Tag Archives: family

Family Charybdis Syndrome

I have several half-brothers and sisters. As far as I know, I have no full siblings, and, as far as I know, that doesn’t matter in the full scheme of things. Well, actually, one picture-taking day, my mom asked for a picture with just Dad’s kids, the dad who is not my biological dad. The older brother there and I chose not to make a fuss, ever. Well, until now I suppose.  At the moment we let our four younger siblings and the step-sister that Dad had recently reconnected with take their together, without us.

That was a time where it made a difference. Yea, my other siblings, the four who are full, had once teased me once or twice or a dozen times that I wasn’t their real sister because I was only half. But they were extremely stupid kids and I was ‘too sensitive’. Plus, I could punch them in the arm or face when I was feeling a bit irritated.

Of course, I couldn’t do that to my mom. Well,  I could, but I wouldn’t. Would I have, then? No, of course not. I can’t remember. I remember more that my mind had gone blank, and I had to hold in my profound annoyance because Older Brother was acting pretty cool about it, but I knew he was just as upset. At least, I learned later he was.

I try not to dwell on it when I see the family pictures hung on the walls. All the pictures with themes- females, males, kids… Dad’s kids only club.

head scratch gif


Took an unexpected turn there. Ah, but you wouldn’t know, now would you?

So, I’mma take another turn, back to where I wanted to start. Let’s broaden this out a bit. I recently had a long conversation with my siblings about our family. Just the immediate, no intensive talks on cousin and aunts just yet. Older brother and I tried to break through a wall of delusions. Not only that, I have a drastically different way of looking and dealing with the world than my siblings, and they do from each other.

We were Facebook messaging. It had all six of us in the beginning, but Youngest Brother (I have two younger brothers) can’t take criticism to the nth degree and jumped ship at the least bit of pushback to his lifestyle. Before, we had invited back those of us that had left, accidentally or otherwise, but we didn’t for him, and there was nothing in this conversation that would have had him stay.

Unimpressed gif

The conversation started with talking about our parents claiming certain people on taxes. Anyway, it got to the point that I was complaining how I wanted my cut of whatever they got, because they get money for me, and I didn’t see a goddamn dime.  I’m sure they used it in some fashion, but I doubt they used it better than what I would have used it for. That’s a whole other can o’ WTF.

I don’t trust my parents to give me what I’m due without a lot of pushback, and my sister was certain that I would have been given my cut. After years of that not happening for nearly all things, I still don’t believe it will be given to me so easily. I’m thinking now, that that was how it has always been for me. Perhaps, it’s always been easier for Younger Sister (I have two younger sisters). She asks, and she’ll just get it, and she thinks it’ll be just as easy for me. I actually think it was harder than Younger Sister 1 made it out to be. In any case, I’m not going to risk it. It’s a long bus ride home to risk not getting what I came for.

She tried to tell me not to come over just to watch Game of Thrones (which I did, I admit), and maybe I’ll be more comfortable with asking them for stuff. That’s probably true, but, again, it’s too long of a bus ride to think so optimistically.

Then she said this:

Screenshot 2014-05-18 13.27.49

Puck angry

Again with this shit!

However, to spoil it on ahead, Elder Brother and I made headway this time. At least with Younger Brother (not Youngest Brother who jumped ship).

Let me give you some background. Younger Sister and Younger Brother both have (or had) the idea that our general dislike of our parents was from lack of forgiveness in our hearts for the things they have done in the past, and that all the bitterness in our hearts are self-inflicted grudges that can all be resolved if we just let it go (Don’t).

Older Brother and I think we were abused. Well, not think, it’s science. We were abused. And that abuse was multiplied by the fact that they didn’t treat the other kids the same. Point in fact: Older Brother was often called sensitive when he was younger, and was just generally hit and yelled at all the time and teased because he was so sensitive and Dad had  a free hand whenever he was the least bit irritated. My parents were all about sparing the rod and spoiling the child, but they weren’t good at it, just as that quote is mostly shit to justify beating the crap out of four-year-olds.

I would like you to muse over this a moment: Older Brother is 3 years older, so I barely remember him and his relations with others when he was, and I might be pushing it, 7. And things have really stuck with me only beginning my third year of school, so he was about about 11 or twelve. Imagine not knowing ten years of a sibling’s life. What have I missed? What view do I truly have?

Now, Younger Sister is a year younger than me. And Younger Brother is three years younger than I am. What the fuck do we know about how Dad treated Older Brother when he was four and five and six? Who are we to say that he’s lying, and I, and I’m so sorry, I used to think most of the way about Elder Brother. When I came to terms with my own abuse, I began to realize that it was highly unlikely he was just making shit up.

Back to my point: Younger Brother is MUCH MUCH more sensitive than Older Brother. Remember, when we told him he needs to take care of his diabetes more, for example, on Facebook, he was like, fuck all of us, I hate being pointed out for my suicidal flaws. But let me tell you, everyone walks on eggshells with this dude. He is just as violent as my father used to be (and Younger Sister) with a dash of drama by calling the police or wanting to get spoonfed by some poor dimwit of a counselor and get everyone involved. Heavens forbid you tell him to clean his chore, or room, or body or to stop hogging the bathroom FOR HOURS listening to dubstep.

And what do the parentals do for this, like really? Nothing. Dad won’t touch him or talk to him, and Mama doesn’t either. He needs psychological help, but our parents can’t afford it (or don’t want to, or don’t believe he has a problem like that. More on that piece of juicy bit later).

But let me sideline again: I came over one day, and the living room was a bit of a mess. It’s usually a mess because Younger Brother uses it as his mancave, leaving his clothes and trash and dishes wherever they fall. Mother came downstairs and told me and Youngest Sister, “Be sure y’all clean this mess up.”

Neither one of us said anything. When she was out of hearing shot, Youngest Sister snorted. We later talked about it: How could she treat us so differently? Youngest Brother can make an absolute hellhole of the place, not a peep. But I come over to visit and I must clean the living room? Needless to say, neither Youngest Sister nor I cleaned it.

