I live in a house with a man that hates me.

The house looks normal enough; gray siding with a tan roof and a play set in the back, but its main inhabitant can frighten the deaf and blind. Six foot five and built like a laborer with thick muscled arms to match. Worse than his intimidating nature, is that he hates things, lots of things, with a passion.

He hates my “know it all attitude”
He hates my “tone of voice”
He can “hardly stand to look at me now”
Perfection is expected and 99% is equal to 0%.

Funny thing is, he lives in a house with a daughter that feels the exact same way.
I can’t look at him without foul language sprinting through my head.
When I hear his voice I get so agitated I want to hit things.
His “we’ve all been there” attitude makes me want to use the nearest portal key.

I live in a house where feelings are pushed aside, and smiles are plastered on.

Arguments are forgotten, replaced by “I love you’s”
He asks me about my life and all I can think to say is butt out.
He gives me a hug and I cringe every time.






He walks in the door with a smile on his face, and it drops when he gets to me.


I don’t have enough patience with my family.
I don’t have enough respect for my peers.
I don’t have the common sense to find my way out of a box.
I don’t have thick enough skin to take a joke - even though it comes across as an insult.

No matter how many awards I get, or how many perfect scores I earn, I will never be good enough. I go to sleep knowing that, and wake up with the same thoughts running through my head.



People on the outside think my life is perfect, but they don’t see this. They don’t see when we scream at each other until our throats are hoarse and I finally say yes sir. They don’t see this, but this-

This is the house I live in.