Today I read an article about the things teens are scared of their parents finding out. Their fears were things like being bullied via social media, the stress they are under in terms of school and grades, their daily lives and pressures they feel are trying to drown them. This article got me thinking about what things are going on in my own life that I am constantly trying protect my parents from.
You see, I am a twenty-one year old college student. I have moved out of my parents house and I’m (for the most part) financially self-sufficient. I’m a full time student, a junior, at a state university. I work part time. I’m a mentor and an active volunteer in the community. I have some of the greatest friends I could ever ask for. And yet, I hide so many pieces of my life from my parents because I am terrified they’d be disappointed me.
For starters, I am usually one of the most responsible people in the room. I strive for this. I always assumed that with responsibility came a sense of pride. You make good decisions and help others, then nothing can go wrong. But that is a lot of pressure to put on oneself. I know that. I see it in the mirror. When the anxiety attacks pull me under. When I can’t breathe. When I’m curled up in a ball on the bathroom floor crying because everything is all too much. My anxiety isn’t just rooted in my need to be responsible. It’s from wanting to succeed in everything I do so I don’t have to look my parents in the eyes and tell them I failed. That would kill me. They have worked their entire lives to help me get to where I am today. If I were to fail, I would be letting them down in the worst way and I can’t stomach that outcome.
That isn’t the only thing I hide from them. I’ve never opened myself up to explaining just went on in the abusive friendship I used to be in. They helped me deal with the fallout and they were there to reassemble the pieces but I never let them see how much it affected me. Even now, two years later. I can’t think about what I went through at the time it all happened. How to this day I can still hear her voice in my head, telling me her “honest opinion” about my clothes, looks, dreams, hopes. Do you know what it’s like to have the voice in your head being of someone who treated you like dirt, disrespected every aspect of your life, then destroyed you? I do. I deal with it far more often than I’d like.
What else so I keep from them? My parents and I have never really had the kind of relationship where I divulge any of my personal life to them. I’ve never told them about having a crush on a boy. I never told them when the boy I liked “asked me out” back in high school. I always felt too awkward to broach the subject with them. Now, years later, I desperately want to tell them about all the ways I’ve been hurt. I want them to hug me and say I’m worth more than the way I’ve been treated but they have no idea. The don’t know about the names I’ve been called. Or the blatant disrespect I have been shown in vastly different ways. I just wish I could tell them without them making fun of my “drama” or asking how I may have brought it on myself. But I can’t tell them. It’s too late. It’s happened now and I can’t go back and redefine the parameters of our relationship. It is what it is.
Year ago, my dad asked me if I was depressed. I’d been dealing with the whole “friendship” thing and I was hiding. Literally and figuratively. I didn’t want to face my issues so I hid in my room every afternoon and every night. Eventually, my dad became concerned and he asked me “Is there something going on? Are you depressed?” and I said no. I honestly believed, wholeheartedly, in my answer. I wasn’t (and still am not) depressed but there was so much going on that I was unequipped to handle. I looked him in the eyes and said “I’m fine. Nothing’s wrong.” I lied. I knew I lied. I have regretted that lie since the day I told it. All he had to do was look at me. Really look at me, and he would have seen the truth. I’d been crying myself to sleep for weeks. I was emotionally wrecked. I didn’t know how to deal with anything so I had given up. There are lists among lists of signs to watch for if you believe someone you care about it dealing with some kind of issue. One of those signs is self-harm. Had he thought to look for that sign, he would have seen the truth laid bare in the swollen, red cuts along my left wrist. Never deep. Never with the deep intent of more. Just there. Present. Taunting. God, I wish they knew. I wish I could tell them. I want them to know because I care about them and they need to know that none of my actions are their fault. What I choose to do with my life and my body is up to me. I wish I could be honest with them for all of our sakes. But they can’t know. They won’t understand. They stand there and stare at me in disbelief and confusion. My mom will say I’m being stupid. My dad will say I’m being a coward. I will say all the practiced and prepared speeches I have built up over the years for the day they inevitably find out.
It won’t change anything the way I want it to. I want it to make things better. It won’t curb my anxiety or quiet my fears. It will obliterate the relationship I cherish with my family. I love them and everything I do is to make them proud. The things I keep from them are the things in my life I know will only disappoint them and it is for that reason I keep all of this away from them. I hope they never find out because I love them too much to hurt them.
