For as long as I can remember, I’ve been my mother’s golden child. Initially, I revelled in this adoration, wearing it as a badge of honour. Becoming the first graduate in my family cemented this status.
However, this adoration quickly became a financial burden. By the time I finished university, everyone knew I was the one to rescue my family from generational poverty.
I accepted this mantle without complaint. But then it took its toll on me. I became a sacrificial lamb for my family, setting aside my own goals for the well-being of all.
I didn’t mind, but after conquering one problem, another would arise, leaving me with no room to breathe.
For instance, shortly after my graduation, my brother was arrested. This marked the beginning of an eight-year journey of monthly prison visits.
Occasionally, I would transport the rest of my family to visit him. In the midst of this, my older sister died, leaving behind two children. The older one was in secondary school, and the youngest was seven years old.
I seamlessly transitioned into my provider role, while my mother carried the emotional load of raising these beautiful souls. My nephew finished secondary school and headed for university.
I helped wherever I could, balancing my needs with ensuring that my niece had everything she needed for school. Helping my nephew brought me immense joy. I knew that once he finished his studies, he would help ease some of the financial burden.
My therapist encouraged me to take a holiday to Durban. I was enjoying my time there when my nephew called, asking for money to release his final exam results.
Although I didn’t realise it at the time, this was my breaking point. It dawned on me that there was no escape from this lifelong rescue mission.
When I returned to work, a misunderstanding with my editor led me to quit my job. I felt relieved, assuming no one would bother me with requests for help, as I was no longer in a position to provide it.
This relief was short-lived. I felt overwhelmed by guilt for being unable to help when crises arose. This guilt spiralled into mild depression.
During the COVID-19 pandemic, a social worker declared me “a ticking time bomb that could explode at any moment.”
I have come a long way since then. I am better than I was, although far from my usual bubbly self, who loves life and adventure..
I rarely visit my family now. When I do, I go reluctantly, with the mindset that I’ll give what I can. Sometimes this works, but around Christmas, it doesn’t. The guilt becomes unbearable, so I avoid going home.
I am slowly making peace with the situation. I remind myself that I cannot rescue others before I help myself. While I may not always reach out to my family for help, I can reach out to my friends and professionals to maintain strong mental health.
I am a work in progress, taking it one day at a time. The guilt may never completely disappear, but I remind myself that I am human and deserve tenderness and care.
It is this reminder, and the support of my friends, that enables me to take breaks for myself.
Purging myself of guilt is the ultimate detox that I practice daily while I’m away from my beloved family. On the rare occasions that I visit, I emerge a stronger daughter, aunt, and friend to those around me.
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