Reflections on My Dysfunctional Family

By Mariss Ijaz

I never really knew how to describe my family life to outsiders. My culture has always been known for massive family gatherings, invitations to vibrant Pakistani weddings and sleepovers with all of your siblings and cousins. I have a big family too, though I feel as though I was assigned to be an appendage at birth, a spare part to my brother – the saddest thing is I know I’m only young south asian woman who feels that way. I suppose you could call that jealousy. I saw people having fun and I wanted to have fun, as all kids do. I never really had any of that, but I had a roof over my head, which was more than some people. I had to be grateful. I’d like to think I always was.

I never felt noticed or appreciated when my older brother was around. I was a glass child. It feels so validating to acknowledge that, to tell myself something that had always been true, but I’d been pushed away from believing by everyone around me who swore blind I was just being needy. To put it simply, the glass child is the sibling of the prioritised child, a background character, deprived of attention.

I always felt as though my brother had powers to turn me invisible, as if his presence automatically equalled my absence. We used to be best friends, back when I was only a little girl. It didn’t last long at all, but I’ll always cherish the feeling of being naive enough to believe I had a big brother by my side who would protect me forever. We drifted over the years. I was about to type out ‘maybe it was my fault’, but I backtracked; it took years and years but I’m done blaming myself for having trauma and an angry heart.

His well-being began to decline rapidly during my teenage years, and slowly but surely, he started taking up every ounce of time my family had to give. I was just a kid; I didn’t know how to feel. I struggled with my mental health a fair bit in my teens. I was always jumping from one extreme to another. I was either euphoric and full of energy or in absolute turmoil and too distressed to even brush my hair some days. It went unnoticed, even by me. I was so used to my brother being prioritised and being told that I’m perfectly fine that even I started to believe it.

Words have more power than you would think, that’s one thing I know now for sure. I’ve been asked how I could have so much anger in my heart for my own flesh and blood, and whenever people ask me that question, I envy them. I would give anything to have the privilege of wondering the same thing, to come from a healthy functional family and not be able to picture things any different. 

Your family dynamic really does sculpt the way you view so many areas of life. The only thing the men in my family have taught me is what I don’t want in a husband or in a father for my future children. They were full of rage. No words are strong enough to explain the level of desperation and helplessness that possessed my body when I heard their voices raise. I once heard the saying ‘if you were raised with an angry man in your house, there will always be an angry man in your house’ and I think the echo of those words will follow me wherever I go. 

My mind is a cemetery hosting the ghosts that are my memories. Sometimes for a moment, just a moment, I see parts of them in myself and it breaks my heart. I catch myself morphing into someone I’m not in a moment of rage; I spent so long beating myself up over it until I realised it was valid. I felt misunderstood by the people who were supposed to know me better than anyone. Of course I was angry. As ‘glass children’, the anger we feel for the trauma we experienced is proof that deep down, we know we deserved so much better. 

I still think about the old house sometimes, especially when it’s raining and I’m upstairs on a packed bus listening to ‘Back To The Old House’ by The Smiths from my knotted up earphones. I hated it so much but I’d be lying if I said there isn’t a small part of me that misses it sometimes, even if I wish there wasn’t. I suppose I can feel the missing parts of me that I’ve left behind in that house.

My room back there was so pretty. All four walls were a shocking pink topped up with  glittery paint, and a fluffy rug on the floorboards. My bed had the cutest emoji-covered blanket on it accompanied by an Olaf cushion (he was my favourite character from Frozen). I had diaries scattered all over the covers with words that still demand to be read. My yearning to be noticed went deeper than those around me could have ever comprehended. I’m in my early twenties now, but each time I think about the old house I’m fourteen again.