Even when I was little, the world has never been my oyster. I got the normal part of it, though. My father held my hand whenever we cross the street, and my mother helped me with any of the home making activities I brought home.
There isn’t a lot of debate when you’re a kid, really. Aside from the many things cartoon characters and fairytale stories I know, I mostly relied on what my parents have taught and asked me. I just followed straight (and different) lines every time I take a life-altering step.
That was the start of everything – and more.
At a very young age, I felt responsible for the world. Yes, that’s exactly I want to say. I felt the heavy responsibility of being in the right path because I couldn’t stand to be a burden to anyone — especially my parents.
I taught myself how to read when I was five, cried because I was ashamed to ask 50 pesos for an elementary school project, and I still beat myself up for taking breaks.
In some ways, I have never felt proud of my accomplishments in life.
Not to say that my parents were horrible, no. They weren’t. They did the best version of parenting that they know. But the upbringing I had lead me to feel overly accountable for the things I immerse myself with.
I didn’t know how to be the irresponsible half of relationships, so I designated myself the authority ever since.
After school, I thought I’d finally get the life I want. I thought people 20 years or older are in complete control of their lives. I thought I’d be geared and ready to take on the world at 22. I thought I’d be the reliable adult I never had, but I guess it’s too early to tell.
Right now, I am in charge of the groceries and buying things for the house while my parents lie down and watch their shows. My father still holds my hand to safety, and I go home to my mother’s cooked meals.
By all means, I surrender to the impassiveness of adulthood, but I will never give up that fragile part of my childhood.