Gen X Women Are Feral For A Reason — 'We Were Raised By TV And Sharpened By Sarcasm'
Gen X women didn't just grow up. We survived.
Lokman Sevim | Canva I was a sheltered kid, but not in the way people think. Stranger danger. No boys in the house. But no one protected me from the world.
My parents were working. I was in daycare before I could spell my last name. By eleven, I was home alone after school, with my little sister, eating Lunchables or Cocoa Pebbles while watching MTV until a parent walked through the door.
Television raised us — not metaphorically — literally. My parents didn’t bat an eye when I watched Poltergeist at age eight. They were confused when I woke up screaming, convinced a tree was going to crash through my window or the TV was going to suck me in.
I told them. They shrugged.
“Why are you watching that garbage? You’re not supposed to watch that stuff.”
That was it. No comfort. No pause. It wasn’t neglect. It was normal.
That's why Gen X women are feral for a reason.
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By the mid-’90s, my Gen X peers and I were full-blown wild animals.
Emotional regulation? I’d never heard of it. We understood humiliation and hierarchy better than any adult in charge.
I went to a Christian school, where kids memorized Bible verses in the morning and tore each other apart by lunch. You got pantsed on the blacktop. When you fell, they’d circle you like vultures and laugh.
The only way to gain respect and make the kids lay off? Get in your bully’s face and risk getting the whooping of your life.
Because fear was worse than bruises, backing down meant they’d never stop. So you snapped. You threw words like knives. You learned how to flinch on the inside but glare on the outside. Perform bravery because there was no other choice. And most of the time? Your bully would back down or respect you more.
No teacher stepped in. No principal helped. Your parents told you to “ignore them” or “be the bigger person.” Mine suggested I stand up to them. Translation: You’re on your own.
I’m a deep-feeler. Always have been. But when it comes to survival, that’s not where I live. I get through it, and then I feel later.
When I was fourteen, I took my skateboard to a hill. I wasn’t good, just determined. I hit a rock. The board shot backward. I flew forward. My palms got shredded, bloody, and full of gravel.
I didn’t cry. I walked home, cleaned my hands with peroxide, slathered on Neosporin, and went to dinner like nothing happened.
My mom saw the road rash. “What happened to your hand?” I shrugged. “Took a digger. Asphalt won.” She made a face and continued eating.
Rising from the mess was the love language of Gen X, and sometimes that feral energy leaked out blood or ketchup.
One girl at school ticked me off. I don’t even remember why. We toilet-papered her house one night. Classic. But I went too far.
I brought a box of Maxi Pads, opened them, and squirted ketchup all over them. Stuck them to her front door like they belonged there. Just for good measure, I squeezed Colgate across the porch banisters like a messed-up cake decorator.
It wasn’t a prank. It was vengeance. And it felt good, for about five minutes. Then I just felt stupid. But that’s what unprocessed pain looks like when no one teaches you what to do with it.
We didn’t go to therapy or process pain. We acted out. I scribbled how much I hated those who hurt me in journals. We memorized song lyrics. We bled, and we wiped it up quietly.
People say we’re cold. We’re not. We’re armored. Raised on static TVs, latchkeys, and the unspoken rule: Figure it out. And we did. Still do.
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While I’m proud of my problem-solving skills, on the flip side, I’m not proud of the blatant rage or unhealthy ways I processed pain. Younger generations have an advantage because they’ve been taught compassion.
Our parents didn't teach us to feel; they taught us to function, and yeah, we’re good at it.
But sometimes, I wonder who I could’ve become if someone had handed me a language for my grief instead of a slap on the back and a sarcastic remark.
Still, us Gen X women made it. Scarred, maybe. But intact. And if you’re looking for me? I’m the one with a maxi pad in her bag and a one-liner ready to go — just in case.
Sherene Jensen is a writer, educator, and editor whose work explores grief, creativity, emotional healing, and human connection. Her essays are featured in several Medium-based publications, including The Memoirist, Write A Catalyst, and Age of Empathy.
