To be a victim is to be on display. To fit into a category of misfortune, you have to first expect the possibility that you belong there. It’s impossible to fit under a label when you feel so disconnected from it, but it’s even harder when the darkness that frames the title glows glaringly obvious. I don’t believe I am invisible or shattered by any means. I come from a deeply sentimental and loving home, but when I share certain stories or experiences, the label of glass child is quickly slapped over my head and I’m forced to reconsider the house I come home to. I am aware of the problems that my household faces, but I can’t complain about those without also establishing that my parents are amazing and supportive in all regards. I am not an invisible child, but rather a case of least prioritized. When my supposed glass shatters, it only stings for a moment.
People assume that the shards of glass cut deep, but the few cuts I’ve gained over the years are just flesh wounds. I am not scarred or cut deep; I only need a bandaid to heal. Sometimes I’ll dress nice and tie my laces extra tight for the shopping spree ahead, but bodies wake up worn and tired. Life goes on. Some mornings revolve around loud breakfasts and medication. Life goes on. I’m disappointed but life goes on. I’ll just cover the new cut with a bandaid, and that’s all it is: just a flesh wound. I remove the bandaid, and the cut is gone. I play nice, and the bandaid falls loose. Peers are quick to write the label of glass child over my head and I consider leaving it, maybe even coexisting beside it. I could decorate it with those bandaids I hold so dear to my chest. I won’t, though. I have loving and caring parents. I would never hurt them with the words planted above my head. Instead, I’ll rip it to shreds and scribble over the written phrase that fails to carry the complexity that is having a disabled sibling.
It can be really hard to consider yourself a victim when you’re just the product of a bad situation. I have been a victim because of another person’s actions, and that experience carried much more malice. I am a victim of sexual assault and that experience continues to leave light scratches behind on my skin. It can feel like an infection buried under my skin, but I had my naivety and youth to shield any deeper scars. Labeling myself as a sexual assault victim has become easier as the years go on because it accurately depicts the harm done to me, but I reject the title of glasschild because it oversimplifies my family experience.
Being a glass child implies two things: I am transparent and I am fragile. I am a deeply emotional person, so perhaps the second point has merit. The first point is far too theatrical. I do feel heard and supported by my family. There may be times when I feel like I’m made of glass and unimportant, but giving myself the permanent label of a glass child feels unjust to my truly loving and supportive system at home. I am lucky to have a mother who sends me off to bed with a hug, and a father who listens to my disorganized dialogue after a long day. I find that I feel more invisible by the term that puts me in a box than I do by the complexity that follows me home.
