thestorythusfar

**I hate my life and want to die.**

No, really. Most of my waking moments are spent in a state like this; like how I post on reddit. In this kind of frothing, seething rage that just barely bubbles over. The main reason for this is because I've actually tried to improve my life; only to get shut down at every turn. Other periods of my extended malady include active and passive hallucinations. (The main one is that whatever I just saw is in my mouth; it's the worst with bugs. I get it whenever I smash one...) This would be manageable if I had control of my environment. (I don't. I live with my batshit, co-dependent Mother and two other siblings. My brother is married to a retarded girl that I can't stand and my sister is trying to use me as a father substitute since our old man is the worst of all people. Regardless of what happens; I will never hate anyone more. And it's not because mother turned me against him; that's just the natural reaction when you shove guns in the faces of your kids.) Old Man caused a lot of the problems I have; but I can't really say the four letters for it. (I find it disrespectful to actual combat veterans to say that. So I just say I'm weak and worthless. Makes more sense; especially with how everyone else seems to have suffered more but made it out.)

He would shout you down into the floor and flog you with a belt for spilling a drink. (I was a very awkward, lanky boy. I was also extremely accident prone. I have scars on my back from where the lashes were.) He would make claims like that he was the great-great-great grandson of Jesus and the Indians; and that my maternal Grandfather was the incarnation of Satan. He used religion to terrorize us; and would then beat us whenever we prayed for release. He once pulled my arm out of socket when I was four when I tried to run away from a beating. He would give us things; only to make us give them to one of his friend's kids as a show of wealth. (Most petty of the things; but it really works a number on your idea of self worth.) **And any mote of noncompliance triggered an apocalyptic response.**

The fucked up thing about this is most of it happened when they were divorced the first time. She remarried the asshole when I was thirteen and that kind of destroyed my idea of making it out of any situation alive. See, here in Alabama; we have a law that says that kids can choose which parent they live with mainly as long as both parents stay in the state and a new custody hearing is made. Trick is; you have to be thirteen to do it. I had spent the time from when I was five to that date counting the years, waiting for that time to come. Yeah it would mean abandoning my brother at the time to stay with old man alone; but I hated him pretty bad at that point. (One of old man's favorite things to laugh at was how Eddie cried when I tried to strangle him. Also, this is eventually what spurred my oath of pacifism.)
But as we showed up to his house to collect what was going to be money for my first Band trip in school; she got out of the truck, and kissed him. That's when I knew that I would have always been better off shooting myself than anything else; because there is no way out of hell.

**This is Hell; and it never ends.**

It's also why I know sluts gonna slut. Nothing matters--not even how bad your kids were wrecked by the Alpha--nothing but the dick.

So for another five years; I lived in hell again. He started his backslide into his old ways slowly; under the guise of 'discipline' to try and get me to 'toughen up'. As soon as I had the opportunity; I moved out of there and in with my Grandparents. I finished out my senior year in Highschool and then worked for about two more before Mother Dearest would come begging me for help. Begging me to move back into hell and help try and evict the old man. (I had told her that I would never come back home until he was gone; forever.)
I obliged; since most of my childhood with her was spent in a Mexican standoff. (Me wanting to kill myself; her threatening suicide to follow me so we could 'die together'. Her regaling me with the tale of my birth; how she had to stop her contractions from crushing me when I got stuck because the idiot OB doc rushed through her dialation to make me his first delivery. I wish she'd have just clamped her legs down and crushed me. She could have gone on to do other, better things and I would have been the grease stain I deserve to be.)

Suffice to say; my presence was enough of a catalyst for Old Man to pull his shit once more, and united we threw him out. (He went really batshit for a while after that; stalking us through his contractor friends, harassing texts, telling my sister that she wasn't his child so he didn't want her to come see him. Now he's just strung out and doing his chicken fighting shit. I know where he is; so I'll be sure to correct that problem before I shove off at least.) Sadly; that didn't fix anything else. The house was still a mess; and because Mother Dearest can't be a bitch to the other siblings and make them clean; everything falls on us, which means me. That was about six years ago; and this bit of background doesn't include all of the other things: My experiment with homosex and gender disgust issues; my foibles in finding out that women will never desire me in any way. (Including two (2) separate instances where I was engaged; they broke it off each time.) It doesn't include the one year of college I tried and failed at because I cannot into higher maths or PC paper writing (Politically Correct; not computers...)

I'm not sticking around any more after Mother dies. That's just how this story ends. It should have never even been; this life could have been used on someone greater who could overcome such problems. I'm giving her about ten to fifteen years--and that's a lot of screaming for me. After that; I don't want to put up with the world anymore.

So; tell me how any of this could be fixed other than through my suicide. Because as it stands; I have no time to lift, nor anything else but slowly succumb.

**And the story of Lawnmower Day:**

When I was six; my old man had moved out to Anniston to continue his trade (dealing cocaine) and during our bi-weekly visitation we had to stay in this trap house since it was where he lived. One time; during our summer's visitation where we'd be there for two weeks at a time and come home on the weekends, Edd and I were playing with the neighbor boy on their trampoline. (Edd was three at the time.) We had no supervision; because Old Man had more important things–at least, to him–going on. (Traveling every summer to Miami to resupply.) Well; Anthony (the neighbor kid) was my age and he was then told to mow the lawn. Now; I don't know how old you are, or where you’re from, but this kid had no business using a gas powered, self propelled lawnmower. Especially since his redneck parents had duct taped the kill switch down so that if the thing got away from him, it wouldn't quit since he wasn't strong enough to use the pull cord starter. I bounded off the trampoline and I had assumed Edd was right behind me. (He wasn't . He'd fallen down; and was struggling to get back up.) That's when it happened. Fate struck. Right after I had gotten inside and turned the NES on; Susan–old man's fucktoy/pill connect at the time–came in, shouting at me how Edd was going to die and it was all my fault. The lawnmower had run over his leg, nearly cleaving his foot in two and severing his fourth toe completely from his right foot. So; we sped to RMC hospital in Anniston, with me, crying and squeezing his foot to keep him from bleeding out. Susan just dropped us off there; left us with no one telling me "This is all your fault; you fix it, his blood is on your hands." If it weren't for my eidetic memory and my knowledge of my Mother's family's information; he'd have just bled out since they have to contact a parent to admit a minor into care if they aren't brought in an ambulance. One could say; that I never left that hospital lobby. I've been plagued with constant suicidal ideation ever since then.