![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
Difference of a Day
Sep. 16th, 2008 04:23 pmYesterday, it was such a nice day out that I really had no choice but to skip class and go lounge out by the AQ pond. Sadly, my craving of doing something not-quite-good was not fulfilled; I didn't check my e-mail before I left the house, and when I pulled out the laptop by the pont, I found out that class had been cancelled anyways. Well, shoot.
It was a nice day, though. Sadly all the large koi seem to have either been relocated or killed, but some of the small schools are still swimming about. There was a turtle, too, sunning himself on a crate out in the middle of the pond; I'd never had the chance to make his acquaintance before. Didn't really figure out whether he was real or not - he was very motionless, typically turtle-like - until he creeped himself over to the edge of the crate and plopped himself into the water.
Today I skipped class, for real this time, but for an entirely different reason. I just can't face the world today - my mind is elsewhere, I can't focus, and the stupidest things have been setting me off.
My father's gone and decided to be an absolute fucking retard again. This time, it looks like mom will refuse to stand for it; their relationship is probably through. It's not this, so much, that upsets me - it's been a long time in coming. There are a number of things that are more pressing.
First and probably foremost is that the house will likely end up needing to be sold. His debts are massive; if he sold his half of the house it would probably (probably, and the house valued at over 600 grand) pay off what he owes. However, this rather does put my mother and I in a precarious position - if he sells his half of the house, we can't very well stay, pulling away the bits that matter and disclosing the torn and discarded pieces to some other entity.
Pisses me right the fuck off, I can tell you. I get attached to places; I thought it would be hard enough when I did end up needing to move out, but to know I couldn't ever come back? It gnaws at me. I don't want to give this place up. My room, my den, the kitchen that I know exactly where everything is and that I've forced to behave, even when the oven always bakes things too damn hot, and...
And they couldn't even fucking wait until I was done my last semester! This is not what my grades need, such upheaval.
Selfish, maybe, but it matters.
And, then, of course, it's his absolute refusal to see that he's wrong in what he's been doing. Any time mom broaches the problems with him - not bringing home the bills, continuing to wrack up the debt, drinking and gambling even when he's been saying he's stopped, or cut back, or any one of the number of excuses (goddamn bloody pisspoor excuses is what they are)... He refuses to look at it. Refuses to acknowledge the problems. Accuses her of nagging. Passive-aggressively bites back with that sarcasm of his. Stops talking and runs away the moment I enter the room - as if I don't fucking know what the problems are, as if trying to chivalrously pretend he's protecting me, or maybe he's just a coward and will take the most convenient excuse to stop facing the music. Who the hell knows? (Bets on the latter.)
He's a lying, stealing, prig of a drunk. We all know it. They've all tried to help him - taking the touchy-feely "oh it's an illess Courteney you don't understand". Feh. I understand perfectly - whatever it is they're doing, it's not fucking working. Someone has to stand up to him at some point, tell him what an ass he's being, what an ass he's been, over these years, pretending everything was okay and meanwhile sinking us all into so much shit that we're swimming in it, drowning under a cesspool of lies and filth.
I wish I could, but I'm afraid to.
He scares me, for one. After the 'incident' where the police were called here... Well. I wasn't in any danger then, but I sure as hell don't know what to trust or expect from him now. And my words always fail me, when I need them to prop me up - oh, after the confrontation, or even before, I always know just what to say. During? Forget. Tongue trips over itself. Never can back up my points. Writing has always been my stronger suit. With words, I can test them in my mouth, spit them out if they're bad, or swallow and commit when satisfied. They always sound right, in the end.
Maybe in writing, then, is the way to go.
I'm calling you out, Donald Arthur Ryan Junior. You are a liar. You are a thief. You're a fucking alcoholic and have created nothing but misery for us these past - god, how many years? Mom has tried to mollycoddle you, and apparently failed utterly - whether because you're such a stubborn son of a bitch or an utter coward or some other reason I'll never know, but the fact of the matter is that it is what it is.
I will never forgive you, never, not if you keep your goddamn hand in the sand or keep running away from the issues that you need to fucking bone up and face. Not if you ignore this. Not if you refuse to admit that you are wrong. And you know I won't back down from it - you're always saying I'm so much like you, after all.
And then there's that.
I will never be anything remotely like you. You always said you never wanted to be anything like your old man, and look at you now. Have you bothered to check the comparisons as of late, or have you been afraid? Let me spell them out. Liar. Tyrant. Abuser. Drunk.
I promise you that I will never be what you are, and what your father was before him. I like to think I'm maybe just a little more wise - and maybe I'm just pissing out of my asshole, maybe I'm forty years too young to even be able to make such a claim, but I think it's true nonetheless.
I have honour. I have pride.
I'm able to stand up and face my problems.
You've proved yourself utterly incapable of doing so, so far.
Want to try and restore the faith I used to have in you? It's impossible now. Too late, way too late. You can still, however, do the right thing. You can think rationally. You have a brain in your skull, as much as I'd like to claim otherwise. You can stop this nonsense of yours.
No trying. No attempts. Just actually do it, for once.
I won't forgive you as it stands, not for what you've already done, but you can stop this now before it gets a whole hell of a lot worse - before I really start hating you, before you never hear from me again. Time's coming close, now, when I will no longer be home, after all. (And how's that passive aggressive for you, hmm?)