That was sometime last month, April. April 2014. In April 2014, my mother was still doing the same shit she has been doing all my life. Foisting responsibilities on me because I was more malleable to do as she told. Of course, I don’t live in the house and I can just leave (HALLELUJAH) and I don’t have to worry about them keeping things from me. The tax money doesn’t count since they don’t regular give that to me. I’m thinking more on the lines of electricity… Or computer time… Grounding? Yea, something like that. So I left, and Youngest Brother went back in the living room that afternoon, and Youngest Sister knew Ma wasn’t going to tell her to clean it without risking have to tell Youngest Brother as well. I think the living room is still unclean to this day.

oh well gif


So we have different views of how life went because of our age differences, and we know for a fact that our parents treat us differently and have made some mistakes when raising us. One of their mistakes was being kind of inconsistent:

Screenshot 2014-05-18 14.35.23


But things changed to The Point of No Return with Younger Brother’s post (for me at least):

Screenshot 2014-05-18 14.40.43

And that gave Dad the right to beat the shit out of us, I suppose. Things get really hectic from here on, but that first sentence. Now, our Dad is one of the most manipulative people ever, and so is our Mom. They have these stupid ways of talking that make you say, come on, really? Are you really saying that? Then they are quick to call one sensitive or misunderstanding when in reality they are being assholes. They also have a way of blaming everyone when it’s their fault, etc.

TL;DR: There’s no way Younger Brother was never manipulated.



No way.

But this is where it gets into a sinking hole of family. I don’t usually make sweeping generalizations. (Everyone’s a brat, everyone has something wrong with them, we all can say mean things) They do absolutely nothing. It might help for someone who is confused, but I’m not confused, and I don’t need generalizations to bring it all into focus.

But just in case you don’t have the focus in ya crosshairs, everyone’s perspective is warping reality. Yes, of course, Older Brother and I feel as if we are closer to reality.

For example, Dad used to call Younger Sister a slut a lot (and was always scared of his sons being fags and me being nutzoid/crazy/think-you’re-smart-but-you’re-actually-stupid) or some variation of slut. I’ve also told her those same words, although I’ve never seen her have sex. I’ve also called my brothers those mean words, and some of them have called me bad names as well. And round and round it goes. Six of us. Plus Dad, and Ma that stands in the background or something.

Let me share these things Younger Sister said:

Screenshot 2014-05-18 14.58.11 Screenshot 2014-05-18 15.01.22 Screenshot 2014-05-18 15.02.02 Screenshot 2014-05-18 15.02.14


scream gif

I don’t mince words. But look at that! This is us, one of us kids, saying with pure conviction the completely unreal statement of how she put me and Dad on the same level.

And this is the crux of the matter. Everyone did something so everyone just take the blame onto themselves and forgive everyone else and we’re all equal and we’ll have peace.

Except Younger Sister is all about physical retribution and can’t let things go when she needs to. She lets the anger get the best of her and always feels justified because that other person should have done something.

Also, Youngest Brother is driving Younger Sister insane with his shit. She keeps saying stupid stuff like beating him up will help (no this is no joke. She keeps saying that as if it’s an actual solution even though she has PHYSICALLY FOUGHT DAD, and she still is in the house thinking the same way she has since she was nine, with a kid, and one on the way).

Thing is, she doesn’t think people’s actions or words really influence anyone (she believes any beating she received when young was earned and it was all her fault), which is exactly the sort of shit our parents would say, which was what I was saying when I was in the house, which I believe Younger Brother is soon to stop saying, which Youngest Sister (who did not come into the conversation except to ask if we hated Dad, even after we said multiple times we didn’t hate him. I didn’t bother answering her. I have no patience for laziness) says.

They all also make these generalizations that try to equalize everyone’s faults, but with the glaring thumb that is Youngest Brother, it’s easier to point out that not everyone’s mistakes are on the same level, and I refuse to tolerate that which goes beyond The Point of No Return.

Cant remember name is confusedThere is so much more to say. But being out of that house, out of that soul-sucking environment where your mental capacities for stupidity and wrongness are pushing the pressure gauges, where you put your mind through gymnastics to makes sense of the reality, I realize that leaving may be the only way to begin to heal from such a childhood where we didn’t know any better.


INTENTION! vs. impact… Fucker, do you understand?!

Boulders Tumblr


Let me start off by saying that I intend to make a big impact however I can as long as I live. I will be posting some things in the next few days that will make some readers uncomfortable, and the best thing you can do in that case is hide away and read something that will stroke your deflated ego. That’s what I’ll surmise in any case.

My sister worked on a farm in June. It was  a very lovey-dovey, sensitive sort of shindig where they sat in a circle and had self-improvement meetings, and some people were fired for saying the word ‘crap’ too much. I worked there a few years ago. Nobody was fired and I don’t remember not being allowed to say crap.

I also  don’t quite remember one particular aspect of the program: Intention versus Impact, though it may have been part of the work and influenced me.

As I’ve come to embrace it, sometimes you intend something and your impact is something different, and, in any case, you should accept your impact and, if it is something you didn’t intend, own up, and try to make it something like how you meant it.

Problem is, some people get defensive when someone takes their intention the wrong way- anyone would. Biggest problem is that they sometimes never own up to it and say: Oh, that’s not what I meant at all! Sorry it sounded that way. For example:

I made a big ol’ bowl of Cream of Wheat some time ago. I always make a big bowl because I don’t eat much. When I do, I try to eat a sizable meal that’ll last me until I remember to eat again, but not that I’ll be super hungry when I do, for I may not be in the position to eat. After it’s all been lifted poured into a bowl, my brother makes the comment: “That’s a big bowl of Cream of Wheat”


Actually, I may have watered down what he said, but I don’t want to misquote him negatively just in case I have him wrong, so the neutral position it is. As you might have guessed, I figured he was making fun of me and I asked him to clarify what he meant.

He said he didn’t mean anything about it.

Now this was after a conversation I had with my dad, and also after one with my older brother, where I’m sure both meant well, but it didn’t feel that way to me. And afterwards I had another conversation with my dad and brother (same one as Cream of Wheat) where I’m sure they thought they meant well, but it definitely wasn’t. Objectively, wasn’t.

With the conversation with Dad and Older Brother (hey, I’ve already a post on both of these conversations, actually!) in the back of my mind, I told my brother about Intention! versus impact… Basically saying that he might say one thing, but it means or sounds like something else.

MeaningLittle Bro #1 is one of those guys who gets offended but tries to play it off, but is really bad at it. Kind of like when my sister lies. (Which is pretty funny because she’s a terrible, terrible liar but lies all the time). As we went back and forth, I told him: “When you say stuff like that, it sounds… off. Kind of like if I were to say, “Wow, your stomach is so big!”

“But that’s rude. You obviously mean something else.”

