I hate them...
I hate them. I hate them. I hate them. I hate them. I hate them. I hate my parents.
I think I have always hated them but it was only the other night that I realized it. I was in group and was hoping they’d help me find an emotional feeling/reaction/connection to my mom’s news that she and my dad were separated. Really they're just not talking but who knows with them. After 42 years of marriage they’re separated. My mom hasn’t told my dad yet.
“This is the last fucking thing I need.” “What the fuck is she talking about?” “How is separating going to change/improve their lives?” “ Now I’ll be expected to spend time with each of them. My dad barely see me when I go home as it is.” “My dad is 73 and mom is 65. What are they gonna do?” “I wish one of them would just drop dead.” Great thoughts, huh? They were the exact thoughts I had as I listened to my mom explain the events that lead to their “separation” over 2 weeks ago! This had happened over two weeks ago and this is the first I’ve heard of it. I guess that’s not so bad considering my dad still doesn’t know.
“It’s stupid.” “It’s ridiculous.” After a month and one group therapy session, that’s all the emotion I can muster. ANGER. Anger for what they’re doing/going/trying to do to me. Not them. ME. I actually do not care about them at this point. I don’t think I’ve cared about them for a very, very long time.
Anyone who knows me would say that I couldn’t possibly hate my parents, that I’m just upset and it’s easier to say I hate them then to deal with my true feelings. It surprised me to think that but it is how I feel. I hate them, I resent them, I hate how they raised me, I hate being their son and I especially hate that we are not the family I always thought we were.
Am I justified in hating my parents? Yes. Do I have reasons to hate them? Most people would think I don’t and that I should have my head examined for hating them. They did the best they knew how, gave me a good home, a good education and what they thought was love. I wanted for almost nothing. To most people I had an ideal family –two very loving and caring parents. Oh, and a younger sister. I don’t hate her and although we get along we don’t know each other very well. She was married and had 3 sons before she was thirty. I came out to myself at 31 and to my family at 35. Life styles and distance have kept us from knowing each other.
So why do I hate my parents? My father was an alcoholic from the time I was 4 until I was about 8 and was always working. He'd leave for work before I woke up, 5:30 am, and didn't get home until 8:30 pm five days a week and 7-4 on Saturdays. The hours he spent at home we spent either working or watching/sleeping in front of the TV. He rarely ate dinner with us because of his hours and because of his stomach condition (which I believe is mostly in his head.)
My mom did her best during the drinking years, but she turned to me, her 4-8 year old son, for emotional strength, support and company. As much as my dad shuns people and communication my mom is a caregiver to the 100th power, which she does to earn the love and respect she craves and deserves but it only earns her jealousy, disrespect and misunderstanding. My mom continues to turn to me for love, support and comfort to the point of manipulating me.
My parents excelled at shrinking their world of family and friends. My dad always used work and his bad stomach as his excuse for not going out and my mom trusted few people. They were never on time for anything and with every day that goes by, I become more and more the perfect blend of the worst of their DNA.
I think the first clue to how I felt about my parents was in a poem I wrote for a college writing course. I have always shied away from writing because it draws out the very thoughts and feelings I work so hard to keep buried. The poem had to be about our family and had to follow the style of a poem the professor had us read. My grandfather was strong like the sailing ships of the 1600’s. My grandmother sweet like the perfume she wore. I likened my father to a distant and cold handshake. My mom was like lace curtains in Ireland, they looked good, they impressed people but the curtains were misleading. In Ireland, lace curtains represented wealth but often behind them was a home too poor to afford furniture. My mom was always putting up an appearance that really hid the truth.
I don’t blame my parents, I just hate them. I hate how we never talked about my attempted suicide at 19. I hate that we never moved from the neighborhood that was filled with kids who tormented me. I hate that I don’t have more impressive/easier to understand/obvious reasons to hate them. I hate that I hate them. I hate that for so many years I thought of us as a model family. I hate that I thought we didn’t have problems. I hate how my coming out was delt with and then swept under the rug. I hate that I walked into the den that day and had to hear my mother say, “Tell him” and my sister said, with a red face, tears in her eyes and her future husband of 18 years and counting by her side, that she was pregnant. I hate that I didn’t hug my sister and tell her that I love her and was happy for her because it would have pissed my mom off. I hate the atmosphere my mom created in that room. I hate that as an adult I have been dependent on them for financial support. I hate that I will never tell them I that I hate them. I hate that when I go to therapy next week both in private and in group that I won’t be believed that it will be peeled back to reveal different deeper feelings. I hate that I will be talked out of hating my parents.
I hate that I feel better now.
