I hate when my family and I are watching a movie and I laugh at a part, and look around to find that nobody else is laughing.
An Ode To My Parents
I am sitting here in my living room among two people I hate more than words can properly describe. These two people, I’m sorry to announce, are my father and stepmother, two people who should be supportive and loving towards me. Sadly, they are not. My father is publicly massaging my ugly stepmother’s back with sensual oils that smell like disgusting soap and she’s moaning and grunting like a hog in satisfaction. Neither of them really seem to give a shit that I am here, but my “shit” music needs to be turned off. I am fucking sick of both of these people.
I began to lose respect for them… wow. I cannot for the life of me remember. I’ve just always felt…disgust. I see either of them and groan. I would come home from school, and environments I’ve hated far worse, and feel upset and wish I could just go back to my fucking torture out of the house. I have grown tired of their skewed image of what is best for me. They don’t know shit about me. They have never known anything about me. They make such big plans for me that I do not want for myself.
My stepmother has told me before that I would not be able to get far with an art degree. Art would get me nowhere, according to her. I have wanted nothing more out of life than success in a comics and fame in art. I would die to see my comics make it into the hands of audiences worldwide. I dream of being known in almost every state in America, and she told me that I would not be able to live life with an art career. She told me I should try to think of something that I will be able to actually make money in and live successfully in.
Fuck her.
My father is a stubborn ass with a bull’s head. Inflexible and brainless, he rages about how his children or even his own wife are simply out to get him, to make him angry or feel inadequate. “Let’s piss dad off!” “We hate you dad!” “You’re an idiot, dad!” he mocks us, assuming that these statements are precisely what we think and what fuels every action we make. I know I certainly love nothing more than to make a spiteful evil ogre angry. Such a fucking martyr.
I have heard them having sex, by simply being in the living room or in the kitchen while they were downstairs, in the basement which is also their room. I’ve seen photos on accident that they’ve taken during sex, since they took them on the fucking family camera. Neither of them fucking seemed to care, nor did they understand that it’s fucking traumatized me since then. It is a horrible truth and fact I’ve carried with me for about a year and I’ve been dying inside to release it. Because I fucking hate them both, and their lack of sympathy towards other people that aren’t fucking them.
I have been fucking ridiculed and neglected for too fucking long.
I am fucking going insane.
My “Family”
It’s getting harder and harder to continue living in this house. Every day the desire to just fucking die climbs and climbs. It reigns my thoughts. I’ve never wanted to just cease to be more than I do when I am here. Just fucking here. Screaming and shouting are the only forms of communication. There is no whispering, there is no talking, there is no consoling or fixing the problem. There is only screaming and shouting, and roaring, to get a point across, and shrieking, to tell you that you are worth nothing.
I want to report him to someone. I even openly discussed his form of emotional abuse to my sister. He listened. All he had to say in response was “I am just dealing what you give to me.” As if we make his life so fucking horrible that he has to emotionally and verbally abuse us. What logic. What a smart man. I want to report him but he jokingly said once that he’d break both my hands before I could get to the phone. He laughed. I didn’t.
Tears stream down my face and I look around my room, desperate for a magical way out. But I know that the only way out of this house from here is to go out my door, walk down the stairs, and face him, probably, before I get out the door. He’ll talk to me, for hours on end, telling me why I should be putting family first and not friends or myself. Why friends will abandon me sometime in life but family will “always be here for me.”
I have never counted on the demons in this house more than I have counted on my friends. Truly angels in disguise, they help, nonjudgingly. When I report my problems to my father or stepmother, they tell me it is all my fault and I shouldn’t feel that way to begin with, and how it will fucking affect me being in college or getting a job in the real world.
I wish that just once life were more than a fucking job or fucking college or how I fucking ruined the entirety of the family with my “bullshit.”
I wish I lived with my friends instead of this dysfunctional “family.”
