Why does it seem like most of the stress in my life comes from my dad.
I literally just wanted to ask if my other essay would be easier to use or not, and if it was, I’d edit it, if it wasn’t, I’d just keep editing the first one I sent him. I also told him, very clearly, that I am busy right now and can’t call him. Yet he insisted on trying to call me anyway, a call that I declined to answer, fuck if that makes him shout at me tomorrow, it probably will. He said that my essay wasn’t going to be entered in an “English beauty contest”, which, what the fuck is that even supposed to mean?!
He threw so much goddamn shade at me for the first essay, which he said lacked logic and was badly written (which was apparently because I read too many “fictional novels”) and that I wasn’t as good at writing as my sister, who he also shaded and said wasn’t good at writing. I get it, okay? I get that you think I’m terrible at writing. You think I don’t fucking KNOW just how STUPID I am and just how HORRIBLE my writing is because I read too much fucking fiction and because I don’t work hard enough at formal writing? It’s not like I don’t know that I’m fucking stupid and unfocused without you telling me all the fucking, fucking time!! It’s not like I’m clueless about how much you fucking hate my brother and sister when I was literally there to see you scream at them like a fucking psycho while we were supposed to be having a family reunion, it’s not like I haven’t heard you demonize them one fucking million times for no fucking reason at all!!!
I’m losing all of my cool. I was doing so well. I was so happy and I was stabilizing and really feeling better. Every time I talk to him that all goes out the fucking window. He makes me feel so fucking stupid and childish every single time I talk to him, since he keeps telling me I have to stop “being emotional”, and that I have to “learn how to be calm”, all while he’s yelling at me and slandering my brother and sister for no reason whatsoever.
I’m so fucked up and stupid. I had so much fun in the afternoon with JS; we drew a theme for National Taco Day (which is tomorrow) on Mrs. J’s chalkboard, and it was so great. I walked home in the rain, which was light, and felt good because it was so humid. I’m so happy and have such a good time in school; the days fly by. And then I get home and have to talk to my dad, and everything goes to fucking shit.
Look, I really can’t deny anymore that if I’d really killed myself years ago, by now he probably would have hated me as much as he already hates my brother and sister. Thank fucking god I have one good parent; if my mom hadn’t been the way she is I definitely would have jumped off a bridge by now.
Yo, I hate crying. It makes me feel sick and helpless.