I hated being a child

I hated being a child because my life was controlled by others: parents, teachers, siblings, friends, strangers. The core of my being was malleable, ready to be molded by anyone who held out a manipulative hand of compassion. I had no shame; I would’ve accepted pity.

My mother beat me, my father ignored me, my siblings disliked me, my friends betrayed me, my teachers misunderstood me (“quiet children are good children”), and strangers couldn’t have cared less about me. I don’t know why. My life was just what it was, and no one explained any part of the mystery of my aloneness. Don’t know if anyone was even aware.

People, after all, get caught up in their own issues: my husband doesn’t love me; her hair is longer than mine; she’s light-skinned, I’m dark-skinned, can’t trust her; I only like cute little boys that I can mother and hold in high esteem by default; spare the rod, spoil the child – never spare the rod, never spoil the child; my feelings are the only feelings that count and kids are flexible, she’ll get over it; I can make it up to her tomorrow . . . or the next day . . . or . . . .

Being a child so sucked.

I was a favorite though to other members of my family who instantly loved the first born child to the favorite baby daughter of the most respected brother who married the most loving woman. But they lived somewhere else, not with me, and I became convinced that I didn’t know if they would have been better for me – love me better – if they got to live with the real me.

Don’t know what was wrong with me. No one ever bothered to say – even when I dared ask. My younger sister could get away with saying the most disrespectful things, behave in the most outrageous manner, settle for the lowest range of her capabilities – and everyone but me would ask for more, more of her punishment. She dropped out of high school, I began college; she got pregnant, I stayed a virgin until it became embarrassing; she went on welfare, dabbled in drugs, had sex with her boyfriends, and loved the street. I went to work, stayed a virgin, participated in routine entertainment, and avoided getting high (as much as possible). One day she woke up and pronounced, “I think I’ll turn my life around.” She did. Well, she at least had a life.

But I am the most fortunate adult. I was born a first-year Boomer.

Boomers got to break all the rules in the 1960’s. We got the pill, burned the bra, wore pants to work, took on any number of lovers and rejected those that attempted to restrain our freedom to choose – choose anything we damned well pleased. I fought hard for my financial and emotional independence. I didn’t need anyone or their opinion of me.

My inner strength came from me accepting me. Who knew it would take something like thirty, forty years?

The Age of Aquarius coincided with the Information Age. Instead of spindling my life away as an underpaid secretarial drudge, I discovered my knack for computing and made the most of it. With no unsolicited mentor willing to guide me, I hacked out my own “bull in the china shop” method of learning and promoting myself from one job to the next better paying job, from one position to the next higher position.

I’m done believing I’d probably have to work until the day I dropped. Today I own property that includes my own home, have a little money in the bank, and contemplating in-house service to my personal needs when I decide to retire to a sweet little village in Central Mexico.

My good friends are fun, supportive, and loyal. My lovers don't exist -- but I'm not waiting for the good knight on the white charger. My jobs have finally developed into a career. I'm happy.

Childhood sucked. But timing is everything. Boomers rule!