Wear plaid they said in 2005. If you don’t you’re a worthless nothing. You’re not cool.
Identify your pronouns. If you don’t you’re an ignorant bigot they say today. (FYI I totally respect and admire this practice just to clarify. I just don’t like feeling forced to.)
Don’t write the above two sentences (not in parentheses). If you do you’re likely a secret “conservative”. Eww! Karen! Ewww…
Don’t color past the lines. Don’t!
In kindergarten I purposefully colored outside of the lines because I was already tired of all of the bullshit. And that teacher in kindergarten used to take me outside of class and try to figure out what was wrong with me. Have me color seemingly endless copies of the same thing over and over. She was convinced there was something wrong with me.
My IQ has been tested as near genius (actually within the margin of error for it) in some areas as defined by Mensa. The only area I’m average in is math and to a lesser degree science. But…I think that’s most likely because I have trauma associated with math. Literally. I was being tested for ADHD and PTSD in college when I discovered all of this.
I get morbidly bored. Coloring between the lines. Bullied for being bored to the point of exhaustion and anguish. As I asked my mother already depressed, sitting alone in my room staring off sadly at age three, “When does the fun begin?” It never really did. My parents were assholes in some ways and they’d be angry possibly to the point of abuse if they read this sentence. They aren’t (at least entirely) respectful people even if they are both very clever, smart and better bred than they’d ever admit to. But oddly I’m not abusive as I’ve been told by some misguided counselors I should be.
I’m a romantic. Not by F. Scott Fitzgerald’s definition though.
I’m good. But not everyone fits in. Even if they color in the lines and are good. “Why do you color so hard?” I didn’t know what to say. Looking back it was just that I hated the look of wax on paper. And, have you ever stopped to look at the way a color crayon really looks on paper? It’s kind of… Well, at best it’s childlike. My mother encouraged genuine art at least. I guess I didn’t like that look even though I was very much a child and I’m thankful she respected that at least. Nobody bothered to consider that possibility though. I just know she would have respected my creativity had she known. She always has respected art.
“I know what you think of me. You think I’m stupid and ugly.” said an adult in authority and protection over me as I was drying my own hair at age six. She had decided to confront me I guess. A six year old. I was supposed to forget being a child and parent her insecurities. And I did. For years. Forget my own development… My needs? Oh please. And nowadays she’s mad that I wish she’d apologize for the abuse I experienced. As a child. I think I was a bad mother to her after all and she always was cooler than her parents…
My God. I was privileged and I still am but I mostly raised myself. And I’m a good mom. Despite what some 70 year old or so children of mine would currently argue otherwise. Boomers. *shrug* We just don’t understand them. *shaking head* No, there are some awesome teenagers… Actually there really are though. Some lovely Boomers.
Thanks for reading.