I felt anger, then a bleak depression, after father died, a breakdown that continues

Thinking about it before it ever happened I even thought I might feel joy... not an iota, apparently... right now anything related I've suddenly become so sensitive to, with mostly anger when it comes to existent situations... but for my life... I just have an abyss of nothingness now... all the damage he inflicted on me and even his memories of whatever the **** he got out of the violence, presumably some perverse joy, are dust, along with his piece of **** ***... and, yet, I seem to envy that, being dust, because being broken for decades more, I fear... I've already spent one decade all alone, no semblance of a life, and suddenly I realize why, as if I always thought it was this or that... but it was always this, always violent pieces of ****!

I mentioned anger... it was most immediate because my 'dear' sister (who admits he mostly concentrated on me, 'why' I keep torturing myself over (well, she claims, with serious distaste, that it might be due to my differing (from hers) gender (if I wasn't so drunk I would have, and still need to, absolutely respond with aggression (in hindsight, she seemed to imply a rationality, even comparing her daughter to another male child she knew) to such a horrible suggestion)... although 'why' is still uncertain, and I could never give him the pleasure to possibly ****ing justify it, regardless of curiosity)... drinking myself to near death (I lost sensation in my limbs, had no idea that happened) the week after due to these wild flashbacks where I could feel him attacking me again, despite being dead, and over 15 years after he last did in reality)... she began her obituary by saying "sadly" (and that wasn't all... whoever sent the obits to some sites... couldn't care less about asking the people whose names are included... so, lo and behold, I'm suddenly forced to mourn the mother****er who destroyed my life?! My luck, I swear... a whole week it took before they removed my name, and I had to contact them personally, in between rum bottles, loneliness, and alcohol poisoning). ****, man, so sad a 45 ****ing year old can't beat a 5 year old anymore!!! This idiot even left her daughter (who she had unplanned at 15, while some people are claiming *I* might be the unprepared one nearly twenty years later)... just to save on childcare costs, isn't that sweet, with this ****, despite knowing what he did. Oh, "you should get therapy", she told me recently, "I felt like I needed therapy just because I saw it"... all I was entertainment for her, but apparently she needed therapy, despite leaving her child with him... all I was a punching bag for him, an object, as apparently buying an actual one is too expensive, or something... although they're all ****ing cowards, of course, he ******* never did that publicly...

This misery that is consuming me, though... I don't know what I can do with it... often feel like I need to drink, even if I'm afraid of the sensation loss and tachycardia I got the week after, which ended up in phoning an ambulance, as I really thought I could die... and dying the week after? Wow... can't imagine what people will start speculating... absolute worst, although at that point I suppose it didn't matter, and as long as my suffering ended, who cares... I'm surprised I haven't drunk in about five days, honestly, but that still doesn't mean I don't just randomly sob, all day long sometimes... in between all this, I somehow ended up on this one photo of some person who shared a certain characteristic with me, at one point, with the apparent exception of... well, it was him in some sort of small plane and who appeared to be his father, but one comment affected (why do some say "hit" here? ******* language is so violent)... me, which basically said that he'd forever be his co-pilot (by implication he died too)... in one little sentence it, as if, condensed years... while I had... 18 years of violence (oh, and his two go-to insults to, presumably, attempt to make him feel more at home while bashing me? A projection-filled "monster", because everyone knows it's the battered person, younger by 40 years, who's totally monstrous... and "animal", which is likely all I was in his eyes, besides some live outlet for his anger, although that possibly galvanized my empathy for fauna)... honestly, can barely wrap my mind around the number of violent years... now, my mother (which for some unknown reason I still talk to... never talked to him again since I left, of course, the *absolute* least I could do! Not that, I suppose, he gave a ****. And how I loathe societies for having ****ed up 'justice'! No consequences... one thing I don't suppose I'll ever stop spiking my blood pressure over... oh, and did I mention asshole 'laws' trapped me until I was some stupid number of years?! Had a breakdown at 15 and couldn't do anything to escape the violent hell until 3 years later... went around asking all sorts of people for help, absolutely everyone rejected me, from some supposed school counsellor, a day after the asshole threw some sort of wooden spear at me, to the police who, unless my memory is distorted, laughed at me...) - in her effort to minimize all this she says he didn't 'scratch his itch' every day... amazing, isn't it? I mean, even if he did once a week, and it might have been more than that (but utterly random), it would be... 938 times. If I even pummelled my computer once I don't expect it to function... honestly, I'm surprised I can write this right now (and, oh, was always so obsessed with the minutiae of language, as if I had so much mental space I could afford and I wasn't ****ing afraid of being killed every single time...)

