Having a shitty childhood isn’t an excuse for your own shitty behavior. You’re not a kid anymore. You’re a grown ass adult, but you’ve been acting like an immature child.
Besides, if having a father who is rough on you, who never got close to you, who treated your mother like crap, is a good enough reason to destroy your life, then why am I doing so well for myself after dealing with you for a dad? Why didn’t I become a pot head like you? Why didn’t I become an alcoholic like you? Why do I actually think before I act? Why do I treat my loved ones with respect? Why do I have a fucking heart?
You aren’t the only one who had a rough home life. You put me through hell and you haven’t stopped.
I know you’ll deny that. You’ll swear I had an amazing childhood. After all, you put a roof over my head. You paid for my schooling. You gave me money — and to you, money is everything. To you, money means love. To you, “Money isn’t everything, it’s the only thing.”
You don’t realize what you’ve done, because you don’t want to see it. You don’t want to take responsibility. You don’t want to admit that you played a part in unraveling me.
Instead of dealing with your issues, you drink to forget about them. You cheat to forget about them. You run away to avoid dealing with them. You’re a coward — which is funny to say when I am completely terrified of you. When being in the same room as you sends me shaking, when it raises my heart rate and my anxiety levels.
You keep telling me that what goes on between you and my mother is none of my business. That it has nothing to do with me. That you both love me. And that is complete and utter bullshit.
When you scream at her in front of me, that is my business. When you let the house fall apart while I am still living in it, that is my business. When you don’t come home for three days straight, that is my business. When I can’t even walk into my house and feel safe anymore, that is my business.
How do you not realize that your behavior impacts me? How could you be so oblivious? You’re my father. Of course it fucking impacts me.
I know that you supposedly love me. I know you’re only trying to fuck my mother over — but you end up fucking me over every time you do that. And I’m sure you’ll find some way to blame her for that like you always do. I’m sure you won’t take responsibility this time either.
You aren’t strong enough to change your drinking habits, to fight against your alcoholism, so why change anything else about yourself? Why bother when it’s easier for you to ruin other lives instead of improving your own? When it’s easier for you to hate her than hate yourself?