The miserable daughter when she’s not in that house
I grew up believing I was nothing short of a total raging bitch, because my parents said I was
Last night, I saw a TikTok that was so memorable, it actually revolutionized the way I think of myself.
I know, I know, it’s hard to believe that a 15-second TikTok of b-roll with a trending audio did that. But the thing is, when you have a critical approach to media consumption and reflect on what you’re watching, it’s not that shocking to find meaning in things.
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The video, as embedded above, is a highlight reel of a girl laughing, smiling, and having fun, with the text “the ‘angry daughter’ when she’s not in that house,” overlaid.
Growing up, not only was I perpetually angry, but, to quote my mother, “miserable.” As you can imagine, being called miserable is not the ideal label to receive from your mother, but we carry on. And so, I lived up to that proclamation. Being the grumpy, perma-mad girl that everyone in my home thought me to be. Thinking myself to be this vindictive and harsh person. Believing I was nothing short of a total raging bitch.
But the thing is, that’s actually not who I am. Or at least not who I am when I’m not home.
Growing up, my parents would always say, “No one’s going to want to be around you if you act like this.” Growing up, my parents would tell me, “You won’t have any friends if you keep up this behaviour.” Growing up, my parents would plead, “I hope you don’t treat your friends like this.”
Yet, I’ve always had friends. Genuine, true friends who actually like me. So how could that possibly be true when my parents, the people who know me best, couldn’t believe it?
I loved going to school for plenty of reasons. I genuinely had (and still have) an appreciation for knowledge. I loved socializing with my friends. I loved being out of the house for six hours a day.
I’m not here to put my parents on blast for their hurtful words, because I think being an emotionally sound person is a harder feat than we give credence to. But I will say that I’ve learned, firsthand, how we grow to fit into our labels. I’ve lived thinking I was a retched person because, while I was at odds with my parents, I was told as much.
However, I always had an inkling that I wasn’t inherently an evil, horrible person to be around because I always knew how to make my friends laugh and knew I had formed close-knit, authentic bonds with them.
It wasn’t until some odd years ago that I realized, maybe I’m not the problem. One day in the lunch room at my part-time job in university, I confessed to a co-worker that I was a notoriously unpleasant person. To this, she replied quite confusedly, “What are you talking about? You’re like the happiest person I know.”
Personally, I don’t think I’ll ever be winning a competition for ‘World’s Happiest Person’, and I can definitely see my disgruntled behaviour shine through whenever something irks me—but this was the turning point for me to accept that if other people think I’m happy, then maybe I am.
Perhaps it’s hard to be happy when you can’t define it. I mean, truly, what does it mean to be happy?
For years, I was sure I’d never been happy. I’ll look back at my childhood photos and see a grimacing toddler, a grumpy pre-teen, and a peeved adolescent. Amidst my miserable life, I also experienced depression (which I’ve narrowed down to being rooted in hormonal imbalances and potential hereditary traits, but I’m no Freud, so tbd on that last part). Recently, after overcoming said depression and misery, I’ve come to realize I am quite happy, or at least, I often am.
To me, happiness is peace. It’s sitting outside and observing the trees and the sky in utter silence. It’s listening to music with the windows down as you drive questionably over the speed limit, scream-singing the lyrics. It’s being out with friends and laughing at inside jokes. It’s running on the treadmill and feeling elated to be alive. It’s smiling at your friends when they display their quirky-cute mannerisms. It’s watching your favourite TV show and crying of laughter. It’s reading a book and contemplating the beauty of the words the author combined. It’s afternoon sun streaming through your windows.
It’s not as hard to find as I once thought.
So, how can it be that I am perceived as such a brutal person by my family, but a happy and wholesome person by my friends? Surely those two realities can’t exist at once, right? Are we the people we’re perceived to be? How can I know if I’m a miserable or happy person when I feel like both, and I’ve been perceived as both?
I, in fact, very firmly believe that there are two realities at play here. The first reality is how others perceive me, whether it be for better or for worse. To my peers, my identity exists as I am perceived. The second reality is how I perceive myself, which, while undoubtedly influenced by the perceptions of others, is up to me to determine. And, the thing is, they’re both true.
For perceptions to be affirmed, they are based on actions. And as much as I wish I could sit here and say that I’m just a perfect bundle of joy all the time, unfortunately, my parents’ understandings of my personality are rooted in truth. I am bratty and rude and petty, at times. I can be miserable and unhappy and depressed and moody, at times. Now, I won’t say these actions are without reason. I’m definitely reacting more than acting. I’m not a stoic person and I wear my emotions across my whole body and mind, so yeah, I’m not entirely surprised that I’m perceived to be a bitch when I’m dealing with things that upset me.
One of the comments on the above TikTok was from some form of therapist. She said that oftentimes the most problematic members of dysfunctional families are objectively the least problematic, and the only problem they truly have is with the dysfunction itself.
Overall, I personally don’t think I’m a miserable person, no matter how much my parents assert that I am. I think I can be miserable, and especially so when I’m around them at their worst.
The obvious solution exists in moving out and trying to live my non-miserable life without them and their negative perceptions, which I’m working on, believe me. But maybe I can learn to be a bit more stoic in the meantime. Practice not letting their poor moods absolutely brutalize mine.
I am happy. But I’m sometimes miserable too. And until I learn how to curb the latter, I may never be able to fully hone the former.
I hope that one day my parents will see the happy girl that exists with everyone but them.