Fear is something, though... once, when I ended up returning there for a little bit, as my mind was screwed up after a breakup (and, so, needed someone, and for some bizarre reason those two convinced me to... ride in the car, not unlike the countless times growing up (not like anything happened there, or the shithead would crash)... for some stranger reason (depression from breakups weakens will)... I went along with it... in front of me he was, the ****er was the vulnerable one, I was about 25, taller than him, and yet... paralyzed was I, especially on hearing that horrid voice talking to them, paralyzed like every ******* time I never retaliated in some bizarre belief that it could be worse, and my life wasn't already at its nadir... only around the last year before I left, As opposed to his hundreds over the years)... before... fleeing... fear still dominated me, and I so ****ing hate it... kind of psychopath he was, though, meant that even if I ran away from the spot, as he did at one point... gaming console smashed to bits... such an absolute ****ing asshole piece of **** he once even threw a shoe at a poor budgie! (Luckily, missed)... I think it's obvious why I had a breakdown 3 years prior leaving (and isn't it 'sweet' that due to some likely braindead, sociopathic legislators who couldn't give a damn, I was confined to the bowels of hell... where every single putrid asshole who's violent, or contributed to such enabling, past or present, deserves to be... but **** no, there are certainly no such things as ethereal consequences, and the only ones who end up in a very real, fiery even, inferno... are always the *******ed weakest, in these most revolting and perverse of humans' creations, societies...) - and, these might be analogies and metaphors, but in the worst moments they really do exist, subjectively. When, around the early teenage years, I happened to cut myself on some glass at the beach... as if bleeding wasn't enough (gee, I wonder what non-psychopaths would do at this point)... as if daring to rest in the car was the worst sin in the world (nominally, that, apparently, is accorded to sand, which clearly is the most horrific thing to ever exist, inside a car, and it's not that there were ever any actual reasons, for any pathetic cowards who attack the weaker around the world, but nominally)... I think then, from this vantage point, one can see why, in recent times, just after the scumbag died, at one point my mind was even (spontaneously) taking me back to those days... when all that happened, in the present, Oh, mine was very much above it, and I wished it was similarly fiction, but he wasn't... what I now think is my earliest memory, around 5, is hiding under a bed from this quite real monster... like some macabre dance of the absurd, he used to try to reach me from one side or another, which meant I needed to be as quick as possible to avoid this freak... ****ing... seriously... and that was the start of it, as he later used my sister's birth as an excuse to continually, arbitrarily destroy me...

and that's what's 'funny', this "coward" of a mother (which she admitted she was... still finds it difficult to even link her marriage with how ****ed up I am (she said I'm "interfering"?!) Even if I don't usually blame her directly (probably should, but she herself wasn't violent), although she was an absolute enabler by never leaving him... and she never left because she had children, apparently?! What perverse thinking! Oh, and she had "nowhere to go", of course, and I had nowhere to go when I left at 18, nearly froze to death, but hey, it's a 'good' thing I had better survival instincts, despite no dependents, than someone who did. But, no, apparently, we were the reason we needed to remain in the cradle of random violence...) - she keeps saying I should forget all this, as if a neuralyzer existed... even said 'delete' recently, like I'm some bizarre computer, and it just felt so naturally parallel to suicide. Honestly, at this point, it feels like I'm procrastinating... and I've always done that... one moment when I was 15, though, when I did, at that point, convince myself that death was the only option... I might have deluded myself in thinking it wasn't... just because some video game (rpgs, only positive thing in my teen years) flashed in my mind, suddenly reminding me that I wanted more from that heavenly nectar... what idiocy, so many years later I still can't naturally enjoy them, piece of **** successfully destroyed such capabilities, and all I seem to do is rot until some kind of death, at this juncture from an excess of alcohol, likely... at that point, though, when I convinced myself to push through that underworld, like some unknown Orpheus of misery who, in contrast to the original, is *compelled* (with a 'thumbs up' from s̶o̶c̶i̶e̶t̶y - the rest of the pantheon) to descend, through a Cerberus of fists, because apparently Hades is bored, or something... and for what? A void of a life... an ocean of melancholy translates into a mountain of rubbish, and all that entails... and only one relationship I managed, a decade ago (no career, either, for how can a preteen focus on exams with rampant violence...) - for a mere seven months (my sister, in contrast, together for over a decade... might be just luck, or how they have a child, or that he appeared not to focus the brutality on her, but that still doesn't prevent the brokenness that permeates me to seep in and rot all...)

I just hate this world... so much... I hate this vile **** so much... fact that I do not seem inherently violent, or anything; I absolutely never hurt any sentient creature (and when I do, accidently, I feel so awful, and just want to bash my head), and yet all of this fuels me with such rage, just as hate begets hate... all a reaction on my part, to be clear... I still cannot fathom how anyone can do anything to a defenceless child. **** all parental pieces of **** cowards!!! just to highlight a huge, sickening spotlight that screams 'hypocrisy'!! Because, oh, suddenly violence ****ing matters!! Suddenly, when it's against violent people, adults who can defend themselves, absolutely enabled by countless others?! Honestly, if a meteor comes again

I can feel your anger in this post.

It's good you wrote about it, instead of keeping it bottled up inside.

Have you ever thought you might have ptsd?

I am so sorry for your suffering...

We are here to listen and help

I'm guessing I might have ptsd; what's strange, though, is that I lived over 15 years relatively 'normally', even talked about it occasionally... until the floodgates opened after his death and found that I never, quite, even really admitted the magnitude of it to myself...

I (too) feel anger in the post. It's good you wrote it out.
Bottling it all up is never healthy. I agree with TheGal that it would be worth investigating if you could have PTSD. (there are others here who come from abusive/traumatic ''families'' of origin). Thank you for trusting us here to share this. I'm sorry for your suffering and pain. Please update us (at some time if you're ready) if you feel like it might help.

I feel anger because of current situations too... stats are horrifying... and I don't know if there's anything at all I could do...