So I told my parents I was going to "work" when I actually planned on going to roller derby. Except that I didn't. It's a long story, and I was going to tell it here, but I'll talk about that some other time because I need to vent my feelings over My Fucking Father.
I get home around 1:30 and I'm lolling around in my bed reading the latest Onion. I hear a commotion coming from outside. It's not Grandmother because when I came home I went to check to see if her light was on so I could test her, and I didn't see any emanating from underneath her door. But it was Father when I heard him sneeze in the way he does.
Shoot, so do I go out and talk to him or not? Part of me knew that he up stewing about because he secretly wanted to nag at me to go back to school or some shit. That would be the only reason he'd be so long upstairs at 1:30 in the morning. But then the optimist in me thought, Nah, he's only up because it's the weekend and he's worried about the snowstorm. Besides, things are going relatively well between us right now, so why not just check out the commotion and say hi?
And I did, and god fucking damn, that was a big mistake.
I saw him pacing in the dining room. He said, "What?" and I said, "Nothing, just ... checking out what's going on." And as I was going back into my room to avoid any potential lecture, My Fucking Father calls me back.
I don't go back, but I just stay at the front of my door. At the other end of the hallway, he leans against the wall and starts his condescending screed with, "What was your job tonight?" And after I told him my lie -- light electrical work for the Gopher wrestling dual tomorrow -- he asks me when am I going to find a stable job. I didn't know he knew the word "stable."
And then My Fucking Father told me I need to go back to school, set up a schedule where I'm up in the morning (that's the point in this one-sided conversation where I internally got really pissed off -- don't fucking tell me when to get up, asshole!!!), then something that blows my fucking mind: I need to exercise less. "An hour's fine," My Fucking Father said.
My Fucking Father's the one that said I was fat and I should start working out. He's right -- I was getting fat! And now he's telling me I'm working out too much?!?!?! Fuck You, Father, you're not making any goddamn sense anymore.
So I do what I usually do when My Fucking Father corners me with his orders for my future: Stare blankly at him, be curt and sarcastic, and use a barking tone at him. When he asked me, "What do you want to learn?" I said, "I want to learn everything!" And when he told me to go back to school or find a job, I said, "Sure." I don't know how many people believe that when you say "Sure" you don't really mean you are saying "Yes." All I know is My Fucking Father doesn't know it.
I'm pissed off. I really am. But ... well, maybe it's because I need to shovel tomorrow, or the weak body language My Fucking Father was giving off while he was yelling at me, or that he didn't so much ask, "You think I can take care of you all my life?" so much as he pleaded, or that I've been through this goddamn song-and-dance before, but I know where this is going to go. He yells at me, I nod, I cram my anger towards him inside me, then I go about my business not changing a fucking thing because he can't do anything to me. And he can't. So why worry? Well, there's always a possibility that he will kick me out of the house. At the very least he can start pestering me in the morning again. But I doubt he can keep that up. Because I am relentless with my inertia. We'll see, but I think I'll win. Well, at least I hope.
One wrinkle, however. I was unable to cram all my feelings toward My Fucking Father down inside me. Once he was done waiting for whatever he was nuking in the microwave, he was done with me. I was finally able to go into my room, but in response to his belittling me, I slammed my door. It was what I was feeling. But maybe it wasn't the smartest thing to do in case My Fucking Father thought what he was giving me was "a little pep talk."
He stuck around upstairs, so even though I had no intention of doing what he said when he told me to go to sleep, I didn't want to invite any knock on my door, so I just got into my bed and turned all the lights off. If I drifted off to sleep (I am tired, and a part of me now regrets just conking off for the night instead of venturing outside to say hi to My Fucking Father), fine. But the rebel in me wants to spite his edict that I should wake up mornings. What the fuck ever.
Anyway, he finally got done eating or whatever in the kitchen and he went downstairs. When the cat's away. ... So I break out my laptop and start to write this. But then I hear him come back upstairs. Why??? It's 2 in the morning at this point? I go back to turning everything off and pretending I'm asleep. But then it occurs to me: Like I did before, he's just passive-aggressively waiting for me to come out so he can come at me with more "words of advice" -- or just flat-out yell at me, thinking he now has the green light after I let him know how I felt about his bullying.
Stay tuned.
Goddamn, I just wanted to go out and see what the noise was all about. ...
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