From an early age I was told I need to be older. I was childish for playing with dolls, I needed to be a woman and know how to cook. I needed to be an adult so my mother could use me as her therapist. I needed to be mature so I wouldnât cry when my father yelled at me.
I started buying my own things when I was nine. My own things including toiletries (toothbrush, toothpaste, body wash, pads, etc.), clothes, school supplies, personal snacks I wanted, and my phone bill. Soon, Iâll be buying a car and paying for its insurance fully. My grandparents and mom would help me from time to time, but usually anything I had a want for, came out of my own pocket. âWeâre teaching you responsibilityâ was what my father said. Now, Iâm not saying it was wrong, I just wish they started when I got older. Nothing was at its best when I was younger. But then again, I had to be old enough to deal with it.Â
I got my first job when I was twelve years old. Before that, I relied on money I got from my grandparents around the holidays or the meaningless side jobs I would do for my uncle. Whether it was helping him clean his garage or simply taking care of the yard. My first job was babysitting at a church my father had visited. I worked with my sisters in the daycare. We stopped working there once my stepmom moved in. â$30 for one Sunday? Thats barely even $120 a month. Absolutely not.â Is what she said.Â
My second job was during the summer after eighth grade. I worked for my uncle, pulling weeds, and helping landscape at his job. He works at a retirement home, where there are a bunch of houses that were all organized into a neighborhood called âSunflowerâ. It was drainingâI hated the feeling of sitting in the sun all morning then barely making $30-$40 a day. Then again, I didnât have a choice. I needed to pay for my phone serviceâfreshman year was approaching, I needed notebooksâI was growing, I wanted my own clothes that felt like me. So, I worked all summer, made some money, and ran out halfway through freshman year because it wasnât enough.Â
During the summer after freshman year, I worked for my father. I made $10 an hour. I woke up around eight in the morning, left around nine, then came home around five to six in the evening. Some days, my father and I would stay out until eleven or twelve, then come home around one in the morning. Luckily, my father wasnât the worst boss and let me stay home the next day. However, this job came with its consequences. My father assumed this was our bonding timeâ and tried to interview me about my life, my friends, boyfriends. I didnât mind until he would use things against me in arguments or punish me; taking away my laptop because my attitude at work wasnât to his standards. It didnât matter; I made enough money during the summer to last me through sophomore year.Â
This last summer, I didnât work with my father. He could pay me $15 an hour and I still wouldnât have come back. I got yelled at. âYou need to pay for your serviceâ is what my father said, âHow are you going to even afford a car? You wonât.â. He often lacked words of encouragement. Near August, I started my job as a busser at a breakfast place. âIf you can make enough money by October, you wonât be able to afford anything else.â is what he continues to tell me. Heâs right. If I put every dime I save up towards my car, how am I going to afford my basic hygienic needs? How would I afford clothes? I wouldnât even be able to buy a coffee in the morning with my friends.Â
Then again, the question is raised, âWhy should I be worried about these things at sixteen.â. No, not even sixteen, since I was nine, I have had to think about being able to afford fucking toothpaste. My mom used to rant to me about how she had to buy everything when she was a kid. Since her parents divorced she had to buy all her necessities. But she always says that she never wanted me to grow up like that. Now that Iâm living with her, my mother is making good on her words. Buying me the basics: pads, shampoo, conditioner, body wash. However, that doesnât change the last 6 years of my life.Â
I was forced to grow up at an early age based entirely on the word, âResponsibilityâ. My father wanted me to embody it and my mother didnât care for it.
âTo teach a bird to fly, you must throw it out of the nestâ. It appears to work for children as well.Â
Tonight, my mother laughed when I said I liked being treated like a child. Not being talked to like a baby but having people change their expectations of me. I like when people expect me to do my best and that's it. I donât want to be treated like I can handle adult problems because I canât. No mom, I donât know why my sister won't talk to you. I donât know everything, for fucks sake, I am not your therapist. No dad, I canât pay my phone bill over the summer because Iâm still figuring out what I want to do and who I want to be. My focus is not on every step I have to take so I can reach your expectations. Iâm fucking sixteen, I am not an adult, nor should I have the responsibility of one.Â
Do you think my writing complains like a whiny child? Because I do. I reread everything I write and all I can see is some immature adolescent taking everything she has for granted. There are people out there who have nothing. Some donât even have parents to complain about. I should just fucking grow up and be grateful for what I have, shouldnât I?
