Sometimes I wish my parents were divorced and despised each other. I hate it when they gang up on me, combining and morphing into some pestering super-human blob of criticism and judgment. Why is it that as a “Young Adult”, I am entitled to my own vampire fixated genre of literature, large enough to occupy five book shelves at Barnes and Noble, yet when it comes to my parents, I am entitled to only slightly more rights than a house cat. Humans are genetically predisposed to loving their parents. It’s what has allowed our species to live on along the evolutionary process. Our love for them, attaches us to our parents who protect us so we can survive until adulthood and have children of our own. This little tidbit from my AP Biology textbook is what leads to believe that I am broken. I do love my parents despite the fact that sometimes they make me want to gauge my eyes out, but they don’t make me feel protected. I look to them and I don’t see defenders but rather, enemies, swords ready to cut me down. It’s strange that I chose swords for that metaphor and not machine guns. How very medieval. I don’t even think of myself as the hero being pursued by enemies. In my own metaphor for my relationship with my parents, they are noble knights slaying me, the evil one. I am a murderous fire-breathing dragon or a cruel witch perhaps. That’s the way they make me feel, like an enemy of the state. Sometimes I try to run to my room and declare sanctuary, like I saw Esmeralda do in the church in The Hunchback of Notre Dame when I was younger. I locked my door and refused to speak to them. Little did I know how easy it would be for them to call a locksmith and take the door off its hinges? Now I have no door on my “sanctuary”. Absolutely no privacy. Apparently, I lost my right to that. Like I said, me and the cat have pretty much the same status.