Answering The Age-Old Question: Is There A Cure For Middle-Child Syndrome?

How I learned to love being wedged between my siblings.

Few things build character like being a middle child.

If you aren't already familiar with "middle child syndrome," I'll break it down for you. Middle child syndrome is a phenomenon where in the child wedged in the middle of an older and younger sibling is regarded as, to put it kindly, different. We have some awesome traits: we're independent, open-minded, creative, and ambitious. (I also read that we're better in bed, so there's that.) But the traits most associated with MCS are the negatives: insecure, envious, shy, alienated wallflowers. Pop-culture has frequently acknowledged the misunderstood middle child in Jan Brady, Stephanie Tanner, Alex Dunphy. Enough said.

Growing up, I used the widely known anomaly as an excuse any time I acted out. So, Mom and Dad remember when I was 12 and I used ketchup to write, "I hate you" on the kitchen counter? It's your fault for having children before and after me! (But joking aside, I'm sorry and thank you for you not committing me.) As I got older, wiser, and my rage-prone, pubescent hormones took the back seat, I began to examine this justification for my behavior. Being a middle child is an impotent defense in the real world. Can I really keep blaming the mythical curse of the middle child on all of my problems?

I wanted to find out if in fact my self-diagnosis of MCS was legitimate, if only to defend my honor and the honor of middle children worldwide. And so I had to start at the beginning. This is the story about how I shed my middle-child complex with the help of the characters who helped me reinvent my character, sans middle-child fixations: the little sister who taught me how to find humor in my flaws, the big brother who taught me how to fight my demons, and the first love (because really, what's a good story without a first love?)

I was born a little over two years after my older brother and thirteen months before my little sister. I was not an easy baby, and I know this because my parents are still holding it against me to this day. From what I'm told, the only times I wasn't crying was when I was eating. But even fistfuls of honey-nut cheerios overflowing from the corners of my mouth couldn't hide my permanent pout. Sometimes I think my parents kept me around for my adorable and irresistible dimples (still have 'em, boys!) that dug deep into my cheeks when I chose to grace them with a mischievous grin.

Oppositely and to my chagrin, my brother and sister were often described as "angelic" and "cherubic" and "delightful." Sigh.

My big brother's head was topped off with beautiful, black curls resembling a potential descendent of Dr. Derek "McDreamy" Shepherd. His hazel eyes twinkled with the both the ego of a first-born son and the bliss of ignorance. My baby sister, like our brother, was contrasted with dark features and light spirits: Dark brunette curls framed her midnight blue eyes, and lips worthy of Angelina Jolie's kin completed her perfectly symmetrical face. Her demeanor, jubilant as ever, could brighten the dimmest of rooms.

And then there was me. A pariah by both external and internal standards. I was a cute kid, sure, but I looked like I had been adopted. My extra-long pony hair was dirty blonde and pin straight, dissimilar to the dark, curly haired family I belonged to. My eyes were a blue two shades lighter than my dad's and sister's, but this was only noticeable when I wasn't squinted up in a fit of tears. My cheeks resembled two squeezable stress balls on my wide face, and my lips were no Jolie's.

And my personality? Honestly, I had not fully formed a personality to characterize myself with as a toddler. Even at four, five, six, I knew I was different from my beloved brother and sister, and I wasn't quite sure how to process that knowledge. Sometimes I wonder if I was born already equipped with the traits of the cliché middle child or if I was conditioned to react in alignment with my birth order after being treated under the terms of stereotypical misconceptions. So, until I could better understand the perceived error in my gene pool, I preferred not to be noticed and remained demure in the comfort of my siblings' shadows.

The bad news of wanting to be invisible is hypersensitivity, a symptom of MCS, makes for an easy target. That combined with my pleasingly plump body, timid nature and love of literature put a bull's-eye on my back.

A memory comes to mind, one that I'm forced to revisit in therapy, about a wonderful, endearing and not at all traumatic *eye roll* game invented by my siblings called "the head game." In any given car ride, I would be forced to sit in the middle seat of our Yukon XL and they would push my head back and forth to each other screaming, "your head!" and "no, your head!" My siblings are not malevolent in the slightest, and I love them more than anyone. But as an impressionable young girl in an uncomfortable position (literally, because we all can agree that sitting on the transitional cup holder is terribly awkward), I couldn't help but wonder: Is this game a metaphor for what I can expect in life? I am, after all, the middle child, the sibling prone to low self-esteem and the need for approval. Am I too unlovable for even my siblings to love me, two people who are all but contractually obligated to? Will I spend eternity being pushed around? Will I develop the confidence to kick someone's ass if they continue to mess with me? Or at the very least, the confidence to speak up and ensure that I'm heard?

Another memory I frequently recall is the many times my mother told me, "You shouldn't eat that" and then proceeded to order "that" for my genetically blessed siblings who were basically metabolic machines. My mom is incredibly loving and supportive, and today she is one of my best friends, but I can't deny the effect my parents had on my identity crisis. Bless their souls; I truly wonder if they thought I was born with the confidence of a 40-year-old woman with a lifetime of experience. "The smart one, the capable one, the motivated one; she can handle anything!" They trusted me and they didn't worry about me, but to me that translated into "they don't care about me enough." Ridiculous, I know, but cut me some slack; I was a dramatic tween! Though I appreciated the faith they had in my potential, I constantly had to remind them that I was a very young girl with very sensitive feelings.

