Work was uneventful, and no one said anything harsh. I got through it.

Of course it had to even out somehow. I got home, sat down to my laptop to check my messages, and after a period of silence, my mother looks at my father and says "So you're doing the laundry now?"

And he slams the coffee pot down in the sink and says "Whatever, you do the laundry, you ---hole, I don't give a ****."

She snipes something back, and then he says "And get the f----ing coffee too."

Then they go into the other room, and I can hear other niceties over the baby monitor, such as he's only staying two more days, and she can go to hell, and I'm sure she sent some lovely words his way, too, but I didn't hear them.

So now I've got my headphones on, and even though my sister is twenty-one, I feel like I'm abandoning her to them.

I'm surprised I don't still break out in hives every day.

This is right after I decided to be a little bit of a hypocrite and try to bolster my father's faith that God would take care of us in these hard times on the way home from work.

He's not going to take care of us. He's not going to do anything for a family like this one.

My mother just came to bring me a cup of coffee and ask me what's wrong.

Like it shouldn't be obvious.

I shrugged. That universal symbol for whatever, I'm fine.

So here come the prodding questions.

Was it work? Was it dad?

I told her he didn't say anything on the way in.

She asked again if it was work.

I told her nothing happened at work.

She says So it was that little laundry conversation? Like it's a conversation when people are throwing things.

I told her I didn't want to hear it. That she doesn't have to justify herself to me, that I'm not blaming either one of them, that I just don't care.

I don't want to hear it.

She goes on. I was doing the laundry a few days ago, and he took it over, and I couldn't find anything and I asked him if he wanted to do it, and he said he'd stop and let me.

She goes on to say that once again, he's taking over the laundry and she's tired of not being able to find anything.

Whatever.

You know what? I really don't care, and I really didn't want to hear it, but I do blame. I blame her.

After I tried to lift him up, which is like defusing a bomb with his bipolar, the first thing she does is snipe at him, knowing how he is, knowing he would get angry, and not caring because she's angry. And you know what? That's just childish. I'll tell you, family, why God is allowing us to come to the brink of starving to death. Why He isn't helping us keep our house.

Because you're not listening to Him. You don't care what He wants, and you've never been able to get beyond your own petty wants and needs and bickering long enough to think that this is why we've worked hard our whole lives for nothing at all.

And no amount of praying on my part can save this sinking ship. It's going to keep on going down, because I can't make them work together. I can't make them think. I can't make them listen.

All I can do is go down with the ship, plugging the holes with what little money I can bring in and wondering what it's going to feel like when my lungs finally fill up with water.

The perfect song for this feeling is Hopeless by Breaking Benjamin. Give it a listen. It expresses how I feel better than I ever could.