The Human Telephone
Welcome to 1982, a newsletter by Shani Silver. This newsletter does not publish free content, but if you’d like to read it you can subscribe here. Thank you for enjoying the work of independent writers.
If I’m going to discuss 80s Baby Trauma, I’m going to do it my way. It’s unproductive to simply bitch into the internet void, and in my opinion “venting” is just a charming way to rebrand dumping your shit on other people so that you feel better and they feel worse. I’m not going to empty my garbage bin on your lawn and let you deal with the cleanup, I’m going to swing by your house and see if you want to walk to the recycling center together. It can’t just hurt. It has to help, too. In fact, helping other people is an ideal way to feel better yourself, in my experience. So I’m going to talk about the things our parents never apologized for (probably because they can’t) from a very specific place: I see us, what happened wasn’t okay, and in my corner of the internet we’re allowed to say so without the fear of reactive families who want to make their bullshit our fault. Not in this house.
I didn’t ask to be born (that I’m aware of, on some level I know my soul chose this but when I tell you I cannot wait to have a word with her). The day I realized I didn’t ask for this, I didn’t ask for the childhood that was forced upon me, and I certainly didn’t ask to bear the apex brunt of my parent’s divorce, I could describe the anger to you but I have a feeling you’re already acquainted with your own. Eldest Daughters Of 80s Divorces would be a great band name, now that I think about it.