So you think you have family problems?
What? Your parents are alcoholics? Abusive? Don't hug you enough? Boo hoo. Go find a shrink and whine about it. Come to think of it, I've got two for you, and they are my parents. Need a referral?
How about this, let's trade. Please, even just for a week. Go ahead. Try having two practicing, clinical psychologists for parents. Then we'll talk.
Sure, they'll tell you every day how much they love you. And hugs, good Lord I get lots of hugs. For the love of God, I've had the number for child protective services since I was five years old, and have been under strict parental orders to call it at any point if I felt abused.
Doesn't sound so bad, right? Wrong! There's a catch. Everything I do-every little transgression-is analyzed, judged and clinically diagnosed. In high school, I was a "dope addict." Now, I'm an "alcoholic"-and only because they can't prove anything else. During my senior year of high school, their solution was to condition my enrollment at Duke with the successful passing of piss tests. This morning, my dad suggested I check out an AA meeting, and that I'm going to find my monetary supply curtailed significantly. He called my antics a "problem." And my tendency toward risk-taking behavior-well, duh-that's a personality disorder.
Then there are the talks. My parents don't simply punish. They want closure, they want sincerity and they want to beat a dead horse into the ground until it stops twitching.
I'll admit, I'm not the simplest of children. I've probably done enough in my adolescence to shave a few years off my parents' lives-let alone what they will never know about. Looking back, most of it seems funny to me. However, I don't think my mom laughs when she recalls the time I spent the morning of my 21st birthday getting my head sewn up in a makeshift Spanish clinic, or the day I called to tell her I was stuck in Santa Barbara because I lost my cell phone, friend's cell phone and our only set of car keys over the Fourth of July weekend. They've never let me forget about those two unfortunate strokes of bad luck.
My sister thinks I do it on purpose-that I actually gain a personal satisfaction by pissing my parents off. Well, OK, maybe a little. I've never been one to respond well to rules and punishment. Admittedly, my natural tendency has always been to find a way around, through or underneath unfavorable terms. And when all else fails, I'll make my acquiescence as painful as possible for my oppressors. According to Dr. Belzer, I live my life in loopholes. And that, in his words, is no way to live. But hey, at least I'm going to law school.
So here I am, set to graduate Duke with above-average standing and staring down the barrel of a three-year rear-end kicking. Not to mention the prospect of a career slaving away behind a desk crunching contracts. Pardon me if I want to live it up while I can still get away with it.
My dad says I need to re-evaluate my life, but I have. The analysis: Time is running out. The real world is coming, and if I want to borrow the car and drive to Vegas for the night-well, I'll deal with the minor consequences.
At this rate, by my third year of law school, my parents will be threatening to check me into rehab for cocaine abuse. Lucky for them I hate pills and am scared to death of needles.
Meanwhile, Daniel needs a job and there will be a collection can with my name on it outside The Chronicle office. Donations appreciated.
Dan Belzer is a Trinity senior. His column runs every other Thursday.
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