Hi! My name is Heather and I will be running Gen X Watch until the end of June.
I have exactly one fond memory of the 1980s: the weekend Pat Green saved my life. Everything else about that decade can burn for all I care. Gen X nostalgia? Hard pass. I’m not here to romanticize neon legwarmers and John Hughes movies. I’m here to tell the truth. And the truth is that my Gen X coming-of-age was ugly, painful, and real. So if you came for warm fuzzy memories, buckle up, sisters. This is Fem Friday, Heather edition, and I’m coming in raw, honest, and angry.
No Nostalgia for a Damaged Past
Some of you know me already. Maybe you read Pat’s Fem Friday piece last year about a Madonna-obsessed teen in a suburban mall. The girl whose own mother called her a “sin” as she threw her out of the house on her 18th birthday. In that story, my story, Pat stood up for me, a bisexual girl who had just been outed and humiliated, and he got me out of the religious right hellhole, Naperville, Illinois, the next day.
He drove me 150 miles to Madison, Wisconsin to reunite me with my estranged dad, who is gay and welcomed his bi daughter with open arms. That desperate road trip and the safety I found at the end of it are the only good things I carry from the ’80s. The rest? I carry it like scars, not scrapbook stickers.
I refuse to put on rose-colored glasses about “the good old days.” The truth is, a lot of us Gen X girls who liked girls were surviving abuse, homophobia, and neglect. I was one of them. My nostalgia isn’t mixtapes and Atari games. It’s the sight of a highway as I fled a life of suburban hell that felt like The Handmaid’s Tale. I was wondering if I was headed toward salvation or more pain. I got lucky. I got to rebuild my life.
Rebuild I did. Once Pat helped me get to my dad, I was able to start over. I fast-tracked through school, earned my degrees, and built a career. I even stumbled into a marriage in my 20s to a woman I loved who, sadly, turned abusive herself.
When I saw the old patterns of control and pain starting again like my mom did to me, I noped out of that marriage fast. I swore I’d never live under abuse again, and I meant it. So here I am now: older, wiser, single and finally at peace with that. No kids, but I have a cat. He’s a jerk, but I love him. (Seriously, he’s glaring at me right now for writing this instead of feeding him.)
I still remember the first time I woke up and felt safe. Really safe. I woke up one morning in my tiny bedroom in Madison, with my dad humming in the kitchen as he made coffee. I could smell it brewing, feel the sunlight on my face, and I just… breathed. It felt like inhaling life for the first time. It’s funny, isn’t it? How survival mode makes you forget what it’s like to just be. To exist without fear. I’m still learning how to do that. I’m still learning that safety isn’t a mirage.
Those early months in Madison weren’t all sunshine and healing. I was so raw. I had panic attacks at grocery stores. I jumped when people walked too close behind me. My dad tried to hide the worry on his face, but I saw it. He’d hug me sometimes like he was afraid I’d disappear if he let go. It took me months before I could even sleep through the night. I’d wake up in a cold sweat, half expecting to see my mom’s shadow in the doorway. But she was gone. And I was safe. Slowly, I began to trust it.
It was during those nights, when sleep wouldn’t come, that I started to journal. Just little things at first. Notes, fragments of memory, lists of things I wanted to feel: joy, freedom, love. Journaling was how I began to put myself back together. I wrote about the bad things to let them out, but I also wrote about my dreams. I wrote about who I wanted to be. I wrote my way out of fear and into something like hope.
Those early days with my dad were like learning to walk again. He’d take me to State Street for Saturday morning coffee, a tradition that became sacred. We’d sit by the window, sipping from mugs, watching the bustle of college kids and families, people who didn’t flinch when someone walked behind them. People who could laugh without checking the door, who could smile without apology.
It was his way of showing me that I was safe. That the world was bigger than the life I ran from. I remember one morning, my dad nudged me and pointed to a young couple on the corner, oblivious to everything else. He smiled, not saying anything, just holding his mug with both hands like it was the only thing tethering us to the moment. I looked out the window and, for the first time, I saw it too. That life could be ordinary. That safety could be normal. And slowly, I began to believe it.
Stepping Into Pat’s Shoes (They’re Big and Uncomfortable)
Why am I here, writing this, when I’m not a writer by trade? Because Pat needs to focus, and I told him so. I didn’t wait for him to ask. I called first, because I’m not a monster, and I laid it out for him. Hearts of Glass Living in the Real World just launched, Barnstormer Publishing is in full swing, and that man is supposed to have the first draft of Hearts of Glass Fade Away and Radiate finished by the end of June. I told him he needed to take a damn breath, focus on what matters, and let me handle Fem Friday.
Pat resisted, of course. He always does, but I wasn’t having it.
‘You’re right,’ he said at long last. And that was that. Typical Pat. He argues with the world but makes peace with the truth. Those who know him know exactly what I’m talking about.
So here I am. I’m not Pat. I don’t have his gift for poetry in prose. I don’t have his soft edges or his way of turning pain into art. But I have my own voice. And I’m going to use it. He built this platform, and I’m going to honor it with my truth, even if it’s messy and jagged and doesn’t fit neatly into nostalgia.
Taking over Gen X Watch with a renewed Fem Friday isn’t just about helping Pat; it’s about stepping into my own voice. I’m going to make damn sure that I don’t just keep this thing warm, I’m going to set it on fire. I want this space to be louder, angrier, and more unapologetically honest than it’s ever been. Because I’m not here to smooth the edges; I’m here to sharpen them.
I’m here to talk about the things that still hurt, the things that still ache beneath our skin. I’m here to rip the Band-Aids off nostalgia and talk about what it really felt like to grow up with secrets, with fists, with closets too small to breathe in. And I want you to talk with me. Share your stories. Scream if you need to. Let’s make this raw and unfiltered truth that leaves scars but also lets them heal.
If you’re still with me, I’m going to make sure you won’t regret it. In fact, I hope you’re ready to light the match with me.
Closing Thoughts
Writing this first guest post, I feel my younger self, that scared 18-year-old, standing over my shoulder. She’s in awe that we’re here now, alive when so many others didn’t make it, speaking when once we were voiceless. I feel my pain, decades old, simmering just under my skin. But I also feel my strength forged in the fire of love, like steel in my spine. Both are part of me, and both will shape these upcoming Fem Friday posts.
This is just the beginning. I’m here to carry the torch for Pat, to honor what he built and to burn even brighter while I’m here. Let’s rage, let’s cry, let’s tell the truth that doesn’t fit into neat little nostalgic boxes. I’m ready. Are you?
Stay tuned for next week – it only gets louder from here.
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