August 23rd, 1975

My parents called and I don’t know why I answered. I shouldn’t have answered. I know if I don’t answer they’d just keep calling and calling. I hate phone calls. I’d just gotten back from the gym and I spent an hour on the phone with mom. Father was talking in the background. More like rambling, frankly. He was tipsy. As usual.

Mom kept asking if I was cleaning my dorm. “It wouldn’t do to leave a mess for your roommates.” I don’t have any roommates, Mom, you know I don’t. I’ve told her before. I told her again.

She acted all surprised and then insisted that she’ll visit to clean every weekend. Every single weekend. It was nice of her to offer but I can’t have her visiting every weekend. The idea makes me queasy. I started cleaning my room as soon as I hung up on them. I don’t know why I feel the need to clean like this. It’s not like mom can see my room or sense how dirty it may or may not be. But whenever I leave a dirty dish or miss the hamper it’s like I can feel her breathing down my back and I get all twitchy. I needed to dust anyway, so whatever.

Father also warned me not to stay out too late with my friends. “Don’t drink too much or it’ll hinder your studies.” He knows I don’t drink. He knows I don’t have friends. They laughed at me when I reminded them of how I was new to Kingston and that I hadn’t made any friends yet. You know, in that condescending way that people laugh when they think you should be laughing at yourself with them. I fucking hate it when people do that.

I think they asked just so they could laugh at me.

Then mom started talking about her own life, as she does. That’s why she calls, so she can talk about herself. She complained about how little I’ve been visiting. I’ve been gone for a week, it’s not like you missed me when Father threw me out. You only care when I leave of my own free will. I don’t have time to drive across Canada just so I can hear you whine about how much better all your coworker's sons are compared to me. I know I’m not the kind of son you wanted, I don’t need you to remind me. I’m obnoxious, and emotional, and a cry-baby, and pathetic, and stupid, and worthless. I get it.

Father complained about how the toilet is leaking again and his back is acting up so he can’t fix it. I have to fix it. He didn’t say that out loud, but it was implied. You kick me out and then expect me to come running back to fix your shit at your beck and call? I was homeless for months, freezing my dick off in the butt-fucking dead of winter for no fucking reason, and you think I owe you anything?

I hung up on them.

Why are you even calling me if you hate me so much? If I’m such a pussy then why do you want my attention? And I don’t know why I keep answering the phone! I hate phone calls! The only phone calls I get are from you, and I hate talking to you so why do I answer? I’m such a fucking pansy, I do whatever mommy and daddy want. And I don’t know why. Actually, I know why. It’s because I’m a stupid, emotional, pathetic, worthless, cry-baby and that’s all I’ll ever be.

The phone’s ringing. I’m not answering.

Why am I even going to school when I know I’m going to fucking fail no matter how hard I try? There’s no point. There never was a point. I’m never going to be a social worker. Why kind of a man wants to be a social worker, anyway? Social work is a woman’s job. Father wanted me to be a doctor, or a construction worker like him, but no, I just found another way to be a disappointment. I’m going to flunk out anyway so I guess it doesn’t even matter. Nothing matters.

God, I hate the sound the phone makes when it rings. I didn’t answer and now they’re calling again. Moms going to get all snide about how I hung up. Then she’s going to cry about how “she’s such a terrible mom, why do I hate her so much, what did she do wrong?” And I could tell her why, I could write a fucking book about all the terrible things she’s let Father do to me, but will she listen? She’ll pretend to. And she’ll be on her best behaviour of a week, maybe even a month, and when I finally start thinking “Hey, maybe she’s changed, maybe she really respects me” the comments will start again. It’s like a poison that I don’t even notice I’m drinking until I’m fucking drowning in it.

The phone stopped ringing for a second. They’re leaving a voicemail. I can hear Father’s swearing at me from the voice machine. The walls are so thin, I can hear it from the other room. It’s all slurs and insults. Just a bunch of meaningless bullshit. And now they’re calling again. And if I don’t answer they’ll call again. And again. And again. And again. And again and again and again.

I can’t fucking do this anymore. I just can’t.

Why am I even alive when I’m so fucking miserable?

Why am I even alive? I don’t want to be. I don’t want to live my life with this endless calling and answering and calling and answering. Fuck, what did I ever do to deserve this shit? I’m your fucking son, why are you torturing me like this? It’s going to kill me one day. It’s going to tip me over the edge and I’m going to end this. I want to end this right now. I’m so done. I’m tired and the phone is still fucking ringing. Stop fucking ringing! Just stop, please, just stop it.

I’m answering the phone. I hate myself.