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Dammit. Sometimes I really, really have to keep myself from snapping at Dad.
Okay, so he's painfully hard to get through to and he has annoying habits. Those you can get over.
But now that Mum's gone, it's hard not to jump down his throat when he starts rambling about how she spent too much time at the psychatrist. Going to weekly appointments since 1993, actually. And he's responsible for 99% of her fucked-up-ness.
Working in an environment where there was no such thing as job security wore away at him. He wasn't an alcoholic, but dammit if he didn't try to be. And always on the job. Sometimes he drunk so much he'd sleep in the car in the parking lot because he couldn't drive home. He got angry too. Real angry. Whilst he never raised a hand to my mother, he made her life miserable; yelled at her as she lay in a sobbing heap on the floor, heartbroken that he was treating her that way. Controlled their joint bank account to the point where she had to wear the same dress every day - often times wet from the washing machine - because he wouldn't allow her a new outfit. Went through all her reciepts through grocery shopping and condemned her if she wanted to buy a little luxery like teabags.
He loved me, paid for my education and drove me everywhere, but I still remember Mum piling clothes on top of us as we slept because we never had enough blankets to keep us warm. This was after his job gave him a $210, 000 payout for having worked there 24 years.
Wouldn't let her have any friends over either. He always used to swear at them and around their kids; that meant I couldn't have many people over either. So essentially he took Mum's soft and gentle psyche and crushed it with his anger and hostility. She was being isolated, controlled and demeaned constantly for years by the person she loved so much 'til the day she died. Of course it's gonna fuck her up.
I wish Dad would take responsibility for his actions, but at the same time I'm not that heartless that I'd go lecturing a grieving man. There' no point now, other than to satisfy my own sense of justice. And normally that's no problem.
Except when he starts ranting about how she shouldn't have been seeing that psych so much.
You reap what you sow.
Okay, so he's painfully hard to get through to and he has annoying habits. Those you can get over.
But now that Mum's gone, it's hard not to jump down his throat when he starts rambling about how she spent too much time at the psychatrist. Going to weekly appointments since 1993, actually. And he's responsible for 99% of her fucked-up-ness.
Working in an environment where there was no such thing as job security wore away at him. He wasn't an alcoholic, but dammit if he didn't try to be. And always on the job. Sometimes he drunk so much he'd sleep in the car in the parking lot because he couldn't drive home. He got angry too. Real angry. Whilst he never raised a hand to my mother, he made her life miserable; yelled at her as she lay in a sobbing heap on the floor, heartbroken that he was treating her that way. Controlled their joint bank account to the point where she had to wear the same dress every day - often times wet from the washing machine - because he wouldn't allow her a new outfit. Went through all her reciepts through grocery shopping and condemned her if she wanted to buy a little luxery like teabags.
He loved me, paid for my education and drove me everywhere, but I still remember Mum piling clothes on top of us as we slept because we never had enough blankets to keep us warm. This was after his job gave him a $210, 000 payout for having worked there 24 years.
Wouldn't let her have any friends over either. He always used to swear at them and around their kids; that meant I couldn't have many people over either. So essentially he took Mum's soft and gentle psyche and crushed it with his anger and hostility. She was being isolated, controlled and demeaned constantly for years by the person she loved so much 'til the day she died. Of course it's gonna fuck her up.
I wish Dad would take responsibility for his actions, but at the same time I'm not that heartless that I'd go lecturing a grieving man. There' no point now, other than to satisfy my own sense of justice. And normally that's no problem.
Except when he starts ranting about how she shouldn't have been seeing that psych so much.
You reap what you sow.