“EXACTLY. I’m asking, what do you mean when you say I have too much Cream of Wheat?” (I’m getting a feel for the original quote… But I’ll leave what I had before).

“That doesn’t mean anything though. It’s just a observation!”

Ooooh, okay, yea, sure. And then Dad joined in the conversation and it really went to shit, so I eventually just said, “We’re just going to have to agree to disagree about this” as I thought in my mind that words have meanings and subtleties behind them that not everyone will pick up.

For some reason, Dad got incensed over that, saying somethings before this: “See, that’s what’s wrong with society today”

“OOOOH, okay.” I actually scoffed at him, and a sudden pang went to my heart as I saw little brother’s look of shock and his little backing away. Why should he fear?

“But I’m not going to say nothing about it, because if I do then everyone will-”

I had turned around from washing the pot I had used to cook my food to look at him, lifting an eyebrow at his sudden slide into hypocrisy, as he was wont to do. This time it didn’t happen; he flapped his hands dismissively at me and walked away. Right.

Sure, I may have overreacted (Dad called me over-analytical), but I’m just so surprised at how easily something that can be taken offensively was indeed taken offensively, but they couldn’t understand why I thought something deeper was going on with how big my bowl was. Especially how they kept saying it, in several different ways, and stopping before, indeed, they said what they really meant- at least, that’s how I heard it.

Moving on from there, we’re trying to move. We’ve found this lovely house not far from where my dad works. With how it’s set up, my parents, my sis and my niece, and two others can have their own room. While the last two will bunk up in one. Of course, I want my own room. I do this thing called skipping, I watch porn and other unmentionables, I stay in one room the most out of the family (except maybe Mama) and I stay up later- on the computer or a video game- than everyone else. It just sort of makes sense to get my own room to avoid many conflicts.

So, some days ago, I got into the reasoning with Little Bro#1 (CoW) and he brought up how I should stop skipping. That I should ‘sit down’ and ‘not do it’.

I told him to not act like he cared about my tic because, at that moment, it sounded as if (and I contend it was) he was only pretending to care so he could get his own room. He said he always cared and always was worried about it.


Unfortunately, I’m unable to really see what he said as some well-intention advice.

And he was so upset that I wasn’t convinced he was looking out for my best interests! To be honest, I found it pretty damn amusing that he would think, for a second, that I would believe he was always so worried about my skipping and just happened to try to convince me of it when on the line he could get his own room. Yea, the impact was pretty damn opportunistic.

The Very. Next. Day. Dad went into a lecture about the new house. As usual, when he talks for more than three minutes, the old irritation grew within me and I knew that he would ruin it somehow. He told us older peeps that we’ll need to get jobs and help with the rent (Like we didn’t fucking know that. You didn’t get that expensive-ass house so you could pay for it by yourself. You didn’t tell me how expensive that expensive-ass house was so you could pay for it by yourself. Anyway!) He asked if we understood, and then he explained himself, mostly repeating what he said before.

In my mind, I thought WHY DID YOU ASK IF WE UNDERSTOOD IF YOU WERE GOING TO KEEP TAAAAALKING?! *bangs head against table* This was going to be endless.

Then ol’ Pops got into my skipping- and I thought, yep, here comes the downturn. I could almost hear Lil Bro #1’s eyebrows move.

He told me to skip in the garage, then said that he would rather I not skip, saying he was ‘looking out for me’, that I should ‘find a new hobby’-‘read a book’. “She’s going to be 40 and skipping!” He looks at me and asks, “Is that how it’s gonna be? You’re going to be 40 and skipping back and forth. That’s what you want?”



Yea, Dad. THAT’S what I fuckin’ want! To be able to wake up from a deep sleep with an urge to skip, to not be able to sit down to homework, or a WordPress post because, eventually, I’ll want to skip, to not want to hang out with friends or family because I have the urge to skip, to watch a movie or listen to a new song and unable to FUCKING THINK until I skip. Yea, that’s what I want!


Oh, favorite part: We were actually about to go to Walmart and buy stuff for the 4th. I didn’t answer dad his stupid question, and I didn’t go to Walmart and he said: “I just wish I can talk to them without them clamming shut!”  (to my mother, as they walked to the car).


I would say I’m overreacting, but since then I’ve skipped multiple times. Any questions? Nah. Of course not.

Something funny: My youngest brother, who has a few issues that really makes the atmosphere of our home toxic, and some of my other siblings, plus my mom, had a long talk. Turns out, yes, I’m getting my own room (I didn’t really have any doubts), and so is my younger sister, with whom I have written posts and watched a great deal of anime. Therefore, Lil Bro #1 and #2 have to room together.

By the time I woke up joined the conversation, Youngest Bro was in tears that he wasn’t getting his own room. Things got a little heated and Mother gave a lecture, which YB largely ignored, but something caught on from Mama’s words: That we all deserve to be happy (that’s so sweet, cute and true!) and we all deserve our own room.

I refrained from telling her that yes, sure, we all deserve our own room. However, do some people deserve their own room more than others? Of course. That’s why we didn’t draw straws with rooms. What is hilarious to me is that YB for some time thought he deserved his own room more than me! 



Where Have You Beeeen!

Also: It’s Been a While, and There’s no Sunshine When She’s Gone, etc.


Well, between video games and writing and working and watching anime and sleeping and various mental blockages, I haven’t had the motivation for a proper post about anything. But now I’ve built up. Will I live in Baltimore soon? Will I live long enough in Murfreesboro? How can I possibly stay in glamorous touch with my sister, who has been working her ass off on a farm (the same program I was in 4 years ago!), and what’s in store for me regarding Temple University, either in Pennsylvania or Japan?

What is Intent vs. Impact? Does anyone who doesn’t really understand what this mean actually care?

Does my compulsive liar, selfish being of a sister have mental blockages like me that makes her just as deserving of anyone’s sympathy as I acquire?

Has the shoujo anime market finally ensnared me? With Chihayafuru and Red Data Girl being among the best anime I’ve ever watched, am I finally among the demographic?!

Is appreciating the eye candy in Suisei no Gargantia making me a complete sell-out? Ledo and Amy are so moe! I want to devour them!

The PS3 controller is so much better for me it’s CRAZY. I had about ten wins with Lili in Tekken 6 on the XBox 360. PS3 Tekken Revolution? 81 wins. EIGHTY-ONE FUCKING WINS! I’m getting messages from friggin’ awesome players telling me it was a good game! To see if t was all just flukes, I went back and played Tekken Tag Tournament 2 for the 360. For some reason, my reactions were slower, clunkier, and I made the silliest mistakes. PS4 is definitely in the future.

