Golden Child

• Lori Palminteri
• Uncategorized
• May 29, 2016

I was and remain the golden child of my family.  Despite my best efforts to give my older sister and younger brother a chance at favoritism, they still can’t seem to usurp me, despite the fact that I, once a straight A student, with a promising career in almost anything, decided to throw it all away, and live the uncertain life of a starving artist.  The almost professional struggling comedian of the family shouldn’t be the Golden Child, and yet, I keep the title, even after lowering the bar.

Growing up, during the summers, we’d get our annual visit from my Uncle Kenny and cousin Ed, which we always looked forward to, because they’re both hilarious.  One time, I was talking with my Mom and her brother Kenny, and we were likely discussing some shenanigans my brother and cousin Ed were getting into, as they did.  Somehow, the subject shifted to me, and my Mom said, “not my Lori.  Lori, the Golden Child.”  To this, my Uncle responded, “how awful.  To have the pressure of always being the sensible one.”  He said it half in jest, half in truth, which is really the only way I’ve ever known how to communicate (see: all previous blogs).  But he was right.  I had, for as long as I could remember, terrible anxiety about disappointing people, especially my family.

Now, it may be hard to imagine if you didn’t know me back then, but I was an extremely happy child.  I was usually joking, and dancing, goofing off, and throughout all family photo albums and home videos, I’m grinning ear to ear, like the happiest kid on the goddamn planet.  I recall these memories quite fondly.  I might have actually been the happiest kid on the planet.  And what reason did I have not to be?  I was a kid, who grew up in the 90’s, with fun parents, siblings, and a large family with lots of cousins who were also happy.  I was still sarcastic, and fascinated by the darker entities of life, but like a text book manic depressive, I wouldn’t start slipping into depressions until my late teens, which is why I’m acutely aware my best years are long behind me.

Still, I was a peculiar child.  My folks don’t see it that way, because I was well behaved, but sometimes being well behaved is weird.  Ever since I was seven years old, my parents, aunts, uncles, teachers, would say talking to me was like talking to a 40 year old.  I was “an old soul,” or “wise beyond my years.”  I didn’t really know what that meant, but I took it as a compliment.  I’d often sit with adults at dinner, and listen to their stories.  I’d often try not to go to recess and stay in the class room with my teachers because I didn’t want to play with the kids (or I just didn’t have friends and really sucked at making friends).  If one of my two friends weren’t in my class in elementary school, I basically didn’t talk to anyone.  Even at lunch tables, I would just sit their quietly, re-reading the note my Mom would leave in my lunchbox, as if I’d forget for a moment that my Mom loved me, longing to go home to her after school.

I lived to please my Mother and make her life easier.  She was a God in my eyes, and I wanted her love, and wanted to serve her.  I don’t remember this, but my Mom said she once took all of us to the fair at our church.  We had a fun time, going on rides, and eating funnel cake, and then as we were leaving, my brother and sister started to fight, probably about something really trivial, as they often did.  I butted in, “Guys!  Mom and Dad just took us out for a really nice time, and you’re going to ruin it!”  And my brother and sister stopped fighting, and my parents just looked at each other, proud that their maybe eight year old daughter was so goddamn mature.  It was rare I ever disobeyed my Mom.  I accompanied my Mom on errands, just happy to be with her.  By the time I was in middle school, I packed lunches for myself, and my siblings, for my Mom.  I liked hanging out with my Mom’s friends as much as I liked hanging out with my friends.  And from a very young age, I knew all the family problems and drama, and often gave fair insight on how anger is usually a form of miscommunication.  Looking back, even I think that’s fucking weird.  Like Yoda, I was a family mediator, long before I should have even known the word “mediator.”  And in the summer, my blond hair would turn green from the chlorinated pools, so Yoda role suited me.

My brother and sister got accustomed to calling me a snitch.  Sometimes, I was.  But sometimes, my so called “snitching” might’ve saved their very lives.  One time, I think Mitch was maybe 4, making me 6, and Lisa 8 (we’re all almost two years apart exactly, no accidents in this family).  My sister decided it was a good idea to climb onto our above ground pool, in February, because the water on top was frozen, like an ice skating rink.

“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” I protested, and I would later be referred to as the annoying, but level-headed fish from “The Cat in the Hat.”

Despite being older, my sister has always lacked something I’ve been very good at… foresight.  As my siblings climbed the pool to go on what was almost certainly not completely frozen ice, a knot formed in my stomach, and I ran to my Mom.  Sure enough, my Mom ran out screaming.  She pulled them off the pool cover and scolded my sister, and naturally, my sister was pissed at me because I got her in trouble.  It was not my aim to get her in trouble, or to be praised for being right (although I got off on it), I was genuinely worried they would have fallen through the ice and died.

I developed a likely unhealthy thirst for approval, especially from maternal like figures, forming close bonds with our tenant Cathy, my Aunt Rosanne, Aunt Nancy, and pretty much all my female teachers.  I was falling into the classic trap of happiness being derivative of others, and I can’t help but wonder if that’s a huge part of me becoming a comedian.

My brother and sister weren’t bad kids, by any means.  When we got to our teens, we all kind of flaked in our own way.  But they were never bad, they were just kids.  My Mom would vent about them sometimes to me, or the kids in school (my Mom worked in the middle school), and she’d follow up her complaints with, “but not you, Lori.  You’re different.  You’re special.”

Well, I don’t know about special.  Most parents think their kids are beyond great.  But I was different.  Which I liked.  What made me different was that I listened, which most kids didn’t do.  While I struggled to pay attention in class, due to elaborate daydreams and stories I was making up in my head, I payed close attention to people’s actions, and body language.  I was tuned in in a different way.  This isn’t just rare amongst kids, it’s equally rare with adults.  Listening, turned to understanding or empathy: Most people suck at it.  As a kid, I saw how frustrated my parents could get or other adults, and I was genuinely convinced I could help them.  I could save them.  I couldn’t, of course, but because of my odd, yet sweet, and goofy demeanor, I could usually make someone smile, and when I was younger, I confused that with “fixing,” but now I realize, I provided some comic relief, which is really about as good as anyone can do.

But, as years went on, life gets more complicated, and there were times I just didn’t want to be the Golden Child.  I didn’t want to be person every one relied on to make smart, thought out decisions.  I was never awful to my parents, not even in my teens, when I started to drink and smoke.  I had my means of escape, but there was still the underlying need to never disappoint them.  The satisfaction I once had for making people happy turned into anxiety that I would let people down.  I did, of course.  I’m human, and despite the fact that my sister calls me “the perfect one,” I’m so incredibly far from it, just like every one else.  Being Golden had tarnished.  It was a burden.

I see it all the time: the friend who’s the one who always listens, ends up building up resentment towards themselves for taking on so many other problems and not dealing with their own.  It’s an extremely unhealthy way to live.  Most people aren’t paying close enough attention to notice they’re doing it to someone else, or to themselves.

Of course, for me, no one else would have guessed, let alone myself, that I would have manic depression in my adult years.  Now, in my later twenties, I look back at some lows where I clearly should have asked for help.  I should have called a friend.  A family member.  A therapist.  Literally, anyone, instead of white knuckling it on my own, as I do.  My Uncle’s words, coming to haunt me, “how awful it must be to be the Golden Child.”  Still, I just don’t want to let anyone down.