Not quite there yet

When I was ten years old, I was really depressed. My parents were
convinced that my older brothers were Jesus Christs in ressurection and
saw me as the kid, the baby of the family - the one who was put on
Earth to look cute and maybe live up to her brothers but to never
exceed them, and even to equal them in any aspect would be a
feat.
So I decided that when I was older, it would be different. When I got
into secondary school, they'd realise that my brothers weren't Jesus
Christs in disguise, or presume that I was the happy third Jesus Christ
in the Jesus Christ way of things. For athiests, my parents knew a lot
about worship, and worship they could do. I wouldn't be surprised if
they came out with a prayer and communion for my brothers one
day.
However, this did not come. Contemplating suicide and sulking and
acting adult neither worked or were recognised. The eyes of my parents
which were so quick to see a slight frown appearing on one of my
brothers heads were blind to see my suffering.
It was meant to be the best years of my life, at ten years old. I was
supposed to be carefree and happy - the calm before the storm of
adolescence. Unfortunately, all the ten years of life and experience
did for me was to strengthen my belief that I had Had It until I had
left home.
Years on, it is the same. My role has not changed. My parents, now
that my brothers have left home, one a married man in Hong Kong (my
luckiest brother, to have escaped their grasp, but then again, he was
never held in their grasp as he was one of the infamous Jesus Christs)
and one a near-to-qualified doctor, focused their attention at keeping
me the baby, the stupid, the slow, the ordinary - not that I
complained.
How could I complain? Every outburst or public speech I told about
being compared and not being taken seriously only worsened the
situation.
Again, I find myself saying, When I Am Older It Will Get Better.

But, in truth, it will never get better. It will always be the
same.