About growing up as a ‘shadow child’ and its psychological consequences

Children like me are called “shadow children” in psychology. They grow up in the shadow of a chronically ill or disabled brother or sister and therefore have to cut back on attention. I’ve never seen myself like that, at least not consciously. Except maybe when I started lisping at age seven so I could see a therapist. The speech therapist noticed the fake pretty quickly. That was it for me with therapy.

My brother, on the other hand, who is two years younger than me, must have seen so many therapists in his youth that he can hardly count them on two hands. He got stuck in the birth canal when he was born, my mom was in labor for three days. It remains inexplicable why no cesarean section was performed at the time. When he finally got here he had severe motor disabilities, my mom always tells me he moved like a robot.

Due to the many therapies, however, the motor disorders were hardly noticed relatively quickly. Today we can laugh at the doctors’ predictions when he was born that he would never go to a normal kindergarten, let alone live independently. However, quite early on he was diagnosed with quite severe ADHD, linked to giftedness – my brother has a measured IQ of 132. Sounds cool, but it’s a pretty devastating combination when one part of your brain is brilliant and the other part is sluggish in every way. He failed high school because he failed an exam in the required time and it was nearly impossible to decipher his handwriting. A few years later, on the other hand, he passed his baccalaureate as the best in the canton without even studying for a minute.

Was I a shadow child? On the contrary. I was a light. I was his protector. When they mocked the funny little boy, whom they couldn’t really classify – intellectually ahead, emotionally always a few years behind – I rubbed nettles on the faces of the older boys next door with my bare hands, beside myself with rage.

I couldn’t complain about the lack of attention. I was a sweet child. Good at school, good at sports, good at music. A kid to show off, unlike my brother, who was super smart, but just not really suited for everyday use. And I knew that I had to fulfill exactly this task. Work, don’t cause trouble. Because the nuisance factor was already in our family. It wouldn’t take a second.

“How did it get this far? How did I get this far?” It seems obvious to me today that the answer to these questions lies in my childhood. Me, the light that I was. who i was supposed to be who i wanted to be Even when I was no longer a child. Because it was the only part I learned that made me feel good. I expected from myself exactly what I knew from my childhood: to be presentable in every way. As a woman, at work, as a partner, as a mother. With each misstep, I liked myself a little less. Until I just hated myself.

And in every attempt to function for everyone, I kept losing myself. Until there was nothing left of me. I was good looking, successful at work, a good partner, an even better mother. I was happy. Until I realized I was nobody. That I had to answer the question of what remains without a job and family with one disturbing word: nothing. I tried to fill the void with all kinds of wrong things, from all-night partying to extreme dieting (my body was the only thing I had control at the time) to self-destructive behavior. The incredible thing about it: no one noticed anything. I was the functioning figure of light that I always was.

I don’t remember what made the difference, but at some point it suddenly became clear to me: The only way to become myself was to confront myself. And that’s where I had to start in my youth. It’s been a long, hard road. It was worth it. I still occasionally fall back into old patterns – the anger at myself when I make a mistake is sometimes huge – but I’ve found a self that I quite like. Even if it means that I no longer shine as brightly as I used to for others. I can live with it. And my environment too.

It is very important for me to say that these lines are not a reproach, neither to my parents nor to my brother. I had a happy childhood and it wasn’t like I had to live up to my parent’s expectations, but my own. What our soul makes of childhood experiences is incredibly difficult to classify, someone else would have taken a completely different path with the same conditions.

Incidentally, my brother has followed an apprenticeship including an intermediate vocational education diploma, lives alone and has a good job, which is partly financed by the IV. A helper from the Kesb helps him cope with everyday life. Every few years he goes on a big trip, totally independent. (It is of course an advantage if you can master each language within a few weeks so that you can make ends meet.) I am extremely proud of him.

This is my very personal story. You are welcome to comment on them if you wish. Or tell something about yourself. I am happy with both.

source: watson