Despertar

great expectations

In the car, on the way back to school after my escapist weekend, my father lit into me for being the most ungracious, most ungrateful, the whiniest, teariest, weakest excuse for an intelligent person he's ever known. (This after I spent basically the whole two days crying, and crying, not about Justin, after a point, but about Justin at first, and then about everything else.)

When he was in law school, his first semester was punctuated by a string of tragedies: his own spinal meningitis, his mother's hospitalization, his brother's bullet wound, his uncle's death. During that time, he supposedly only missed three days of school, for illness; that's how strong his drive was, so strong it penetrated all sorts of physiological resistance. Somewhere in there, he met my mother, who was studying over at the business school, and held onto her through graduation, and by the time he was done with it all, he had a prestigious degree, a post-grad employment engagement, a beautiful wife and the satisfaction of knowing he had personally toiled to achieve what he had wanted more than anything.

His expectation, when I was three and reading/five and multiplying/eleven and acing standardized tests geared toward high school seniors, was that I would grow up and be just like him, with the will and the ability to succeed at anything I ever wanted to do. Furthermore, he expected that what I wanted to do would be something lucrative and meaningful. When I was little, I wanted to be a child psychiatrist. When I was medium, I wanted to be a doctor. By the time I graduated from college, it was kind of, okay fine, I'll go to law school. I don't think he would have ever been pleased if I had wanted to be a fast food manager, or a bank teller, or a custodial worker, because to his way of thinking, you don't need a particularly able mind to approve nuggets or count money or mop floors.

And at this point, my own expectations are all mixed up with his, to the point where I can't remember whether I actually agree with him on that point, that for me to settle for something rote and unstimulating would be a waste, or whether I only agree because he's drilled that into me, and maybe it's principally wrong. But no, he's probably right, isn't he? I can get by under just about any academic circumstances as long as the Marcus or the Justin of the day is working out--therein lies the problem; it's nothing to do with the substance of actual school--so if I were a fast food manager, I would be definitely bored and underchallenged, and if the Marcus or Justin of the day weren't working out, I would hate my life at least as much as I would as a judge or a neurosurgeon. And I guess I've romanticized babymaking to the point where I overlook how fundamentally unfulfilling stay-at-home momming would be once the kids were old enough to be any kind of independent, and how screwed I'd be once they were gone from the nest...

Ugh, I just deleted three paragraphs because they were intruding on "pathos" and "offertoire" territory.

I don't know why I ever talk to my dad about anything. I mean, I do know. He bullies me to talk when I don't really want to, then he condemns whatever I have to say or counters it with a gigantic lecture, then he bullies me to go on, I hesitate and tell him I don't like the way he's responding, he tells me not to get defensive.

The point is, I'm twenty-three and I haven't yet met any of his expectations with a vengeance, and I'd like to know what that feels like, just once, to find out whether actually pleasing my dad, which right now feels like the reward at the end of a secondary system of currency, comes even close to the feeling of being really wanted by someone, by Justin. Because Academic Excellence definitely doesn't do it.

I sound like a broken record, and I already know I'm going to get a million comments in my inbox, and I already know what they're going to say, but just this time, skip it, please. I already know I'm weak and too externally motivated. I just spent seventy-two hours in crisis over that. And I seriously doubt I'm going to find actual happiness by Walden Pond. Leave me alone.