So as I was laying down trying to nap earlier today, I hear steps coming upstairs toward the bedroom. It was my dad’s real estate agent giving a showing of the house.

…

He didn’t even have the courtesy to call me to tell me. Well she had barged into Dennis room to show his room. When I mean barged I mean literally pick his locked door open with one of our chopsticks.

I called my dad to ask him why he didn’t give me a call to tell me that she was coming and he flipped out on me and hung up. The real estate agent told me that he told her it was okay to go and that we weren’t home. He lied to her. I don’t understand why he is acting like this. I don’t understand. Despite going over the details in my head all last night and crying myself to sleep I still don’t understand why he acts like this and why I was even born. I don’t understand why I was beaten with golf clubs when I was younger and round house kicked to my head. I don’t understand the punches to my head and all the soul wrenching insults. The only reason I can think of is that it is because I was born.

I wish I could record him even now and put it on youtube for people to watch and hear.

People I’ve known have told me tales of how sad they are and how much of a bad situation they are in but I think they were still lucky because they’ve had their parents to comfort them, their parents to buy them gifts at Christmas and birthdays, and just because they have normal parents.

Do you know how much it hurts to have a dad like mine? Do you know how many times I’ve attempted suicide, like actually cut my wrists and overdose on pain killers and not sit there and whine about it? Too many times. I’ve even had the experience of being put into a suicide ward several times. But you know what? God won’t let my miserable life die so now I don’t believe in God anymore.

Sometimes I sit here and think the worst possible thoughts. Like why can’t my dad drop dead. If I could only  have the chance to beat his sick and twisted self repeated over and over again with a metal bat until it nothing of it remained but a bloody pulp could I be satisfied. If only I could do that wouldI feel like he got 1% of the physical abuse he did to me. The only way I could even do 1% of the mental anguish and abuse he did to me is if I won the powerball lottery and flaunted it in his face promise him a share and not give him 1 cent of it.

If only.

This entry was posted on Monday, February 15th, 2010 at 7:08 pm and is filed under Babblings, RANT, personal. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.