This is a very, very true personal narrative about the last few months I lived with my father. This was a truly horrifying experience. I'm writing this as a way to cope with what I went through, and maybe to let others out there going through something similar that they aren't alone.
I knew things weren't quite right. Oh, but where do I begin? Rewind about six months.
I walk in the door of my dads house for the first time in over a year, and nothing had changed. The dingy little house was just as grimey as the day I left. There was a thick layer of dust covering everything in the house, the carpet was littered with stains of ever shape, size and color. In the kitchen it was worse, there was an even thicker layer of a sticky, unidentifiable substance on the stove that would not come off no matter how hard I scrubbed. There was nothing in the fridge except for beer and some ketchup packets. The bathroom was the most disgusting. The toilet had obviously not been cleaned since the last time I had done in over a year ago, and there was no toilet paper. Even if we did have running water in the house there would be no way to take a shower; there was no soap, shampoo, or even towels for that matter. We had a dryer but no washing machine. There were also bedbugs.
I go to take my things into my old room, only to find I had no idea where to put anything. He had apparently been using my room as a storage bin because he had already filled his up. (My dad is a bit of a hoarder. ) I asked my dad what I should do about this, but he suggested we smoke a joint instead.
Now, me being 17-going-on-18, and a longer drug history than your average 30 year old man, I thought it was a good idea at the time. But that, if anything, should have been a red flag. But at the time I was already very depressed, and if things hadn't have escalated the way they did to scare me away, I'd probably be just as strung out as my mother by now.
For awhile things went, well, as normal as they were going to get. I would wake up, go to school, and the first thing my dad had for me when I got home would be a joint, a pain pill, or both. He tried getting me to drink after school, but I've never been much of a drinker. (I guess I got that from my mom as well.) On a regular basis, I would go up to my dad and tell him I was hungry, and what should I do? Theres no food in the house. And my answers would range from "Lets go to McDonalds," t0 "Go walk to your Aunt Karen's and see what she's got," to "Tough shit." In 2 1/2 - 3 months I lived there, I lost nearly 10lbs. Considering my average weight hovers around 90lbs, I couldn't afford to be loosing that much weight.
Things got worse pretty soon. My 18th birthday had just passed, and my dad started partying on the weekdays, then refusing to take me to school the next day simply because he didn't feel like it. And to shut me up, he would give me more pills. He would get drunk and do speed, then flip out on me for the smallest things, like not ashing the joint before I passed it. At this point he started making me nervous, his reactions were so unpredictable I never knew how I was supposed to act, or what I was supposed to say at any given moment. My grades started dropping, my friends started distancing themselves from me because he made them uncomfortable, especially my female friends. Soon I was all alone. And when my peers had deserted me, my father reinforced that isolation. He stopped letting me leave the house. I couldn't even walk to the store by myself anymore, and you could see it from the house if you were standing in the back yard.
At this point I was beginning to fear for my safety, and not long after things began to escalate again.