Who Has It Harder: Kids or Adults?

My vote? Kids!

Yes, I’m an adult who thinks kids have it harder.

Life is generally hard, no matter what, but if there needs to be a vote, I say kids.

“But kids live and eat rent-free, have no responsibilities, yadda yadda!”

First of all, kids are forced to attend school, which absolutely is a responsibility. Kids have a 40-hour “work” week by the time they start learning how to read. Even my internship – a job I do without pay, so close enough, is only 30 hours a week, and I can choose whether I want to leave at 2:30 or 3:00. I can also take my lunch any time I want. Kids don’t have that freedom.

That’s why I say kids have it harder: they have no freedom. I remember feeling powerless as a kid, having zero say in anything that affected me, no matter how bad it was, being told to “stay in a child’s place”, and being assumed to be stupid because a child couldn’t possiby be right over an adult. As a kid, I could say the sky was blue, an adult could say it was pink, and I’d better not correct them because “I’m an adult and what I say is right”.

Yes, as an adult, I have to pay bills and money is a necessity. But, to an extent, I can choose where to work, and I will be compensated for my time with money. It’s outright illegal if I’m not. While I’m not paid for internship (I presume the laws are different for that), I still choose to be here and I come here because I want to, not because I’ll be punished if I don’t. I’d rather pay bills and have choices – freedom – in my life than give up the former for lack of the latter.

I can travel without supervison, stay out after dark (I go to the gym on occasion in the evening), don’t need permission to go outside, can decorate my room how I like, can buy my own electronics, can watch the shows I want without arguing over the television with my sister, can listen to the music I like, everything in my room belongs to me instead of someone else because “I bought it, so you’re just borrowing it”. I really could go on for a long time. I’ve spoken a lot on this blog about how my childhood sucked and my family is broken, but even if I had the most carefree, idyllic childhood imaginable, I think my feelings would be the same.

  • Kids have to stand for and recite the pledge of allegiance every morning. As a kid, I thought that was stupid, and as an adult, I still do. But I no longer have to do it! (Side note: No, reciting the pledge doesn’t mean someone respects the country. The peers who made my school life miserable recited it. You can’t claim to respect the country when you have no respect for people in the country.)
  • Kids have curfews and bedtimes. I might be tired, but if I want to go to bed at 1am on a “work” night, yay! More internet time!
  • No parental controls! Yes, I understand why they exist. I’m still glad I don’t have to deal with them! And I can lock my devices to keep other people out!
  • “No, you can’t have pizza for breakfast.” I can now!
  • I have a more decorated room now than I did as a kid. Because I buy everything for it, right down to my computer. Though, my favorite thing would be the plethora of stuffed animals on my bed.
  • Want something, but can’t buy it? As a kid, you’re out of luck. As an adult, unless money is extremely tight, you can save up for it. That’s how I got my computer!
  • I don’t get my hair done unless I want to. I admit this one is more personal, but I’m sure I’ve spoken about how obsessive my family is about appearance. My mother forced me to have hair extensions and styles I did not want that took hours, and yelled at me and degraded my appearance when I argued. Now, my family still complains, but I no longer have to abide by them, and they eventually shut up for the most part.
  • Kids wear the clothes their parents buy them. I wear the clothes I buy me. Without getting yelled at for not matching (Fashion rules can kiss my behind!).

I know most of what I listed are small things, but as Pinkie Pie once said, “One small thing can be the biggest thing of all”. Freedom is addicting! I remember when I first got my own room. I haven’t shared a room since, minus the time I lived in a homeless shelter, because after a taste of what it was like to have my own space and privacy (to the small extent I could with a sibling), I could never go back! It’s why my boyfriend and I will have separate rooms when we move in together. He’s never had his own room and I want him to experience that. I know he’ll be as addicted as me!

The only downside is people don’t think adults are cute like they do kids. But I wasn’t a cute kid (regularly got called ugly and was hated solely because I existed in some people’s space), so I didn’t have even that.

I’ll take adulthood and all of its challenges any day. That opinion may vary on some days, but I’d say 80% of the time, it’s a given.

No Forgiveness

A comic I will not link to because it’s maddening prompted this post.

I have a big problem with the concept of forgiveness. It’s supposed to be “healing”. As far as I’ve been able to see, it’s a way to excuse the bad things people do.

The comic was about bullying. In summary, the artist’s childhood bully was once her friend, but ditched her because she (the bully) became popular. Artist finds the bully on Facebook years later to discover she and the other kids who mistreated her have grown up and live normal lives while the artist wishes she could erase those awful years from her life.

I know the feeling.

