Lola, the extremely disappointing problem.

On days when most people celebrate family, what about those of us whose familial relationships are rocky? Or worse, what about those whose families are no longer? It's days like these that make it no wonder why so many people become depressed during the holidays.

I was supposed to go to Bandera today for Thanksgiving with my Mexican side of the family, but things got off to a bad start in this house. It was a stupid fight I had with my mom over serious issues. It basically boils down to this - she can't handle the idea that I am not the daughter she meant to have.

I could have been the good daughter like my sister. Go to law school, get a decent boyfriend, be at least a political moderate. But my path differs from that predictable, parental-endorsed one. I'm the "problem," as my mother nicely puts it - smoking in the backyard, running away to a boy's bed, getting my nose pierced (and a tattoo!), fighting for gay rights (why couldn't I just fight for civil rights like my sister, she asks...because gay rights are civil rights, you imbecile!), shedding light on her blind faith. Oh, blow it...I am "extremely disappointing."

Extremely disappointing.

She called me that when I told her about my tattoo. Excuse me, Mrs. C, but since when are tattoos the sign of Satan? Do I not have a 4.0? Did I not just get accepted into the Ghana Maymester? Are graduate schools not already knocking on my door? Do I not plan on joining the Peace Corps when I graduate? Should she not be proud of me?

Why will I never be good enough?

I lie to everyone who asks me if it bothers me that my parents will never approve of me or my lifestyle. I was talking to a good friend of mine the other day and he asked if it upset me when my mom called me disappointing. As I told him no, it's not that big of a deal, I could hear the pain in my own voice. It was so apparent, but he was a dear and didn't push it. But once I discovered that hurt was still clogging my arteries, I finally understood that deep sadness that constantly resides within me.

I'm typically a light-hearted gal, but those close to me probably know that an element of melancholy pervades my being. I'm not usually aware of its presence, but at moments it releases into my veins and I can feel its poison numbing me to the simple joy of being alive. I become ponderous, softly spoken but on-edge. And at certain moments, it releases itself through maybe a crack in my voice or an escaped, forgotten tear.

Not all of this sadness comes from my relationship with my parents. Some comes from the simple fact of being alive, the shock of death and the pains of love. Some of it comes from society's injustice - a woman's voice silenced or a people destroyed. And then some of it emerges from an indescribable area within my spirit. Maybe it remembers past lifetimes full of sorrow and bittersweet joy, or maybe it's simply a genome prone to melancholy.

I suppose the good advice to me would be to live for myself and discount my parents' harsh judgment, while attempting to reconcile my relationship with them. But however much I desire to live independently, free of their insurmountable expectations, I cannot. Instilled during my childhood was a fierce desire to please them, a desire impossible to delete from my profile. And since they are so set in their ways, they will never learn to accept me. Their kind of Christian doesn't accept strong women. It doesn't accept equal rights or freedom of expression. It doesn't accept difference, and therefore it doesn't accept me. They cannot accept a daughter who they believe is destined for hell.

Try as I might to stay positive to religion, I keep blaming their close-mindedness on their fierce devotion to a strict sect of Christianity. They only know half of my "sinfulness," so what will they do when they discover the rest? The worst would be for them to pull financial support and disown me...and my father's Mexican machismo combined with his religion completely makes that possible. Mexicans defend their daughters' virtue with guns and Christians treat "blemished" girls like the plague.

I'm thinking of returning to Austin tomorrow and spending the weekend in sinful embrace. For now, I'll watch Iron & Wine on a taped episode of ACL and ponder.