Threat? Oh, yes. One I intend to carry through, if you don't fucking quit this stupid, insane, mind-boggling crusade of yours to never have any responsibility for yourself, for your actions, for us, who you're supposed to care about more than anything else!
Ball's in your court now. Do with it as you will.
It was a nice day, though. Sadly all the large koi seem to have either been relocated or killed, but some of the small schools are still swimming about. There was a turtle, too, sunning himself on a crate out in the middle of the pond; I'd never had the chance to make his acquaintance before. Didn't really figure out whether he was real or not - he was very motionless, typically turtle-like - until he creeped himself over to the edge of the crate and plopped himself into the water.
Today I skipped class, for real this time, but for an entirely different reason. I just can't face the world today - my mind is elsewhere, I can't focus, and the stupidest things have been setting me off.
My father's gone and decided to be an absolute fucking retard again. This time, it looks like mom will refuse to stand for it; their relationship is probably through. It's not this, so much, that upsets me - it's been a long time in coming. There are a number of things that are more pressing.
First and probably foremost is that the house will likely end up needing to be sold. His debts are massive; if he sold his half of the house it would probably (probably, and the house valued at over 600 grand) pay off what he owes. However, this rather does put my mother and I in a precarious position - if he sells his half of the house, we can't very well stay, pulling away the bits that matter and disclosing the torn and discarded pieces to some other entity.
Pisses me right the fuck off, I can tell you. I get attached to places; I thought it would be hard enough when I did end up needing to move out, but to know I couldn't ever come back? It gnaws at me. I don't want to give this place up. My room, my den, the kitchen that I know exactly where everything is and that I've forced to behave, even when the oven always bakes things too damn hot, and...
And they couldn't even fucking wait until I was done my last semester! This is not what my grades need, such upheaval.
Selfish, maybe, but it matters.
And, then, of course, it's his absolute refusal to see that he's wrong in what he's been doing. Any time mom broaches the problems with him - not bringing home the bills, continuing to wrack up the debt, drinking and gambling even when he's been saying he's stopped, or cut back, or any one of the number of excuses (goddamn bloody pisspoor excuses is what they are)... He refuses to look at it. Refuses to acknowledge the problems. Accuses her of nagging. Passive-aggressively bites back with that sarcasm of his. Stops talking and runs away the moment I enter the room - as if I don't fucking know what the problems are, as if trying to chivalrously pretend he's protecting me, or maybe he's just a coward and will take the most convenient excuse to stop facing the music. Who the hell knows? (Bets on the latter.)
He's a lying, stealing, prig of a drunk. We all know it. They've all tried to help him - taking the touchy-feely "oh it's an illess Courteney you don't understand". Feh. I understand perfectly - whatever it is they're doing, it's not fucking working. Someone has to stand up to him at some point, tell him what an ass he's being, what an ass he's been, over these years, pretending everything was okay and meanwhile sinking us all into so much shit that we're swimming in it, drowning under a cesspool of lies and filth.
I wish I could, but I'm afraid to.
He scares me, for one. After the 'incident' where the police were called here... Well. I wasn't in any danger then, but I sure as hell don't know what to trust or expect from him now. And my words always fail me, when I need them to prop me up - oh, after the confrontation, or even before, I always know just what to say. During? Forget. Tongue trips over itself. Never can back up my points. Writing has always been my stronger suit. With words, I can test them in my mouth, spit them out if they're bad, or swallow and commit when satisfied. They always sound right, in the end.
Maybe in writing, then, is the way to go.
I'm calling you out, Donald Arthur Ryan Junior. You are a liar. You are a thief. You're a fucking alcoholic and have created nothing but misery for us these past - god, how many years? Mom has tried to mollycoddle you, and apparently failed utterly - whether because you're such a stubborn son of a bitch or an utter coward or some other reason I'll never know, but the fact of the matter is that it is what it is.
I will never forgive you, never, not if you keep your goddamn hand in the sand or keep running away from the issues that you need to fucking bone up and face. Not if you ignore this. Not if you refuse to admit that you are wrong. And you know I won't back down from it - you're always saying I'm so much like you, after all.
And then there's that.
I will never be anything remotely like you. You always said you never wanted to be anything like your old man, and look at you now. Have you bothered to check the comparisons as of late, or have you been afraid? Let me spell them out. Liar. Tyrant. Abuser. Drunk.
I promise you that I will never be what you are, and what your father was before him. I like to think I'm maybe just a little more wise - and maybe I'm just pissing out of my asshole, maybe I'm forty years too young to even be able to make such a claim, but I think it's true nonetheless.
I have honour. I have pride.
I'm able to stand up and face my problems.
You've proved yourself utterly incapable of doing so, so far.
Want to try and restore the faith I used to have in you? It's impossible now. Too late, way too late. You can still, however, do the right thing. You can think rationally. You have a brain in your skull, as much as I'd like to claim otherwise. You can stop this nonsense of yours.
No trying. No attempts. Just actually do it, for once.
I won't forgive you as it stands, not for what you've already done, but you can stop this now before it gets a whole hell of a lot worse - before I really start hating you, before you never hear from me again. Time's coming close, now, when I will no longer be home, after all. (And how's that passive aggressive for you, hmm?)
Threat? Oh, yes. One I intend to carry through, if you don't fucking quit this stupid, insane, mind-boggling crusade of yours to never have any responsibility for yourself, for your actions, for us, who you're supposed to care about more than anything else!
Ball's in your court now. Do with it as you will.
