[Late] Teen Angst

Do you ever feel like your parents secretly hate you?

That's the generally vibe that I'm getting from mine, at this juncture. It's unsettling and frustrating but, above all, hurtful, because there is nothing I have done (to the best of my knowledge) that merits such loathing.

Let's get the back story out of the way: I'm ill right now. Not anything serious; Just a not-so-routine visit from my old friend, Influenza. Thus, as you can probably imagine, I'd just about rather throw myself from my third story dorm window than try to do anything crazy like, you know, walk. That being said, I've been doing a lot of thinking over the past couple of days.

Okay, now you get the "current" story: My major is on the fence, meaning that I'm thinking about switching from Pre-Veterinary to something only slightly different--Journalism/Political Science or Archaeology.

See what I mean? Not much of a jump, right? (As a side note: if you didn't get the biting sarcasm in the previous statement, you are far beyond any help I could provide) Anyway, because I'm a good daughter (or at least that's how I see it), I make it a point to inform the primary benefactors of my higher education of any academic decisions I might make. So, I called up my mother to run some of these ideas past her.

Let it be known that I don't need affirmation from anyone concerning the decisions I make that will effect the rest of my life. I inform my parents as a common courtesy, as I know that I would have some heavy explaining to do if they announced I was graduating with a Bachelor's degree in Interpretive Dance at my commencement, to the complete ignorance of my parents.

I gently mentioned the prospect of a change to Archaeology to my mother and got a response that I would have never expected: Anger.

Suddenly, I was being interrogated one minute and accused the next. "When [was I] ever interested in archaeology?!" followed by "[I've] never been interested in archaeology!" In retrospect, the look on my face must have been priceless, as I think I sat in my desk chair gaping and stammering for the next two minutes of this diatribe.

After those two minutes had passed, shock was replaced by ire and I snapped back at my mother: "If you had been paying attention at all for the past 19 years of my life, you would know that I've been interested in archaeology since I knew what the hell it was."

Again, they say hindsight is 20/20, and that, clearly, was a poor choice.

Cue another course of steaming-hot guilt, being force-fed to me with a red-hot spoon. Tears started welling in my eyes and my head started to ache. I hadn't argued with my mother this intensely since I was in high school.

Finally, mami decided that I wasn't worth her time (which, at that point, I couldn't have been happier about) and passed the reciever off to my level-headed father, who proceeded to ask me some difficult questions. Why do I want to leave Veterinary Medicine to begin with? What kind of jobs can I get with a degree in Archaeology? Am I just picking Journalism because "numbers scare me?"

By the time I hung up the phone, I was fairly certain that if I spat toward the ground, it would float back up and hit me square in the face. I didn't know anything anymore.

Later that night, I couldn't sleep. I would like to say that I couldn't nod off because of the volume of deep, profound thoughts running through my head, but that would be a bold-face lie. I was coughing. Hackety-hacking the night away (my neighbors almost certainly heard the chorus of "Cough. COUGHCOUGHCOUGHCOUGH. Owww.." the whole night through).

If it wasn't for the cough, I wouldn't have thought at all, as I am wont to do. However, given the opportunity, I allowed myself to mull over what my father and I had talked about earlier. About three hours later, I had come to a conclusion and formulated another excellent idea: I have no idea what I want to do with my life. Why not take a year off from University and travel the world? That would give me plenty of time to decide. I was so convinced that my parents would applaud my swift thinking and agree that I should take the time to clear my head.

The next morning (or day, considering when I finally got out of bed), before I even got a chance to tell them of my plans, I started chatting with my wonderful sister on MSN:

My brother has Hepatitis C. Paired with several other factors concerning this diagnosis, things don't look too good for him.

This revelation just cinched the saddle on the horse that I had planned to ride out of town. A good sister would want to stay around and be supportive, but now all I want to do is run. Call it weak, but I just can't handle this right now.

I put on my headphones, connected them to my Zen, played the song that has always reminded me of Karoly and lay on my bed, staring at the ceiling and falling into such a trance that I was sure my heart had stopped beating. And then I cried.

When that was all over, I went about business as usual. I plastered a smile on my face so that my friends wouldn't suspect anything was wrong (being miserably ill helps with this, since you pretty much always look like crap anyway). I went to dinner, came back and had a movie and hot cocoa night with my mijas, studied a bit (only as much as absolutely necessary; I'm sick, damn it!), and finally picked up my phone.

I started by approaching the subject of why my parents hadn't told me about my brother. I couldn't help but feel betrayed--I tell them everything! When I felt that I had successfully spoon-fed them a sufficient amount of my own special recipe of guilt, I told them about my plans to travel. That, if I was away from all of the pressure of having to declare as soon as possible, I would make a decision that I wouldn't end up regretting later.

The change in the tone of their voices was kind of eerie. It became robotic and monotone. I told them that I had planned to be a counselor at Jewish summer camp to accumulate money for my plane ticket if they wouldn't help me out. This didn't impress them much, so I switched tactics: I made small-talk. Small-talk about how cold it is outside, small-talk about my pets, small-talk about my doctor's appointments and my studies.

Their voices didn't change. By the time I hung up, I felt like I was talking to a machine--like the things that you get on the other end of the line when you call a major bank. They told me they loved me, but they couldn't have sounded any less sincere.

Have I really been that much of a disappointment?

Even more disturbing: have I been lying to myself? Do I, in fact, need affirmation from my parents when it comes to making decisions that will, ultimately, effect the rest of my life?

I do know one thing: I am going to run. I'm going to run as soon as I can and not look back until I have my thoughts in order.