Watashidake Toshiwo Totterumitaida is a comic book by Midori Mizutani about young caregivers (or young carers). The title can be translated as “I Feel Like I’m the Only One Getting Older — The Rebirth Diary of a Young Caregiver.”
A young caregiver is a child who, daily, takes on responsibilities such as household chores or caring for a family member — tasks typically handled by adults.
I didn’t realize I was a young caregiver until I became an adult. The aftereffects still linger, and every time I become aware of them, I feel sadness for the childhood I lost, mourning the past version of myself.
My mother later told me I had been helping with household chores, child-rearing, and cooking since before I could remember. Indeed, from the moment I was aware of things, these daily routines felt completely normal. It wasn’t until I faced the frustration of not being allowed to play with friends that I began to feel the weight of it.
My mother was someone who would suddenly get angry, slap me, and lecture me without warning — a person whose emotional triggers were impossible to predict. Being around her drained me, driving me to the edge. Even without knowing the term “borderline personality disorder,” I could sense that my mother was abnormal. But being a child, I couldn’t escape. I dreamed of running away for good by working and saving money for that purpose.
My father was also an abuser. As a child, I vividly remember the feelings of discomfort, fear, and distrust, but I didn’t have the awareness that parents could sexually abuse their children. So, I dissociated and dealt with various trauma symptoms to get through each day. By this point, the situation had gone beyond the realm of being just a young caregiver. There was simply no one in my home I could rely on for emotional support.
Recently, I had an experience that reminded me of being a young caregiver. It came through meeting a woman in my shared house. She was incredibly smart, multi-talented, and had such a strong sense of character that she seemed like a grown-up version of a child. I often wondered how a person like that could have been raised, and I became curious about her parents. One day, when she was visiting her family, I had the chance to visit her home as well. Her parents were very ordinary, her mother talkative and her father quiet, with nothing unusual about them.
One evening, she requested tempura from her mother. I thought I should help out, so I went to the kitchen and said, “Let me help.” Her mother looked a bit confused and asked, “Oh? Well, should I have you cut this?” There was no real need for help, but if I wanted to, I was welcome to. I realized then that, having been made to help with dinner every day without question, I had assumed this was the right thing to do. But in reality, I didn’t want to help cook dinner. There were other things I wanted or needed to do. Yet I thought that helping out was the way to be liked, or that I had no other choice but to do so. This realization made me feel embarrassed about myself and my past, and I returned to my room.
On my way back, I noticed my friend was in her room drawing. When it was time for dinner, I immediately went to the dining room, but my friend hadn’t arrived yet. Her mother, looking a bit concerned, went to call her. After dinner, I was told not to worry about cleaning up, since the dishwasher would take care of it. I did as I was told, but still felt unsettled. I returned to the kitchen and asked, “Sorry, could I wash my own dishes?” I wanted to do it, so I did.
At that moment, I heard her mother say, “I’m sorry our daughter hasn’t been able to spend more time with you.” I wasn’t feeling lonely because my friend wasn’t giving me attention. I realized that the habit of helping out to receive approval had become ingrained in me, and the idea of fully concentrating on what I wanted to do felt entirely foreign. I could see how my friend’s genius had been nurtured in such a free environment, and I realized just how different her upbringing was from mine. If I had grown up in an environment where I could freely pursue what I enjoyed, surely I would have more hobbies, skills, friends, and positive experiences — and life would have been easier. I didn’t have that kind of environment. That’s why life feels so difficult for me.
What I once accepted as “normal” now feels abnormal as an adult, and I can’t help but feel sorry for the child I once was. I wish I could have played more. I never wanted to develop the habit of second-guessing myself and suppressing what I wanted to do just to avoid upsetting my parents.
This book sold on a flea market app, so I’m letting it go. In doing so, I’m also releasing the feelings I’ve had connected to it.
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