Jesus, I hate my parents. I know that I shouldn’t but I do. I feel awful for feeling this way. Please help me.
What would be the point of lying to God about how I feel? He knows the truth. How deeply embedded the hate lies. How angry I am with them both.
I speak with my father on the ‘phone. He says he is thinking of moving to be near me. His health is deteriorating, and my ****** aunt has given him the idea. I remind him I am not a fixed entity where I am. He says he knows. I tell him I’d rather he wasn’t living close; what about Swansea? But it would be easier on me if he was close. No, no, no…I say. He is all-but deaf. He doesn’t hear. No it wouldn’t, I scream at him. I’ve lost control. All I know is that I can’t have my parents living near me.
He’s taken aback. There is silence. But, he says, it wasn’t his idea, and he has his heart set on Swansea, and he and I would be happy with that.
God, he can’t move near me, he can’t. I couldn’t stand it.
My brother tells me thinking like that is horrible. That deep down I love my parents. That our aunt is a busy-body, and my father doesn’t agree with her.
But the thing is, I really don’t love my parents. I see them as little as possible because I am hurting so much. I am a monster of a person. I hate through and through those whom I am supposed to love. I cry myself to sleep again.