The Last of Us is awesome so far. I’m taking my time. Also, I’m actually playing online with a shooting game. Never done that before~!

I don’t ever want to work with food again! Secretarial work please and thank you!

I can’t believe I’ve ever believed in god or spirits. The scientific and logical reasoning against it is mind-boggling.

I do not get hangovers.

I did not drop from that high too badly, though I dropped enough to miss the correct time at work, and have a mental breakdown, but I was fine by that evening.

I have very specific tastes in anime art, despite my range of enjoyable things to watch. This mostly has to do with reading yaoi smut.

I need to learn a lot more kanji. I’m translating this BL game and it’s taking forever. Though there are some grammar points that I have to research, it’s looking up the damn kanji that’s just sucking out all my energy.

I need more porn.

Also… The reason why I wanted to make this post:

‘Spanking’  (and etc. plus constant criticism and belittling) over every minor infraction didn’t make me love my parents, or God more, it just made me afraid of them, and all the more determined to get away from them as soon as I possibly could. No mean feat, considering my self-esteem is rock-bottom in my young adult years… I always feel like I’m doing something wrong. 

It also made us much more secretive and deceptive, hiding things from our parents became an art form. Another neat trick considering my mom was nosy as shit, and felt perfectly justified in reading our mail, going through our drawers, etc. To this day lying to my mom dad is an automatic response, no matter the topic…, and I’m usually honest to a fault with everyone else I know. 

So great job No One. Keep up that Christian love, and maybe, just maybe, your spouse will go easy on you in the divorce. 

Quote taken from LDM, changed to reflect me just a bit more. See you soon!

My Bipolar Disorder, Not YOURS

You’ve probably heard the phrase “You won’t really know what it feels like until you experience it” and, oddly, it usually comes about to a person who obviously hasn’t experienced it and has absolutely no understanding of it.

Like when a person of favorable size says around of person of generally unfavorable size, “Sometimes I feel so big. You shouldn’t worry about what other people say about you. You look great how you are.” As you may be aware, favorably sized person has pretty much used bigness as a benchmark of ‘lowness’ in her life. And even if one doesn’t know it consciously, just like this person doesn’t really know what it feels like to be big, a person of generally unfavorable size (or some other unfavorable attribute) can definitely feel the somewhat insulting feeling towards people of their size.

Or someone with Crohn’s reveals that fact- and some person says, “Oh, one time I had food poisoning- and it was the worst thing ever!” I’ve actually… *ahem* roomed with someone with the disease and three people- no joke, my friends- went on about some stomach bug or another. Sure food poisoning and sickness is horrible, but trying to relate to a person’s lifelong disease by referencing a nigh incomparable illness just shows how ignorant you really are.


Of course, I’m not immune to such antics either, though when I recall such instances I don’t think myself cute at all. I do, however, find it cute when I’m the object of  said antics.

So, I have bipolar disorder. When I first realized it fully, I began to notice that it’s not just me being calm and sweet to being depressed- because I knew for certain what that shit felt like, and was quite aware when I was dragging myself through it. No, it wasn’t normal wavelength to flatlining through sludge.

There’s something else. It’s not  ‘angry mode’. I’ve found the most common dichotomy of bipolarity in popular media (including cartoons, especially anime) is Calm/Happy and Psychotic/Angry.

No, my coin has FUCKING ECSTATIC on one side and DEATHLY DEPRESSION on the other. Often, I’m running along the narrow rim of normality, bumping over annoying people and small disappoints and the like before teetering on one side, losing balance, rolling down the wide diameter of one side then a slight rim job and then to the other side until something makes it all stop- a bottle of pills or a really good book or a long walk at 3AM.


What I’ve come up against the most is “Well, everyone has their off days.”

Now, that’s a completely true statement, but how can anyone tell me that after years of trying to stay on the rim, how can anyone even imply that I don’t know the difference between how I feel when I’m having an ‘off day’ or a ‘good day’ or depression and mania?

What bugs me the frickin’ most is that I begin to second-guess myself. My biggest clue that a majorly devastating depression is about to hit is when I begin to roll around in the euphoria-filled wonderland of mania. Mania now feels as recognizable to me as depression, but if I’ve heard that phrase recently I began to count off the good things that have happened to make me have a ‘happy day’.

And that’s how I felt today. I don’t remember who said something ignorant about bipolar disorder- it might have been someone’s post on Facebook or some shit- but I remembered the baseless sentiment and it stuck to me.

When I’m manic, I get the munchies, no weed needed. I’ve been eating constantly, but telling myself that I’ve just gotten off my period (even though I mostly get cravings before my period, and never after), and that I haven’t been eating as well as I should (which has also been true- but I’ve been eating better overall. Nothing as good as when I was eating nearly vegetarian at school, though),

When I’m manic I can’t concentrate. I’ve been multitasking in my free time for almost five days now, unable to spend good time with my sister (on anime or 642 and various other things) or anyone. Even on my computer, I check this, then this, then this, then this. And I’ve been telling myself that all of it is so very fun and no one would be able to stay on task, right?

When I’m manic, I get aroused easily. Now, I’m usually that way… But now I know it’s different, because I wake from sleep too aroused to lie down. I sit at the computer watching a youtube video or reading a comic, planning on going to bed in about half an hour and then BAM, I know I won’t be able to read or hear another word without relief.

When I’m manic, I go into panics over the stupidest things, and one not so stupid thing: I fully understand I’m manic now, and have been for nearly a week and this depression is going to be killer, and there’s absolutely nothing I can do about it. That’s the not-so-stupid thing. Stupid things? Working at Denny’s yesterday, cutting tomatoes, and the way the tomato slices look- the shapes appear within:

Terrifying- But I realized that if the core is thick in the middle, I don't panic
Terrifying- But I realized that if the core is thick in the middle, I don’t panic

They got to be so scary that I stopped slicing tomatoes, diced them, and didn’t look back. The dark is too dark, and I can’t look anyone in the eye, it’s just too much!

I had to stop myself from screaming with delirious joy because we had Taco Bell downstairs, but I couldn’t keep the squeal away when my sister gave me her churro. I laugh out loud because the feeling in my chest is too much to contain, and I bite my arms to stifle the ants beneath my skin. And, hell, I’m too damn sore to do that again, though I can feel my body reeling with that energy.