The good news about living in the shadows was the light I found at the end of the overcast tunnel. Inquisitive and longing to understand myself, I had a lot of time to try to make sense of the many emotions I was experiencing. It was out of my curiosity to discover someone, anyone, to relate to that I discovered the Chicken Soup series. I was enchanted and comforted by these anecdotes, and at a very young age I fell in love with the art of storytelling. I was perfectly happy to curl up with a book or write in my journal and share my stories with any audience who would listen, even if that meant my pale yellow Labrador, Jake.

Some years and many bowls of chicken soup later, I was a pubescent, brace-faced 13-year-old. For the majority of my teenage years, my parents' attention was understandably focused on my brother who, at only fifteen, was cursed by an inveigling desire to escape painful memories that entrapped him in addiction. My sister had grown up, too, but other than her age she remained the comedic and carefree baby of the family. She relieved my parents of their steady stream of stress, if only for a moment, by making them laugh with her erratic sense of humor: Frequent acts in her one-woman show included talking on the phone at the dinner table (and by phone I mean her foot,) pantsing my mother in the privacy of our home (and oh yes, in public, too), and her original hit songs (by the names of "Tookilaki," "I just wanna be a cockroach," and "You have to stay calm," to name a few.)

My siblings' heed-hoarding habits, by no fault of their own, turned me green. Jealousy sickened me with crippling insecurity, and eventually I came down with a terrible case of imposter syndrome. I overcompensated for what I thought was my lack of uniqueness and took desperate measures to garner attention. As you may have guessed, I did not succeed. This girl never got the memo that rebellion, not perfection, garners attention. Unlike almost every teenager ever, I was terrible at being defiant. I was a straight-A student and straight-up teacher's pet. I was a dedicated dancer and performed in the Riverdance and as a back-up dancer for Ciara in her Orange Bowl halftime show. I gladly settled into the role of "mom" in my friend group, and looking back I could have gotten away with an obscene amount of debauchery if I had instead embraced my role as the disremembered middle child. But all I did was drive my parents to trusting me too much. So despite my accomplishments, I continued to feel eclipsed by my brother and sister. So much so that even a glance from the Publix checkout boy would have satisfied my thirst for recognition.

Ironically, the Publix checkout boy later became my boyfriend, who in the beginning of our relationship shared my type-A, "have her home no later than 10:59pm," work-on-your-book-report-on-Saturday values. (In our defense, we did eventually grow out of our goody two-shoes and tried on for size a spontaneous, adventurous couple who on occasion argued about drugs and stayed out past 11p.m. Score?) But, in the throes of our whirlwind romance, his pristine record of loyalty and honesty did nothing to taint my plain-Jane predictability. And the ultimate anticlimax: he definitely did not piss off my parents.

In spite of all that, once I got over the fact that my family was also in love with my former boyfriend and eased into my first serious relationship, I did begin to notice a shift in the wind. I was able, for the first time, to unapologetically be myself. My quirkiness was embraced. I was encouraged to eat burgers and put cheese on it! My obnoxious laugh that's reminiscent of a monkey mid-panic attack was no longer ridiculed but adored. I could end my life-long quest to define myself because I was me, and that was enough. I went from being an afterthought to a leading lady who was engulfed in affection.

As a middle child, this was a radical concept to me.

And as a middle child, I was cautious. I didn't trust this, not for one second! But my boyfriend was persistent in encouraging me to be vulnerable and steadfast in ignoring my self-deprecating bullshit. He forced me to accept love, and over time I completely reinvented my self-image that was previously poisoned by middle-child dysmorphia.

I can only describe the cure for MCS as a domino effect of giving and receiving love. Only a couple of months into this relationship, I began to notice how so many negative, icky emotions that once swallowed me whole were ceasing to exist.

I could snuggle with my sister without wishing for a Freaky Friday earthquake to switch our bodies. Even better, she could tease me about anything and I would actually laugh at myself. My real laugh, the embarrassing one, which made us laugh even harder.

I also started bonding with my brother over our past traumas and present addiction battles. We stood on a united front as we confided in each other and exchanged words of encouragement. Though we didn't understand each other completely, we understood each other more than others did, and together we learned to accept help from one another without defensive remarks and assumptions of ulterior motives.

As I forged friendships built on healthier foundations with my siblings, I developed a brand-new confidence. Subsequently, my obsession with writing, comedy and the arts grew too. Whether it was adapting my Romeo & Juliet blasé book report into an SNL-style sketch script or articulately and eloquently dishing to my diary in a proper British accent I imagined would belong to Elizabeth Bennet, a revelation fell upon me: I have a God-damn voice! I am the author of my life. I am a creator. I am someone who can make a difference using words, similar to the creator of my diary's alias voice and one of the many female authors I admired, Jane Austen. (Yes, I really was reading Pride and Prejudice at 13 years old. And actually, true to my bookish form, was sexually awakened by the idea of Mr. Darcy.) But let's not get raunchy in such a touching moment. (Possibly pun intended.)

My point is that I finally realized, years later, how incredibly simple it is to overcome middle child syndrome. The answer was there all along: Just. Stop. Caring. Once I stopped feeding into the myth of the middle child, the envy, isolation, and shyness fell away. I accepted that I would be still be myself no matter what my birth order was, and I began to celebrate my differences. More than that, I finally welcomed celebration from others. I stopped playing the role of the middle child and instead defined myself as a little sister, a big sister, one of three children, a friend, a girlfriend, and a girl with a powerful voice and contagious laugh.

Few things build character like being a middle child, and I've been built by the bloody best.