The title described it as a “heart-melting comic”, but there is nothing that melts my heart about knowing people can mistreat or flat-out ruin years of your life with no remorse and carry on like normal while you live with the after effects. I consider those people borderline sociopaths.

Yes, people can argue there’s no point in being angry years later and, to an extent, I agree. However, as far as I am concerned, I have the right to be angry with my bullies because they made my school life a living hell, and the adults had zero power to stop it (heads up: “tell an adult” is the most worthless advice that can ever be given in regards to bullying). They are part of the reason I want to burn my childhood to ashes, and I am supposed to forgive them because time passed? Because “kids will be kids” {so, why bother with discipline?)? Of course, they’ve moved on. Bullies don’t have remorse or they wouldn’t do it. But they do not deserve forgiveness and I won’t forgive them because, even if I will never see them again, I refuse to justify and excuse what they did to me!

No, it’s not okay to hurt someone because it will be in the past. No, it’s not okay for children to be bullies because they are children. No, time passing does not excuse someone’s abusive actions. And no, I do not wish any of my bullies a happy life. Perhaps it now makes me border on sociopathic, but for what they did to me for all of those years, I wish them nothing less than the absolute hell they gave me!

No, I don’t live my life angry every second. The only reason I even thought about it is I came across that comic. But I do not, and I will never, forgive my bullies for how they treated me.

Forgiveness is not a right and not everyone deserves the privilege.

Well-Meaning, But Uninformed

“The road to hell is paved with good intentions.”

Indeed it is.

I’ve struggled with my hair for years. My family was obsessed with it. As a kid, my mother forced me to my hair permed and professionally styled with extensions, not caring at all for my discomfort or how much getting extensions hurt. Trips to the hair salon were seen as essential to my living, and any protests were met with verbal/emotional abuse and accusations of me not liking to look “pretty”. As an adult, the obsession continued with my grandfather. Let me tell you, an old man obsessed with a young woman’s appearance is all kinds of creepy. Only recently has my family shut up about my hair because, frankly, I can’t afford a bi-weekly visit to the hair salon and I don’t have time for it.

I’m anemic because of iron deficiency. I have not had my hair permed since late last year, but I had no idea stopping those treatments meant your hair begins to fall out. I have been using certain hair oils – something I was recommended by people in personal life who aren’t family – but they’ve had no effect, and my hair is still falling out. Some advice-seeking in a Facebook group got me an interesting bit of knowledge: lack of iron can cause hair loss.

I did a research of my own. It turns out iron is necessary for hair to grow. Iron, the mineral I’ve been deficient in for at least eight years (when I was diagnosed with anemia), is necessary for hair growth.

Never did my hair-obsessed family mention this. And I’m furious.

I don’t expect them to know such a fact. I do expect them to care more that my hair is healthy rather than pretty. But they didn’t. Hair care has been a trial-and-error process for me because I only knew it as “washing, perming, and hair spray”, and I got sick of it. Only when my family’s obsessive behavior stopped did I care to try to learn if there were other ways.

I intend to see a doctor to ask questions and rule out other medical problems, but for the time being, I’m going to take some multivitamins I have and see if my hair changes at all. I don’t expect too, but if there is a good change, I’m going to be both glad and angry. Glad because my hair is finally fixing itself, and angry with my family for not teaching me better hair care habits while growing up to begin with. At the very least, if it doesn’t grow, I’ll be happy if it stops falling out.

The Best Years

Something I often say is if I were given a choice between death and reliving my childhood, I’d choose death. For the most part, my reason is, to put it simply, my childhood sucked. It sucked enough that I was first suicidal at age ten, spent nearly my whole adolescence fighting against those feelings, and was often wishing I had died in infancy. I have never said I had the worst childhood, but it’s certainly not worth repeating.

However, even if I didn’t have to experience the abuse and dysfunction, I feel like I’d still choose death over childhood. Being totally honest, childhood is much cuter and more fun as an outsider viewing it than as an insider living it. I could write out a list of reasons, but the main one is powerlessness.

As a child, you have no control over your life, and that’s true no matter how amazing your childhood is. Outside of the dysfunctional aspect, one of the things I hated most about my childhood is we moved every year. I hated moving and to this day, I still loathe it, but as a child, what was I to do? I had no choice in where I lived, what school I attended, or where I moved to. I had a choice in absolutely nothing, and knowing you are powerless against something (or someone) feels awful, no matter how supportive those people are.