I just hope I hit bottom within the next three days. I’m off from work. I haven’t been depressed for an extended period since January, and had mild manic attacks since then. But this… This is no ‘happy day’. I’ve been the same thing for fucking months. I’m doubting myself on going to a new school, on ever finding any lovers, of seeing my brother or any type of friend anytime soon, of ever truly liking my sister again or not thinking my dad is not worth talking to- but none of that bothers me at the moment.

But it will when I roll over to the other side, where I go so much more slowly…They won’t be simply ‘bad days’, they will all be the culmination of a goddamned depression  that I simply don’t want to deal with, especially when I’m so alone in it.


“642 Things to Write About” and The Block is Hot

Post 80 starts with prompt 80! Magic!

“It was the first time I killed a man”- Prompt #83 is the best thing I’ve ever written! Some sweet stuff from sissy on Prompt #82! And Ohmahgosh! Cool stuff from her on #84! Much love!

Prompt #80-The cleaning lady

My response:

We had a cleaning lady once. I think she was Hispanic. Anyway, Ma paid her to clean our big house, and do our laundry. I remember thinking it was cool, and it felt nice not having to worry about cleaning, since at that time I was in a phase where I did too much to get my parents’ love and affection.

I remember her being cheerful, and she brought her kid(s) over- though I don’t remember much about them, as you can probably guess.

I remember there being a falling out between Ma and her, and we never had a cleaning lady again.

Her name started with an H, I’m sure.

Sister’s response:

You have to keep a close eye on cleaning ladies. You never know what they’ll do. I remember when my teacher was talking about how he had a cleaning lady/babysitter and she took some figurines. Luckily, he had cameras set up everywhere.

(Bet they had a falling out too. FYI, my sister wasn’t old enough to remember the cleaning lady.)

Prompt #81-Waiting

My response:

I’ve always been told I am a patient person, though I’ve come to realize that perhaps I’m not patient, but I don’t mind for some things, while waiting for others afford me no patience at all.

For example, many times when I’m changing my niece’s diaper, I take off the used one, and then she runs off. Let me tell you, and you know how much I adore my niece, but I gotta admit I have absolutely no patience when she does that. However, she has yet to learn since pretty much everyone else chases after her. Now, I’ll chase after her with a game of run, or outside, even when it’s time to go back into the house. When I’m trying to get a diaper on her, I take no shit. (Sister pointed it out, but no pun intended, haha)

However, I realized the breadth of my patience long ago, particularly in high school. I was the only female on the wrestling team, and after practice was over, we had to weigh ourselves on the single scale in the room. I always went last after about twenty males, and they joked around and stuff like that, largely uncaring that I waited.

I also waited long times for roller coasters when I went to Six Flags. I didn’t go there for no damn teacups- I can get that anywhere. Nothing is better than reliving the hair-raising ups and downs, and telling others that you rode all the big ones. Oh, their incredulous faces!

Sister’s response:

I don’t mind waiting if I have something to do. I do have pet peeve on waiting though. If I’m leaving to go somewhere, and I feel like I’m going to be late, do not keep me waiting! I will get frustrated.

Prompt #82-An estranged mother and son who haven’t seen or spoken to each other in more than twenty years meet in line at the post office in December, arms full of packages to be mailed. What do they say to each other? 

My response:

They recognized each other, but didn’t think the other noticed themselves. The son thought that the dreadlocked hair carrying on down his back , gaged ears and multiple piercings might have have made him unrecognizable while the mother was nearly seventy pounds lighter with a blonde wig and pressed-on nails. The line they were in was for the sole purpose of sending last-minute Christmas gifts, and there were four others there, to make it embarrassing and awkward should either of them make the first move.

The son sucked on his lip ring nervously. He noticed that, much like him, his mother had hardly aged to fifty-six and looked more in her late thirties, while he backed down from that to a good twenty years. She always said that her family had good genes chained up her next cigarette, filling the living room up with smoke that made his asthma so terrible, though he didn’t realize that until much later, in therapy after he left. The therapist also made him realize that he had left his mother, who most likely went to an abusive man when he had gone. The guilt that often flooded him at that realization was swept away.

The mom was in front of him, balancing the gifts that her husband of twenty years had gotten for some girlfriends. Her shoulders felt rigid and achy, and not because of the weight of the packages. The burden, previously feather light, of letting her son go wherever was nearly making her healthy back creak. Twenty years ago her only son had left the house, thinking himself unloved and uncared for. At the time, she didn’t care. He was a few months or so from reaching the age of majority, though her then-boyfriend didn’t want any kids at his place, no matter how old. She was quick to move into his place.

Now, they waited, hoping for the line to get moving so that they wouldn’t have to say anything. But the person in line was rearranging some packages, since a box broke.

The son cleared his throat and saw his mother twitch and look behind quickly before looking away again. Then he knew. And she knew. He knew she knew. He cleared his throat again. She knew he knew.

“Who are the packages for?” he asked quietly.

“Girlfriends. And the old boyfriend- he’s my husband now” The curtness made her sad for some reason.

“Rita and Tanya?” Frankly, the son was surprised they were still together.


“You’re still friends with them?” The bitterness in his voice was inescapable, all the same.

She steeled herself against the accusation. “Yea.”

The boxes were all fixed, and the line was moving.

“Big earrings you got,” she said. “I’ve seen a lot of young folk wearing them.”

“I got them a long time ago.”

“They all droopy when they come out?”

“Yea.” He winced as he used the short response.

She turned around  to see them and everything clearly. He watched her eyes roam. He saw a tattoo across her chest that wasn’t there before. It was of a cross.

When she nodded and turned around, it was her turn. She got her stuff done and left. A bit disgusted, the son followed suit, but when he went outside, she was there waiting.

She held out a card. A gift card for iTunes. Seventy-five dollars. His chest tightened. With it, he still fumbled around for the pair of earrings that were supposed to go to his boyfriend’s niece, wrapped in superfluous paper in some bag. They were real gold.

They exchanged gifts.

“You welcome at the place,” she said over her shoulder, walking in the opposite direction, to the same car she’s always had.


He didn’t wince this time, and she wasn’t sad anymore.

Sister’s response:

Mother: “Yes, I’ll like to deliver these.”

Postman:” Okay….. I’m sorry, this one doesn’t have a name.”

