Once again naamah_darling has hit it on the head. You know what’s not the best time of your goddamn life? Childhood. Adults say it’s awesome to be a kid, when you’re utterly helpless and nobody will just come out and say so because they’re hoping you haven’t fucking noticed (because they also think you’re stupid).
I saw that grownups had much more serious problems – job problems, money problems, health problems – than kids, but nobody ever explained to me that being a grownup is worth it anyway. That it’s way better than being a child.
Yes, being an adult has encompassed a range of sucktastic things, even some things I feared as a kid. It has also encompassed a surprising amount of helplessness. But it’s still better than being a kid. Being a kid fucking sucked.
When you’re a child you hear grownups talk about childhood as though it were some distant, magical country of wafting, misty perfection, enormous fairy wings, and magical moon-circumnaviating dirigibles powered by unicorn poop. You hear grownups talk about how wonderful it was to be a child, without a care in the world. But you look around at your world and it isn’t like that! It’s horrible! It stinks! It’s a nightmare! Maybe it’s not like this for every kid, but it’s like this for a goddamn lot of them.
When you’re a kid you hear adults talk about their teenage years like they were an endless field of catgirl tits, raunchy pirate cock, jet fuel and vodka shots, gold medals in endurance masturbation, and unicorn orgasms fountaining glitter across the sky. “The best days of your life,” they say. WEB OF LIES! It’s horrible! It stinks! It’s a nightmare!
Adults lied about being a child, and they lied about being a teenager. And then they had the temerity, the unmitigated gall, to be shirty with me because I thought that my life as a child/teenager fucking sucked, BECAUSE IT DID.
See that? Those things are true.
For my custodial parent the problem was that she had such an atrocious childhood that anything short of unceasing violence just didn’t register as worthy of note. As a result, I was a spoiled little shit who didn’t know how good I had it to only be dealing with her C-C-C-COMBO ATTACK of borderline personality disorder and autism-spectrum fuckery, and I was constantly reminded that it could always be worse and if I didn’t appreciate it I could just get out. What’s that? Nowhere else to go that isn’t worse? Then suck it up you ungrateful rebellious little monster.
She didn’t realize that wasn’t me until she went to my high school graduation and saw how many of those kids had shown up high, had brought their kids, or just plain had to sit in the audience and watch the rest of their friends get diplomas. At this point she promptly forgot that she’d ever said any of that previous stuff and suddenly she was proud of me and had always been proud of me and we’d always been at war with Eastasia.
I thought that whole time that I was an angry and hateful person. I thought until I moved out that I just was angry, like I had burst from the womb with a fucking grudge, but I learned when I got my own space and a little time away from the crazy that this wasn’t the case. I was angry all the time because her delusions kept screwing with my head and I hated it. I had a little room to breathe and suddenly I became all about winning state speech competitions and being nice to my classmates and trying to help the high-school-love-of-my-life keep his shit together and stay halfway sober.
I was so angry for so many years that I didn’t even know who I was because I couldn’t see anything but unceasing barely-contained rage. I didn’t start really getting to know myself until I was seventeen years old. How fucking ridiculous.
“Best years of life.” Fuck you, adults. I remember being in the car with a friend of mine and his junior-high aged daughter, and she said something about school and how the people there sucked. I told her, “No, they really do. This is pretty much the worst it’ll ever be, though. From here there’s really nowhere to go but up.” Her father gave me this look and only half-jokingly said, “Oh, great. I’m sure that’s really helpful.” She replied, “Actually it kind of is.”
How do adults forget about this shit?
You adults reading. Don’t forget about it. Don’t be those grownups. Being a child, an adolescent, and a teenager all suck in their own special and magical ways. This isn’t like a goddamn stomachache where you can forget it as soon as it stops hurting. Maybe your childhood really was awesome, but I bet it wasn’t the fantastic wonderland you imagine now as an adult. You’re not qualified to tell young people what’s going on with their lives if you can’t even remember your own.