I think I have always hated them but it was only the other night that I realized it. I was in group and was hoping they’d help me find an emotional feeling/reaction/connection to my mom’s news that she and my dad were separated. Really they're just not talking but who knows with them. After 42 years of marriage they’re separated. My mom hasn’t told my dad yet.
“This is the last fucking thing I need.” “What the fuck is she talking about?” “How is separating going to change/improve their lives?” “ Now I’ll be expected to spend time with each of them. My dad barely see me when I go home as it is.” “My dad is 73 and mom is 65. What are they gonna do?” “I wish one of them would just drop dead.” Great thoughts, huh? They were the exact thoughts I had as I listened to my mom explain the events that lead to their “separation” over 2 weeks ago! This had happened over two weeks ago and this is the first I’ve heard of it. I guess that’s not so bad considering my dad still doesn’t know.
“It’s stupid.” “It’s ridiculous.” After a month and one group therapy session, that’s all the emotion I can muster. ANGER. Anger for what they’re doing/going/trying to do to me. Not them. ME. I actually do not care about them at this point. I don’t think I’ve cared about them for a very, very long time.
Anyone who knows me would say that I couldn’t possibly hate my parents, that I’m just upset and it’s easier to say I hate them then to deal with my true feelings. It surprised me to think that but it is how I feel. I hate them, I resent them, I hate how they raised me, I hate being their son and I especially hate that we are not the family I always thought we were.
Am I justified in hating my parents? Yes. Do I have reasons to hate them? Most people would think I don’t and that I should have my head examined for hating them. They did the best they knew how, gave me a good home, a good education and what they thought was love. I wanted for almost nothing. To most people I had an ideal family –two very loving and caring parents. Oh, and a younger sister. I don’t hate her and although we get along we don’t know each other very well. She was married and had 3 sons before she was thirty. I came out to myself at 31 and to my family at 35. Life styles and distance have kept us from knowing each other.
So why do I hate my parents? My father was an alcoholic from the time I was 4 until I was about 8 and was always working. He'd leave for work before I woke up, 5:30 am, and didn't get home until 8:30 pm five days a week and 7-4 on Saturdays. The hours he spent at home we spent either working or watching/sleeping in front of the TV. He rarely ate dinner with us because of his hours and because of his stomach condition (which I believe is mostly in his head.)
My mom did her best during the drinking years, but she turned to me, her 4-8 year old son, for emotional strength, support and company. As much as my dad shuns people and communication my mom is a caregiver to the 100th power, which she does to earn the love and respect she craves and deserves but it only earns her jealousy, disrespect and misunderstanding. My mom continues to turn to me for love, support and comfort to the point of manipulating me.
My parents excelled at shrinking their world of family and friends. My dad always used work and his bad stomach as his excuse for not going out and my mom trusted few people. They were never on time for anything and with every day that goes by, I become more and more the perfect blend of the worst of their DNA.
I think the first clue to how I felt about my parents was in a poem I wrote for a college writing course. I have always shied away from writing because it draws out the very thoughts and feelings I work so hard to keep buried. The poem had to be about our family and had to follow the style of a poem the professor had us read. My grandfather was strong like the sailing ships of the 1600’s. My grandmother sweet like the perfume she wore. I likened my father to a distant and cold handshake. My mom was like lace curtains in Ireland, they looked good, they impressed people but the curtains were misleading. In Ireland, lace curtains represented wealth but often behind them was a home too poor to afford furniture. My mom was always putting up an appearance that really hid the truth.
I don’t blame my parents, I just hate them. I hate how we never talked about my attempted suicide at 19. I hate that we never moved from the neighborhood that was filled with kids who tormented me. I hate that I don’t have more impressive/easier to understand/obvious reasons to hate them. I hate that I hate them. I hate that for so many years I thought of us as a model family. I hate that I thought we didn’t have problems. I hate how my coming out was delt with and then swept under the rug. I hate that I walked into the den that day and had to hear my mother say, “Tell him” and my sister said, with a red face, tears in her eyes and her future husband of 18 years and counting by her side, that she was pregnant. I hate that I didn’t hug my sister and tell her that I love her and was happy for her because it would have pissed my mom off. I hate the atmosphere my mom created in that room. I hate that as an adult I have been dependent on them for financial support. I hate that I will never tell them I that I hate them. I hate that when I go to therapy next week both in private and in group that I won’t be believed that it will be peeled back to reveal different deeper feelings. I hate that I will be talked out of hating my parents.
I hate that I feel better now.
posted by Sean at 5:21 PM
3 Comments:
You strike me as remarkably selfish.
I'd seriously suggest you drink more.
Seriously.
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That's a very touching post.
Ignore what mr. anonymous said. Like most anonymous comments, it's stupid and serves only as an ego boost for cowards.
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