“Well, first came an action, then a reaction. You can’t switch them ’round for your own satisfaction. You burn my house down, and now you’re mad at my reaction.” ~Effect and Cause by The White Stripes
If you’re a dick to me I’m not going to like you. It makes no sense to get mad at me for not liking you because you’re a dick to me.
Am I supposed to get excited when you tell me everything is my fault, that I’m the reason everything in the house goes wrong?
“You’re the reason this house is a failure. Blah blah blah. Everything you do is wrong, why can’t you do anything better? You half ass everything. You’re not good enough. You’re so selfish. You never talk to anyone. Why can’t you live up to my expectations? You’re always wrong. Always. Even when you’re right, you’re wrong.”
“Oh, THANK YOU! I love hearing that I’m a terrible person every day, every time I leave my room, every time I breathe. You really brighten my day with all of your constructive criticism. I appreciate it.”
No. I couldn’t even type that without it coming out sarcastic. I mean, seriously.
This is like beating a dog and then getting mad when it bites you later.
Is it really necessary to tell me the same things over and over again?
Yesterday: I was planning on going to Starbucks with Erin after I got off work. I got home, changed clothes, and was about to leave when I got summoned to the porch. I was then told that the entire family is broke.
I was like duh, okay? Then I was told that I’m wasting my money and that it costs something every time I crank up the car blah blah blah, money blah.
Okay, if you paid for my gas, my insurance, all of that I could understand you thinking I’m wasting YOUR money, but you don’t and I’m not.
I’ve paid for my own gas and insurance since I’ve had a car, regardless. I’ve never missed a payment on anything, even my phone. I pay for all of my stuff. Clothes, food, school stuff, shampoo and all of that. I haven’t asked for money in over a year to do anything, so if I want to spend the last little bit of my money going to have fun, get the fuck over it. Especially since I had to step in and pay more bills this paycheck since someone else couldn’t.
I’m sick of hearing you bitch about money. You know what people who need money do? They get a real fucking job with a real fucking pay check, and they get responsible. You’re 51 years old and have never had a job long enough to even start a social security account. You sit around a belittle my job, saying that I’m going to be a cashier all my life because I’m a shitty person.
I think that even if I do end up working a dead end job for the rest of my life, I’ll still be better off, right? I mean, job vs. no job.
And speaking of me being a shitty person, I know I’m not.
Where were you when Cole was growing up? Oh, right. You were busy “working”. You know what the sad thing is? I think I’ve changed more diapers, helped with more homework, spent more time with him than you ever have.
I’m the reason Cole is making C’s? I’M THE REASON MY BROTHER IS NO LONGER AN ‘A’ STUDENT? Shut the fuck up. You’re stupid. It’s not because my ‘slacker, don’t give a fuck attitude is rubbing off on him.’ It’s not because me moving out is ‘emotionally distressing him to the point of becoming a failure.’
The semester ends in four weeks. He would have had to fail three or four tests and not go to school for the last week or so for you to be able to say that my moving is causing this. I just told everyone last week. That makes no sense to blame it on me. But I forgot, everything is my fault.
I’m the reason Cole has to go to anger management? Oh, that’s rich. I’m pretty sure you told me this while you were screaming in my face. When you set an example for a child, they’re going to follow it. You know, he sees you scream at me, at mom, at him, and he thinks it’s okay because no one will stand up to you. He thinks that being a bully just like dad is going to get him what he wants in life. I mean, hey who could blame him? It’s worked for you so far.
You know I’m out to get you, right? You know that I wake up in the morning and the first thing I think about is how I can ruin your day. I go to school, I sit in class, and I write about how I’m going to destroy you. I come home and I start to put my plans in action. I spend every waking second of every day plotting. I invest all of my energy in pissing you off.
Except not really. Do you understand how much I would have to care about you to do that? Do you realize that doing all of that would take way more effort than I ever intend on giving?
“Why do you hate Sissy, Dad?” This question came straight out of my brother’s mouth and I froze, half waiting for an answer and half waiting for the screaming to begin.
“I don’t.” That was your response. Your lie.
No one believes you.
I was terrified of you, you know. I was scared until about a month ago. Eight years of repressed rage burst out of my mouth and it felt amazing. Every word I never said, every time I cried, every time you told me I was the problem, I screamed for. I let it out, and I am no longer afraid.
You are just an angry old man who doesn’t know what’s going on in the world. You’re a racist. You’re stuck in 1974. You’re paranoid. You’re a bully. You don’t respect anyone, but you demand respect.
You’re not my father, dad, anything. You happen to reside in the same house that I do, and through a long chain of events you became responsible for me.
Not anymore. I’m responsible for myself, thanks. I have been for quite some time.
Do you know what the worst part of all of this is? When Cole asked me why I was leaving, I told him the truth. I told him that I know if I leave everyone will be happier over all. I told him that I was the problem, but that I was going to be the solution, too.
I hope he hates you for all of this. The reality of the situation is that you’re the problem, not me.
Moral of this story: If you push someone to their breaking point, shit will go down. Don’t get mad when all the shit you’ve caused comes back to kick your ass. You brought all of this on yourself.
Get a grip.
