I’m okay — how are you doing,” which is deceptively powerful.
Condensed version: Don’t change who you are, not one bit (unless you want to) — but do change how you relate to people, by kindly and bravely showing them the strong, real, interesting adult you’ve become. And be patient with them, since even the ones who can adjust to a new understanding of you may need time; as tough as family and loss are for people to navigate, change might be toughest of all.