I couldn’t do that. I could not return to a time where someone had full and total control over my life, even if that person was the most loving in the world (she wasn’t, but that’s not the point). Childhood is essentially a luck of the draw. If you’re lucky, that powerlessness isn’t often a deterrent in you having a happy life until adulthood, and you’ll wish for it back when you are an adult because it was that enjoyable. If you aren’t lucky, you’ll consider yourself lucky for having survived it in the first place.

The only thing I could say I really miss from my childhood are certain cartoons and the familiarity of some locations. Those are nowhere near enough to make me consider my childhood worth anything. I’d burn all of my years before age 17 into oblivion if possible, and the only reason I’m even choosing the age of 17 is it’s how old I was when I met my best friend, who I continually call the only good I got out of high school. Without her, I’d burn every year before meeting my boyfriend, which would start my life at the very beginning of 2015, four months before my 21st birthday.

It’s akin to the expression of how one’s high school years are the best of their life. Without the existence of my best friend, I’d burn them to the ground, and the school along with them. They weren’t the worst years of my life, but I don’t consider them worth anything reliving.

My 20s so far are shaping up to be nice, so perhaps when I reach 30, I’ll call them the best years of my life and consider them well reliving. For now, however, nothing in my life I can remember, besides meeting the two most important people I’ve already mentioned, is worth reliving. Is that really a bad thing? Maybe, or maybe not. Since reliving the past is impossible beyond hallucination, it’s a moot point.

Siblings: Fantasy VS Reality

First, it seems I’m terrible at keeping up with my blog’s anniversaries. After May 22nd, my blog turned five years old. Maybe I should start making a yearly scheduled post for that.

Now, on to the topic at hand.

A stereotype of only children is they are spoiled because of their lack of siblings. Some people think it’s selfish not to give a child a sibling, and some only children do grow up to say they wish they had siblings.

I’ll be honest. Hearing these things makes me cringe, especially the former. Why? Because they’re idealizing having a sibling.

I don’t think people who consider it awful for a child to have no siblings, or who wish they themselves did, realize having a sibling is no guarantee of not being selfish or never being lonely. I don’t believe they realize that sibling could very well be someone they don’t care to have in their life. Having a sibling does not automatically mean you have a built-in playmate/best friend for life.

My mother had two children while my father had one, so I somewhat got to experience being an only child while growing up when I visited him. I much preferred the only child life. Just about every positive reason stated for having siblings never existed for me.

Taught me how to share? My sister and I only shared if forced, and I hogged my things because she continually lost or broke them. My mother forced me to loan her my baby blanket for the kindergarten (I was 8). At the end of the year, she never retrieved it, so it was thrown out. My 8-year-old self was furious because that blanket was one of my favorite possessions. But the reason I argued (and lost) against her borrowing it in the first place is I knew she’d lose it. As an adult, I still hoard things, and part of the reason I tend to buy excessively is that I can finally live without worrying where my stuff will disappear off to.

Playmates and best friends? Again, not unless forced. Otherwise, we either played alone or played with our school friends. My sister and I fought constantly, and the only time we got along on our own was to (figuratively) beat somebody else down, which usually meant drive the adults crazy. I remember people used to say we’d grow up to be best friends. At the ages of 23 (me) and nearly 20, that ship has sailed. Our relationship as sisters borders on dead. My best friend and the person I call my sister are the same person, but she’s not genetically related.

Never being lonely? I don’t even want to talk about this. All I have to say is loneliness due of no people is no better or worse than loneliness because of people.

Teaches eldest siblings to be responsible? First off, I want to hang the person who came up with the notion that oldest siblings should be live-in babysitters. If someone asked me why I want nothing to do with parenthood, the answer of “being forced to babysit my sister” would be in the top three. “Babysit” was essentially the short way of saying “everything your sister does is your fault, no matter where I am in the house”. My sister never got in trouble unless I also did. This didn’t stop until I moved out of the house, which means even at age 13, my sister was deemed “too young to know better” and I was “supposed to set a good example because I was the oldest”. Why was I supposed to enjoy this again? Ironically, babysitting other people’s children as an adult wasn’t an issue for me. Perhaps it being voluntary has to do with it?

I know everyone is entitled to their feelings, but I wish people would stop thinking “siblings = automatic BFFs” because it truly does not. Siblings are essentially hit or miss. If you’re fortunate, the stereotypes are true and you luck out. If you’re not, you get a situation like mine, where your sibling only talks to you to start an argument at four o’clock in the morning.

There have been brief periods of time where we do get along, but they’re sporadic at best. I’ve said before if I wanted to be a parent, I’d be “one and done” because I’d have zero desire to put up with what I went through with my sister. If my hypothetical kid was really so lonely, I’d let them adopt a pet. Really, I did have a cat for a few years while growing up. Much better company.