The Truth About Being An Only Child
At first meeting, I’m usually told that I don’t “seem” like an only child. That’s because I don’t immediately come off bratty or selfish, two characteristics among a plethora of others — like bossy, lonely and profoundly unhappy — that make up what is commonly referred to as “Only Child Syndrome.”
It’s no secret that only children get a bad rap. Granville Stanley Hall, the proclaimed “father of childhood psychology,” said that being an only child is “a disease in itself.” In the media, only children are depicted with insufferably painful personalities (like Angelica Pickles from “Rugrats”, for example).
I dread the point in a new relationship when my only child status comes to light. It raises eyebrows, and deservedly so. We’re outliers; living, breathing examples of what it is to grow up in an “atypical” setting. To the majority, we’re somewhat un-relatable.
I try as hard as possible to avoid being an “only child,” but I feel pitted against what’s expected of me, as if I’m always entering a boxing match with an evil prototype. I either assume offensive or defensive mode, saying things like, “I’m not that kind of only child” and “I don’t act like an only child.” But I am. I am as “only child” as an “only child” gets.
I’ve done significant research on the “Only Child Syndrome” myth and examined its validity against my own experiences. I’ve looked into the strengths and weaknesses of growing up without siblings, and in reflecting on my own past, I have come to notice and accept my only child-isms in their entirety. For example, I can’t kill an insect if we’re alone in a room together. I slept with four stuffed animals until I was about 20. I can make a minor event sound like the plotline of a Shakespearean play. I’m terrible at being teased. The list goes on.
But the most prevalent difference — the theme that permeates throughout all of my decisions, behaviors and relationships — is that my comfort zone varies significantly from that of my peers’ who have siblings.
Since I was born, my default setting was to either a) play alone, or b) communicate with adults. As an only child, I am most comfortable, most myself and most at home when I am alone or in the company of adults. This is kind of strange for a 24-year-old girl with a relatively normal social life.
Growing up, “home” was to retire to my room in solitude. “Playing” was to let my imagination run rampant with anything I could get my hands on. I did not see another child unless it was a planned event. Thus, being alone or engaged in an adult conversation with my parents was my ultimate comfort, the place in which I was never judged.
Later in life, this manifested itself in into my social life. I realized that interacting with peers is not my forte, which I find directly contradicts the “only child” stereotype. “Bossy,” “selfish” and “attention-seeking” are actually “self-aware,” “speculative” and “distant.”
While meeting groups of strangers, the warm and familiar cocoon of my reality disappears, and I have to adhere to cues, rules, expectations and opinions. I am hyper-aware of every breath that I take and every word that I say. My comfortable, judge-free zone becomes a stage and I am holding a microphone.
Therefore, I find my downfall of only child reality — and I can’t speak for everyone — is the unquenchable thirst to fit in, not to stand out. It’s hard to admit, but I certainly don’t want to be the center-of-attention in a group of strangers my own age. If anything, it’s disappointing that I try so hard to mimic my surroundings. For the entirety of my life, being an only child meant trying to fit into groups that I had trouble identifying with.
When I was younger, I would be stunted into shyness in social situations. But after years of living with college roommates and being involved in professional situations, I have somewhat out-grown this inherent social insecurity and gained a decent amount of confidence. There are some times, though, that I still feel myself recoiling to the comforts of my childhood, hiding behind my dad’s leg when a stranger says hello. That’s what being an only child is to me.
I do think that only children have unique tendencies, but it’s silly to lump them all into one category. My ultimate thought is this: The way you grow up affects your perception of the world and how you react to it. Every experience morphs us into who we are — as if we are walking, talking balls of clay — and each of these experiences distinguishes us from one another. No two only children are the same; no two children with siblings are the same. How we grow up defines our mental state of homeostasis. The next time you meet an only child, keep an open mind.