Mother: “Oh, I’m sorry. Make that out to “Todd Stanfill.”

*a man behind the woman turns away from the person he’s talking to*

P: And who are you?

M: I’m Clara Stanfill.

P: Clara? As in Clara T. Stanfill?

M: Yes?

P: There are a bunch of mails and packages for you. Like, twenty years’ worth. The manager wanted to throw them all away after Christmas. Good thing you’re still here. Please stay, I’ll be right back.

M: Okay…

*postman comes back with three boxes full of stuff*

P: Here. They’re all from the same person. Todd Campbell. There are more boxes.

M: Who’s that?

P: I’m sorry, he wanted me to say Todd… Steinfield? No… Stinfull? No…

Man: Stanfill!

*mother turns around, wide eyes in tears*

M: Todd?

Todd: Mom?


Prompt #83-Write a scene that begins: “It was the first time I killed a man.”

My response:

it was the first time I killed a man. (Last time, too, I hope. I heard it gets easier the more you do it, and I don’t want to be the kind of guy that does it all the time. Don’t wanna be no gangster or hitman, you know. And I told the police this. For some reason, they seemed awful confused about me and my confession. I told him how I drove the car, that guy ran across the street and I pressed the break and it broke something awful and I went full speed into the boy and he crashed into my windshield and bounced off the top and landed somewhere behind. I got out to fill out insurance papers for damages (Here the policeman told me you don’t fill out insurance papers for this sort of thing and he called a doctor and I told them I didn’t need no doctor and I was fine and they gave me a smile and I thought that was awful nice of them to smile though it was the first time I killed a man (Last time, too, I hope. I heard it gets easier the more you do it, and I don’t want to be the kind of guy that does it all the time. Don’t wanna be no gangster or hitman, you know. And I told the police this. For some reason, they seemed awful confused about me and my confession. I told him how I drove the car, that guy ran across the street and I pressed the break and it broke something awful and I went full speed into the boy and he crashed into my windshield and bounced off the top and landed somewhere behind. I got out to fill out insurance papers for damages (Here the policeman told me you don’t fill out insurance papers for this sort of thing and he called a doctor and I told them I didn’t need no doctor and I was fine and they gave me a smile and I thought that was awful nice of them to smile though it was the first time I killed a man (Last time, too, I hope.

Sister’s response:

It was the first time I killed a man. I regret nothing. I’m glad he’s gone. Now I can have everything he owns. And the best part about it? No one suspects a thing.



“Your step-father’s will?”

“Yes, about getting his stuff, right? No… My father’s stuff. Because, you know, he took it from him before he died.”

“Uh, yea, I think we’re done here. What are you going to do?”

“I’ll give it to my mother. I’m sure she’ll want them back.”


Prompt #84-Write a scene in which a person is leaving a restaurant with her husband and bumps into a former lover. What words are exchanged or not exchanged? What do her body positions say?

My response:

Donald knew his wife did not enjoy the meal, and he felt an extreme annoyance towards the dastardly waiter for not checking the food. All he needed to do was look down at the plates just once, for more than eight seconds, and realize the corn wasn’t the one she wanted. It should have been obvious if he had committed to memory that she wanted baby corn, not loose corn. And now she was irritated, and she would irritate Donald, and Donald will have to strangle an imaginary puppy.

In her stiff strides, she ran into a man, or more like banged him with her shoulder. The man turned around angrily and yelled, “Princess!”

She snapped back so quickly, bringing up a hand to show a quite universal sign of affection, and her fingers crumpled a bit. Within two seconds, the slight shock on her face melded itself into a snarl, and the hands curled at her sides. Donald’s been hit by those hands, and he would pinch her if she got too crazy.

She pushed her chin forward, eyes simply flashing dangerously. “Seems like dog is trying out some new treats?”

Donald suddenly recognized Doug. He began to strangle the puppy in earnest.

“And princess has a new knight in shining armor?”

A woman came up to Doug and whispered with wide, pretty eyes, “Is this Princilla?”

“Yea, this is princess.”

“Hello, Doug…” Donald said reluctantly, trying to keep the conversation civil and undramatic. “And?”

“Precious,” the lady introduced herself with an expression that implied strangling perhaps a cat.

The way they had forever poisoned each other seemed to seep into the energies of Donald and Precious, and their eyes said that to each other, while the seething banter continued between Doug and Princilla. She pulled on his wrist, he pulled on her arm but it wasn’t until they were yelling at each other at the top of their voices did they stop.

That waiter had come by to tell them that they were banned. This was the third time this month that they knocked into each other there and everyone, everyone had had enough.

While leaving for the last time, Donald imagined a cat, a sweet little thing, with big pretty eyes.

Sister’s response:

*Couple 1, walking in- couple 2, walking out* Couple 1 bumps into Couple 2*

C1, man: Oh, excuse me.

C2, man: No problem.

*both keep walking*

C1, woman: Wait. *abruptly stops husband*

C1, m: What is it?

C1, w: Nothing… I thought… Nothing.

C2, w: Hold on *turns around abruptly*

C2, m: What?

C2, w: *mumbles to herself* So, she’s dating men again.

Prompt #85-Not yet! (as in, we can’t do this one yet)

My response:

Sister’s response:

Irreplaceable. You only have one Mom- Oh… Wait…

That’s bullshit. I think I’ve gotten on that phrase before. It’s such a stupid thing to say. A guilt-diverting, dismissive little assholish thing to say.

Now, I love my mom more than most people. Pretty sure she’s in the top five of people I wouldn’t mind, ever, living forever. Someone who I fervently hope would die after me, somehow, someway. Someone who I hope for that, if any god was real, that would let my mother into heaven or whatever she wants that the god is able to do. Someone who I will give my ability to walk or hear just so she will stop having those debilitating migraines that make her completely unable to function- migraines which the government says she can still work around, denying her medical benefits and the like as she suffers from the pain- which sometimes triggers unconsciousness AND amnesia- and the limitless boredom she must endure because she can’t do a damn thing, nor does she have the money for anything grand.

She is one of the leading factors for my atheism. Her cherry-picked notions of the Bible and god steadily drove me away from all faith. Her belief in ghosts (and blaming any oddities I see on my mental health) and ‘too many coincidences’ had me finally realizing that most of it was probably made up. Add in that she still says stuff like “Well, everyone has off days” when a topic on depression happens, while later crying to Momo about how almost sinfully bored and unhappy she’s been with her life- while high on weed- and I’ve come to the conclusion that she can make silly judgments on very real feelings.

