An Ode To Eldest Daughters

Disclaimer! Trigger warnings: emotional abuse, traumas of an eldest daughter, words like ‘r!p’ and ‘scr@tches’. These are all the trigger warnings I have found so far, if there are some I have missed, please inform and educate me about them. Enjoy the piece!

If there was someone in this vast universe that I would offer my tattered heart and love to, it would be the eldest daughter of families. 

The job description for the girls who lost the birth sequence roulette is neither short nor sweet. It requires us to force back reluctant tears when feeling the seething rage coming to a boil underneath our thick, seasoned skin. Being emotionally detached from our unfortunate reality, and yet cannot bring themselves to leave. This arduous job requires daughters to become women at 10, and face the fading ghost of their childhood at 19, with little recollection of playing outdoors. Daughters who had to make themselves the bridge between the young and the old. Had to be a second mother for the young, and a bottomless emotional storage bank for the old, who are stuck rigid in their ways, like roots of weeds in the new and luscious spring grass. It is like having a rope tethered on all my limbs, a blindfold on my eyes, and my feet set on a cul-de-sac called life I was thrown on, when I won the lottery ticket of being the first child, and the eldest daughter. How fortunate. 

I wish I could rip a part of my soul just to fill the void in yours. 

I remember my envious eyes set on other daughters who could frolic about, being embraced by the soft, euphoric love of their family. Other daughters that lived the sultry, passionate freedom I longed to have. Those girls were effulgent and shining horrifyingly bright, while I felt dull and dusty. And the tough and rough love of my family flashes my mind, and my skin cracks a little. Envious bubbles fill my stomach as I see those pretty butterflies finding their flowers. Eldest daughters are moments of delusional, wishful dreaming in a sea of unrelenting waves from the storms around them. 

Eldest daughters have many faces, although all of them have either dents, cracks or scratches. Nonetheless, they pick and choose the right ones for each occasion, and a new one gets made through blurring tears and numbing minds. My skin is my beloved mask. My lovely porcelain mask is made of the amalgamation of blows, burns and scratches from the venomous words of my loved ones, and from the toxicity of my own thoughts. Like what Lady Macbeth said, “Look like the flower but be the serpent under’t” except my serpent is a docile, little worm that is dried up and crumbling on the concrete road, and my flowers are plastic and never withering.

Those with the intent of hurting eldest daughters will inevitably be met with failure, because they will not be brought down by their equals when they have already battled with the lions at home, and the badgering of her own voice in her overstuffed brain. 

You cannot outdo the doer.

She will always be 2 steps ahead of you, mysteriously predicting your every move because this is a game she plays every hour, and with each tournament she emerges as the victor with unmatched grace and prowess. 

I am probably boring you, but my words and thoughts go out to the daughters who grew up in households whose mute button malfunctioned. Growing up with fights like an animal trapped in a circus, performing the same little act every night. Those who had to heighten their senses to recognize parents from their footsteps and deduce feelings from the nuances of tones, and using this sacred information to set the mood in the room. Girls who flinch at every slammed door, whose heart stops when they hear the triggering sigh of a fight, those who instinctively remove their earbuds while working to make sure the fight does not escalate to a height higher than it already is. Those who swore on their hopes and wishes that they will be nothing like the ones before them, yet there is a lingering essence of the thought that we are just over polished mirrors of our parents. A nightmare of a thought. 

Yet, all of my thoughts are spent on you. 

These experiences are patterns and cycles repeated myriads of times over generations. The eldest daughter will unfortunately, always follow the footsteps of the eldest daughters before them. Different situations yet similar feelings of melancholia, bottled up anger, and the burning wish of being more than what she is, and the skin she adorns. It is a story once told and will be told once more. She is expected to reach for the skies, then the stars, then the planets, and she finally finds herself being a self-driven rocket, trying to conquer the entire universe without being told to, just for a slither of validation from her anyone who would give it just to assure herself.

Being mistreated, overworked and underappreciated her whole life, yet, unbeknownst to her, she is perceived as seraphic and ethereal to her peers. She is strong and kind and loving under all the heavy armor she wears, just in case. She doesn't know that she is the incandescent diamond in the rough among her equals, a muse to many and many more in her luminous future once she learns to take her porcelain mask off, and sew her soul back with the silky threads of love and tenderness she is bound to have. I hope that my words and whispers reach your ears as you exit your cage and walk in your own footsteps down the meandering cul-de-sac of life, as you face the exciting unknown, feeling refreshed and relieved. Know that nothing is unbreakable, like the chains that restrict you and the gag that mutes you. You will emerge the champion in this game you’ve been playing for so long, and will outwit, outsmart and outdo your equals as you’ve been taught to, with ethereal charm and elegance.

My final words to all the eldest daughters, I hope your hand finds the courage to open up a door to your impenetrable fortress, and let the abundant flow of happiness and confidence fill your altered soul, because if there is anyone in this astronomically vast universe that I wish to pour all the sweet milk of love into, it is you.