Most of the little things - the shouting and control needs of my mother, the callousness of my father dressed up as self-martyrdom, the self-centeredness of my sister - I've tried to acknowledge and let go, or at least not engage with them about it. However, one of my father's more notable tendencies is his ability to write letters which tear down any of my accomplishments to fit his narrative of the way things should be according to him, and then quiz me about them to explain why I've been so wrong and didn't listen to him.

For decades he's let me know it's been my fault for not aligning the stars to be happy and successful, and my life in NYC was a particular pet peeve to him since he hates the city and I was failing him by staying there. That of course spurred me to prove just how poor my decisions could really be, and search for people in my life who could fill my need to not be judged. Terrible reactions, but we do carry with us so much of what we learn growing up. A little over a year ago he wrote me a letter post-rehab asking me to do what the pandemic forced my hand on: quit my job and not look for another one in the city, move out of my apartment in NYC, and move back with them. He also recommended extended rehab but we both know I really can't afford that, and I know that there's nothing else rehab could tell me or materially help me with at this point.

We talked about it briefly then, but that was before any decisions had been made. He cornered me on Wednesday while my mom was picking up my sister though, and wanted to know the current plan and status. Finally I asked him "What else do you want me to give up? I've given up everything already." His reply? "You've already accomplished that first part, now you need to work on your health, not smoking etc."

After I picked my jaw back up off the floor I said that quitting my life was not a series of accomplishments, it was successive detriments to myself and defeats. He had no idea, nor seemed to care, that this has been one of the most crushing and invasive periods of my life. To him, he got what he wanted, me back at home as if the intervening 24 years never happened and the ability to monitor and control me, unable to even travel back to the city I love since with Covid mass transit is not a safe option. To him, I'm just looking at it the wrong way.

He says they can't go through another 5 years of ill health from me. Well, it's not been fun and games for me either. I let him know that I can't guarantee that, I can't guarantee I'll never drink again, and I'm actually ok if I die from it; it often seems a damn sight better than what little is left to me. His reply? "I thought therapy was supposed to fix that."

I know he doesn't understand depression. I know he doesn't understand suicide, but fine, I'll tell him again. It's never fixed. It's not fixable, it's just learning new ways to push through what seems so simple to other people. And starting all over again at 41 adds nothing but stress to a life already overburdened by the mundane.

I'm really upset over this. They may not be able to deal with my dysfunctions, but I'm tired as hell of being told failures are successes and vice versa because it fits their wishes instead of mine. I'm not the perfect child they want me to be, and never will be. I don't want to disengage even further, but I think maybe that's the best option available right now.