Her cooking is wonderful. (Duuuurrrrr) But our oven is broken, so a lot of my favorite foods have been sidelined for months. Oh, cornbread, where art thou? I think her cooking is so wonderful, that she can cook it and fill herself on the fumes. Seriously, she does very little exercise- like, none at all. And I doubt her metabolism is top rate, since she’s had problems with her weight most of her life. But she still looks great- and I hope I look like her when I’m forty… forty-three? Forty-six?

Awful daughter. That’s me.

Growing up, and Pa would lose control so many times, I remember her going into her room to ignore everyone and everything. As much as she said that Pa wasn’t upset when he was screaming at us, or patting us on the head saying that he loves us when he says things like ‘stupid look on your face’, or saying that she’s the queen and Pa’s the king of the household and we’re all serfs- she was quick to make like Casper when things got rough. And when we fought back, when my brother grabbed a knife, or my sister bit down into the arm that Pa had wrapped around her neck, that’s when she’ll hurry. To save Pa, like he was in danger.

She was the one to yell at Dad when he called me crazy. Rolling her eyes at him when he got all stupidly defensive as if he was the one ridiculed. She was the one to sharply call out his name whenever he referred to the mental hospitals as looney bins or nuthouses. She was the one to convince me that my bipolar disorder was definitely an illness a long time in development. She was the one to offer meditation since I was an atheist and prayer wasn’t an option.

She is the one to suddenly grab me and rock me like a baby. To give me the last sip of her sodas, to buy me a Dr. Pepper or Twix as I’ve always asked for so, so, so many years. To make beef stew when I come home, and when I went away. To fry chicken breast when I was feeling down. To talk to me about things bothering her.

The one to say she wasn’t hungry after buying everybody meals at McDonald’s or Sonic or even a diners like Waffle House or Denny’s. To say she’s fine, when she’s not, so, so, so, so many times.

She is the one where much of my liberal leanings come from. Her years on welfare, her nonchalant attitude to those who are on welfare, her cocky openmindedness towards those of different faiths, no matter how crazy. Her generosity towards anyone in need. Her strident disapproval on all those preaching the love of Jesus Christ and showing none of that in the actions.

When she checks on me every once in a while. When she takes a small bath so that I can get more hot water.

When she gives [THAT SISTER] one more chance… and another… and another… And her no-good ex as well, and his mother.

When she says that she can’t in good conscience tell anyone that she’s let to to repay her.

When she is fighting for the custody of my niece.

When she fights off yet another migraine, and says she’s okay, and that she loves me, and smiles when I say I love her back, soooooooooo much.

Is Your Dad an Asshole? Watch Out, Lest You Become One, Too!

Bitching about my dad, film at eleven!

Seriously though, my dad can be such an asshole. I’m not sure why I don’t just cross over like my brother and put him across as “He is an asshole”, probably because he’s done right by me so many times. I’m sure if Dad broke my jaw and still seven years later I have keloids running up and down my jaw, neck, and chin from multiple surgeries, and Dad still hasn’t apologized for it, I would be hard-pressed to bring up ‘all the good times we had’.

Also, I’m extremely open to discussion, any time, all the time. Pretty much why I have a blog and comment on other blogs. I do want to say that anyone who says “You only get one dad, cherish him” or anything along those lines can go fuck themselves, okay? It’s never, ever a good thing to say. This hit home with me when someone who was being terribly abused- like stereotypical, but no less real, abused- by her blood father. She said something along the lines I have said and this: “Even if you have wonderful parents, when they act evil, they have stopped being wonderful. There is no forgiveness for that.”

That’s pretty much my entire view of all the ‘blood is thicker than water’ crap that means nothing if you’re miserable.

So, what happened? First!

You're such a pussy!
You’re such a pussy!

Just to let you know, my biggest problem with my dad was his mental and emotional abuse. The rest of my siblings, except my second younger sister, had more contact with his physical abuse. The worse things? Older brother: broken jaw, as I’ve mentioned repeatedly. First younger sister: kicked to the ground and stomped on in the third grade tied with being locked in a chokehold until almost passing out in the ninth grade. Second younger sister: got a little slap every once in a while. Younger brothers often got punched, especially if my Dad thought they were acting like pussies.

It’s not like Dad didn’t punch me in the stomach when I got car sicknesses and threw up in the car. I remember being in a carseat. Or that he didn’t hit me with the metal side of the belt because I chose my favorite shirt of my Kindergarten year for the second time that week (granted, before this, he thought I was taking too long finding socks). And there are more, but you get the picture.

And he still wonders where my younger sister and youngest brother’s violent tempers come from.

So, my main beef with him now is the non-physical abuse. I remember practicing my expression in the mirror so that when Dad yelled down at me he wouldn’t say, “And now you got that STUPID look on your face!” I’ve perfected my nonplussed look, and it drives him nuts! More than that, though….

He’s also a pretty dumb debater/discussion-ist/whatever. He can’t seem to follow reason (or a mote of tact) when expressing himself or hearing others express themselves. He also always, when expressing himself, follows at least four of these tropes:

  • It is your fault
  • It is NEVER his fault in any way (I didn’t really realize this until last year. He has this so bad, it’s comical)
  • An apology that he obviously doesn’t mean (Oh, I’m so sorry I hurt your feelings). I’ve actually pointed this out to him several times, and my mom has had the gall to say he was sincere most of the time. Oh, mom(s).
  • THE GODDAMN PITY-PARTY (Everyone’s against me all the time! Oh, woe is me!)
  • Threats of some nature
  • Threats of a physical nature
  • Bringing up a topic, you follow it, and he points out that it’s unrelated and you shouldn’t be bringing it up
  • Insults

This time around, I don’t remember him threatening to do something physical. But he gets 7/8. B+!

Brother to me, anytime we talk about Dad
Brother to me, anytime we talk about Dad

So I have most of the argument between my brother and I on google chat. I don’t feel like doing the whole copy screen, crop, paste, etc. thing but I’ll post the juicy bits verbatim copy, yea!

