Just a “wonderful” morning. At 9 a.m., my dad showed up—anyo..

Just a “wonderful” morning. At 9 a.m., my dad showed up—anyone who reads me regularly knows roughly who he is and what he’s done. I went back to sleep, hoping he’d finish whatever he came for and leave by the time I woke up. He literally comes over every single day under the pretext of having “things to do,” but mostly he just runs back and forth, drinks tea or coffee, or does random, completely unnecessary tasks that no one asked him to do. And then proudly declares he’s “helping.”

I woke up around noon and heard that he was still downstairs slamming doors and pacing around. I went to the kitchen to make lunch, trying to figure out a way to politely ask him to leave. When I stepped onto the veranda, I was stunned—everything was covered in bags of pellets, everywhere. I asked him what it was and why he did it. He proudly replied that he was helping. I told him that all my workspace was now blocked and that I didn’t need him to “help” with things I could handle myself—and also that he’d overstayed his welcome in a house he doesn’t even live in.

He started manipulating me, saying he had an “arrangement” with my mom, that he’s trying his best, doing everything right, and I’m just creating conflict. And he spoke in this patronizing tone, like he was addressing a patient. So, I reminded him how great he was at “not creating conflict” during the 15 years he spent shooting up, drinking, smoking inside the house, running around in psychosis, and cheating on my mom while her father was dying. He tried to defend himself, saying he’s heard all this a million times, that people just slap labels on him.

I pointed out that he literally doesn’t have a frontal lobe anymore because of his drug use, and that it’s visible on his MRI, not just some “label.” And then he have me the most brilliant response: “If you haven’t achieved anything, you have no right to talk.” 🤡🤡🤡 I told him that in his time, he didn’t even manage to figure out how to use condoms, and that I’d call the police right now if he didn’t leave. And so he left.

I’m just in shock. After he was gone, I was shaking and burst into tears because I’m not a confrontational person at all, and after everything my father has done over the years, I experience acute stress in any interaction with him.

Sure, I haven’t achieved anything—except becoming a kind, responsible, and strong person who has never once drank alcohol, smoked, or had any addictions. I successfully graduated from one of the toughest schools in the country, earned a degree in biology, and am currently studying at a university where you learn more in one day than he has in his entire life. All this while dealing with schizoid-autistic traits, depression since age 13, and constantly wondering whether he’s hurt my mom, if he’s going to kill her or me, if he’s going to break something, or put on yet another one-man dramatic performance.

I’ve spent my life hearing the elephant-like stomping and door-slamming that shakes the entire house. Cleaning the toilet after him every single day, wiping the sink 15 times a day, unable to use the kitchen because he spends all his free time stuffing his face. Constantly on edge because he’s either manically running around on stimulants or lying half-dead on the couch from sedatives or alcohol. Smelling the cigarette stench from his room.

This “man,” who has turned my life into a living hell for his own amusement, dares to tell me I’ve “achieved nothing.” The very fact that I’m alive and walking is more than all of his accomplishments combined. Human garbage. I dream of worms eating him alive in a ditch.