Wednesday Night!

And they wonder where my anger comes from.

Hot, boiling, seething anger rolling up my stairs, and into my parents’ bedroom. My stepfather is the epitome, the d e f i n i t i o n of an ASSHOLE.

I have to listen to him now, cussing and screaming at my mother, calling her every name under the sun, just like my father did when I was a kid. Abuse comes verbally too, fucker, and if he keeps “expressing” his damn emotions like this we are going to have a war. All night (!) I have been dealing with this crap! He’s the one that’s cheated, who lied to her about being at a bar with her this afternoon getting drunk, and then continuing to be at that bar with his messed up alcoholic, idiotic buddies — but suddenly it is all my “whoring, bitch of a mother” ‘s fault.

She is sleeping on the couch right now. The fucking COUCH! Because she definitely isn’t going to sleep next to that asswipe, and she just told me she won’t sleep in the queen bed of mine with me because it’s too far away from the door. Think about THAT for a minute. My mother is…afraid of what he’ll do; she’s afraid she’ll need to get-out sometime in the middle of the night? Because that’s sure as hell what it sounds like, and that pisses me off higher than you could imagine.

I am a sweet-natured person. I don’t cuss at or around anyone over the age of 17 (my friends), I make an attempt at schoolwork, I do my chores at home, and I try to treat people with the respect they deserve.
But this asshole brings out a side of me that no one else sees. Yes, my mother is manipulative, and okay, she can be a royal pain in the arse sometimes. However, that man has more problems than a fish has scales, and he has no right to convince my mother she’s done something wrong, when it is his drinking problem that got them into the argument in the first place.

If there is a beer IN THIS HOUSE, Eddie will drink it within two days, and if it’s a Friday that beer is lucky to last the afternoon. His best friend (and I wonder sometimes, if the title is closer to boyfriend) is an alcoholic we call “Goose”, who I once saw with a beer in his hand on a Friday at EIGHT O’CLOCK in the morning. He was drinking before work, during work, and after work; and it seems that whenever Eddie gets anywhere near him it sets off a trigger that propels him to drink every alcoholic beverage he lays his hand on. I don’t understand the addiction. Forgetting your problems? Chasing your troubles away? His problems and his troubles start at about Beer #4….so…eliminate the addiction, eliminate your fucking problems, buddy!

I’ve already said how much of an idiot he is, though I fear I might do it again before this post is finished.
Why? Why do I, and my mother, have to lose sleep because this idiotic (woops) jackass wants to rant-and-rave, throw things and scream accusations at the top of his lungs when we all know he’s guilty of his crime. Cheating. Drinking. Deceiving my mother into thinking he’s stopping both.

My mom did not drink but a little bit on social occasions when I was growing up. When she left my dad, yes, things got excessive for about a year, and I went through hell being with a single mom drunk living in a tiny duplex (more like a shoebox). But she managed to straighten herself out for a few years (my early teens, thank God), until she met HIM – the alcoholic – and started right back up again. 

If you don’t already know: My mother has a lung disease. The closest thing her doctors can diagnose it as is Wagner’s Disease, a problem with your immune system where it attacks your lungs instead of supporting them. She builds up scar after scar on her lungs the more she stresses herself our, or exerts herself, drinking-smoking-and drugs only adding to this scarring. When your lungs are scarred they cannot be repaired. Once your lungs are gone, that’s all folks. 
And it scares the hell out of me. So Mr. Alchie here isn’t helping matters.

As I type to you, I can hear her sobs and whimpers echoing through the living room, coming in through my open basement door. And I can’t do a damn thing about it. I guess that’s what bothers me most. No matter how much I comfort her, she will forgive him and convince herself SHE was the big-bad-bitch, and that it was all her fault.

I will not be able to sleep until I’m sure he’s not going to come storming out of the room and hurt her or the house. Yeah, fucking dysfunctional, right? Afraid to sleep in your own house 50% of the time. But I’ve told him, and her, and everyone else that there will be no “calling the cops” if or when he lays a finger on her. I would kill him. I am both saying this out of spite and in truth: if he touches her or me, he better make sure he kills me.

However, I think he’s too much of a coward to try out physical abuse. I am venting here. Venting – definition: – a form of complaining for which no one can criticize. Awesome!

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