Me: “So Daddy told me to contribute more to the household- buying groceries and paying bills and the like”

Bro: no he did NOT


“And not just buying fifty dollars worth of pizza that gets eaten in two hours, or giving them 40 dollars worth of gas and whatever money and whatnot. Well, he just said pizza.
In any case, I said yes, sir and all that
But I could tell in his eyes I wasn’t enthusiastic enough about it, and so he decided to give me a lecture about how I should want to contribute to my parents- you know, the spiel”
My brother is flabbergasted because I tell him of times when I contribute very large amounts of money to our parents. Papa’s really good at picking out stuff we are bad at- but we are actually very good at. Like, I would care not if he actually me a bad child- but it would be phenomenal if they were based on truths.
The spiel in question: How we should always want to help out Ma, Pa, and our family. Because Papa always wants to help. Without question. Without complaint. Never.
(…not juicy bits…)
Me: He goes on to say that he could kick me out of the house at any time.
Bro: WOW
Me: (Pa says) “And then where are you going to go? No where. I could just say get out.”

Bro: He’s soooooo manipulative and abusive, [my name]

And here I realize in talking with my dad that he’s treating me like my sister, the one who left my niece. The one who has been gone for two days because her ‘friend’s car broke down’ and she can’t find ANY WAY TO COME BACK.
Dad bullshit detected
Obviously, I did not like that so I’m a bit angry at Pops at the moment. He does not get any better.


I told him that I’m getting in touch with deans to go back to Baltimore. We’ll figure something out
didn’t tell him how I told them what an asshole he is *shrug*
(Pa)”Why do you want to go back to Baltimore?”
“What?” I couldn’t believe it! “I want to go back to school. We’ve had this conversation before. It’s a non-starter. Let’s change the subject.”
“And-” this is still me “-How you going to threaten me about kicking me out the house and then ask me why I want to go back to Baltimore?”
Seriously though. He does not like when we point out when he spouts some contradicting bullshit like my sis dislikes having her lying bullshit put on blast.
So, now he’s angry.


Okay, so he says,
“Look. What happens if you get sick again and have to come back here? You’ll be back to square one, just like [THAT SIS], stuck here with no where to go.”
And he better not. He thinks he hates my simmering fury as I bubble up now and again, he’s going to despise whatever comes if he compares me to [THAT SIS] one more fucking time (something my parents did constantly while sis took her two month break). I’ve worked too hard, too long to be compared to a shiftless, selfish sociopath like my sister, and I’ve done nothing to diminish that progress. Nothing.


So, he gets up- all outraged and here I’m thinking when he yells- oh, it’s just my personality. When we yell, BAD CHILDREN
And now he’s towering over me and I’m thinking does it feel good to look down? You touch me, I’ll kick you in your damn stitches.
“I can say you can get out. I can kick you out right now” He points to the door.
Calmly, I answer, “I know you can”
Reminds me of Ayn Rand
Papa’s Philosophy

Honestly, what was he trying to accomplish by saying this? What could he possibly gain? This intimidation, these threats? This conversation started with him demanding my hard-earned money. How did he think this’ll end if he tells me that he has the oh-so-godly power of kicking me out the house? Oh, what would he tell [AWESOME SIS]? How did he think Mom would react? What about Bro?


Well, he doesn’t like me being calm and saying scathing things to his ego, of course
So he goes on: “See, this is why we don’t ever see eye-to-eye.Whenever I try to talk to you, you get all sensitive and you’re just looking for ways to attack everything I say.”
Bro: huh?


I roll my eyes at this usual spout of self-pitying, and he just gets angrier and angrier
(to Bro) what?
how he’s talking to a mirror?
Bro: The “this is why we don’t see to eye to eye” right hahaha


lolol- I know right! He keeps going! How I don’t ever listen to him and never want to take his advice
“I said yes! I will pay the bills and stuff. What more do you want?”
“Why are you yelling at me about [THAT SIS]?”
“I just really hate when you compare me to her. Really really hate it.”
Still me: “She is not like me. She’s still off doing whatever with Charlie here. I’m here.”
“This isn’t about [THAT SIS]. It’s about you!”
“It was just an example!”
“Well, I’m using your example!” Does this man not know how to have a goddamn conversation?!
He can’t be that doggone stupid!

But sometimes he totally, totally is. Or he just can’t see the fallacy of his constant effort to turn things against the other person, to make him always seem like the reasonable one. He can’t take criticism at all. Not a fuckin’ speck.

Me: so, we’s goin’ back and forth and he asks, “So when do you think you’re going back to Baltimore, hm?”
“As soon as possible.”
“When’s that?”
So I do a super roll of my eyes, “As soon as possible.”
“Is that next week, next month?”
Actually, my dean and I specified, hopefully, sometime in the middle of June, but I don’t know, and I didn’t want to give him false words.
What else could that possibly fucking mean? How else could I put that?
He says, “As soon as possible is like tomorrow or next week”
“Well, tomorrow or next week, if that is as soon as possible.”
“But we know that’s not going to happen!”
I’m ready to fucking kick him.
“Then whenever! As soon as possible! It doesn’t mean immediately- it means as soon as possible. Just like ‘maybe’ means yes or no.”
Here, Bro had to do some stuff, so the rest is mostly memory and may be misremembered, ya’ know.
“You. Do. Not. Need. Exact. Dates.” 
I was being pissy. But Dad was being a total pissant. Why was he acting like he didn’t know what ASAP meant?
“I need to know! We movin’ so I need to know if you’re coming with us! What time are you going to be here-“
“I. Don’t. Know.”
“You should have said that first then!”
“That’s basically what ASAP means in this context!”
dad against wall
So he starts swirling around in anger, trying not to hit something, I guess, and comes back to me.
“Oh, ok, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry about bringing this up. I’m sorry we can’t just have a decent conversation because you have to get all mad all the time.”
So, I’ve crossed my arms and leaned back. I now roll my eyes again, cock my head to the side and obviously wait until he’s finally done.
I can’t say nothing to you, now! You’ll just try to bite everything I say and not listen to me!”
“I don’t do that. And I listen to you. A lot.”
I even gave him a couple of examples- like the beginning of this damn conversation. He could have left it at demanding my money and things would have been so much better for him, but he decided to guilt trip me, and insult me, and it’s all my faultshouldn’t have gotten mad. shouldn’t have been so mean. needed to back down.
Well, the only thing I’ve said to him since then was “Hi, Pops” as he came home from work. He’s a teacher at a university-and now he’s some student expert. Ah, freak-on-a-fucking-leash…
Make no mistake, if your father or mother or bald-headed brother does so many things for you, they can still become hostile and you do not deserve that shit from anyone. And if you have fallen in mode with such antics:
Dad is sometimes a douchebag