I woke feeling just as bad as I had when I went to sleep. As usual on New Year's Eve, I cry because my dad is once again displaying his ungrateful behaviour and ranting about something. And because I still feel everything is a bit pointless and really I'd just like to concentrate on HaShem. Every single New Year dad displays this behaviour of venting and moodiness and childishness. Well, I guess I finally snapped. I went to bed and cried and wondered how much effort it would take to slice my wrists open with a kitchen knife. You don't get to be less mature than your kid, I'm sorry you just don't.
So I woke and he comes into my room and wants to rant about his dad yesterday at the get together with our neighbour, because my pa didn't want to discuss religion and removed himself from the conversation. I say he had every right to remove himself if he had no interest in it. Dad says, 'You're really that tired?' and walks out (no, I have no idea what that was supposed to mean either).
A few hours later and I'm up lighting candles. He comes in and says he wants to talk. By my demeanour and my attitude I am quite obviously not in the mood for that. He asks me how I am. I say I spent all last night thinking about how much effort it would take to slice myself open and die. He leaves, goes to his room, comes back and says,
'I've checked. You can't die, you're not insured. I can't afford to put you in the ground.'
Me: 'This is what a parent is not supposed to say.'
Dad: 'Oh me? What I'm supposed to do...me....'
Me: '...Yeah.'
The whole time I'm not looking at him. I'm concentrating on the now lit candles because quite frankly I don't want to look at him. He then starts to go on about what is he supposed to do? Get people to come in, look at me, declare it a scene and go about blaming the family because they should have seen it coming.
Me: 'No, you're supposed to be upset.'
Him: 'I wouldn't really be upset. I understand, I feel like that...' (etc.)
Me: 'It's great to know that neither of my parents would be upset if I killed myself.'
Eventually, he goes into his room and grabs a knife and starts waving it in-front of me and mocking me further and I tell him to go away three times. He doesn't. So I go downstairs, past my grandparents and lock myself in the bathroom.
He eventually comes down and they ask what is going on. He simplifies the situation to such a degree as to basically make it look as though I'm being flippant. From behind the door I say he was waving a knife at me and insulting me. He had called me a religious nutcase (he called me this several times throughout the day) and all sorts. At that point my grandparents realised dad had been a jerk and they basically told him to get lost and that's kind of the worst way ever to deal with that kind of thing.
Eventually my pa needed to pee so I came out and spoke with nana. I said I'm not being funny but I have two [redacted] parents who I kind of really want in my life but they are both nutcases. Occasions like this make that clear. Dad came down again and asked what's up. I was frank and said he's an alcoholic. He denied this and my nana joined my side saying he is. He's selfish, mean and rants on and on and is idle. This is all true and she wasn't saying it for her own health. Dad, instead of owning it, turned it into a full blown shouting match. Long story short, he went upstairs to his room only to come back down and ask me completely irrelevant questions, just to try to annoy me and insult me further. My answer was 'Because I like to [wear this style clothes].' And he wouldn't take it and still kept going on. So I grabbed the kitchen roll that was on the table and hit him over the face with it. I remember doing this only once but the family say I did it over and over again. I then went back into my bathroom hideaway because he still wouldn't shut up or own his alcoholism (I'm not being funny but he's had a drink problem since before he was my age; so at least 3 decades).
Then he leaves again and I eventually go back into my room after dinner and he's taken all my knives. So each time I passed his bedroom door (he went to bed) I kicked it like a mule. He sits up there and rants loudly to himself about us because he knows we can hear him downstairs. He did this over dinner.
I hate him.
I want my knives.
I want my dad to stop drinking.
Why must every day our of lives be fraught with his moodiness and his temper?
You know sometimes I wish I really were a Cyberman. Then I wouldn't have to deal with any of this. There are people out there who have decent parents, even two! And me? I get this. Is there any wonder I want to kill myself? I mean, seriously?
