My father kicked me out today. He told me I have a week to leave or he’ll throw me out and start killing my animals. I have no friends, no money, and he’s turned the family against me. He told me I’m a burden to him, I’m selfish and ungrateful and disrespectful. He called me a drain on his life because I haven’t found a job, said I’m lazy and expect him to do everything for me. He told me he stopped caring about me five years ago when I started dating “a n*gger.” He told me the only reason he let me back into the house was my mother.
All because I told him the air conditioners need to go in the windows during the heatwave, as my mother and I have both been told by our doctors to not be in extreme heat, because we are both very sick. Because I didn’t cry when he got in my face and screamed at me. Because he nearly hit me and I stood up for myself, for the first time in my life.
This situation has been building for years. My father is manipulative, emotionally abusive, and holds all the power in this house, and he knows it. He treats my mom like a fifties housewife - she absolutely must cook and clean and launder for him, she must keep her hair long (he had a fit last week because she cut three whole inches off), and she must account for every penny she spends. My mom is disabled and lives off his paycheck. He also cheats on her constantly, because her disability means she can’t satisfy his sex drive. He needs to know where she is every second of every day and if he calls and she doesn’t answer, he calls me screaming to find her.
My father has told me I’m a failure as a daughter, an adult, and a human being. He talks shit about me to our extended family every chance he gets. He bragged about joining Facebook to spy on me, because my cousins tell him I trash him on there every day (I do not. I’ve made maybe three posts in the thirteen years I’ve been on Facebook about how unfair he is, something every teenager does). He makes jokes about killing my pets and has twice now threatened to kill them because I upset him. He trashed my tattoo artist - who used to be his tattoo artist - because he found out that we talk outside of the shop. He didn’t speak a word to me for three years when I lived in Michigan - when I left to escape his abuse - because my boyfriend was black and I was out of his power. When our relationship broke down, he said I deserved every bad thing that had happened to me because a black man “ruined” me.
I have nowhere to go. I have no friends. I can’t rely on my family, who will report back to my father, if they even dare risk his wrath and take me in anyway. I have no money. I may have to rehome my pets for their safety. I’m so afraid he’s going to hurt me or my pets. Please, if you could donate to my paypal laurrante@icloud.com to help me out of this house. Once I’m safe, I want to help my mother get a divorce and bring her to live with me. Please help if you can. I have no one.
I’m sorry to spam but I’ve received a lot of reblogs and very little donations. I know money is tight for a lot of people, but if all my followers across all my blogs could spare even a dollar, I’d have $1500. Please if you can spare, donate to my paypal laurrante@icloud.com, and if you can’t, please keep reblogging
Your job in heaven is to look after the pets whose owners have not arrived yet. It’s your first day
NOTE: Just wrote this on Instagram, am re-posting here.
By the end of the first week in heaven, most of the animals owners had arrived. However, there was one dog. He waited, day in, day out for his master to come. And everyday, he’d trot up to me and ask the same question: “Am I a good boy?” I’d smile. “Of course you are, Buddy!” But as the days turned to weeks and the weeks to months, Buddy became more discouraged. I too began to wonder where the poor dogs master was. So I went to God. He flipped through the roll and couldn’t find Buddy’s owner anywhere.
I walked to where Buddy lay under a tree, the cooling shade playing on his soft, golden coat. He had his eyes closed, head resting on the fresh grass.
“I know why my master isn’t here.” He said out of the blue. “He wasn’t a good boy.” I lay down next to Buddy. “What do you mean?” I asked. He continued. “He killed the little good boy. His little good boy. So I bit him. Again. And again. Until he stopped moving. Then the people with nets and guns showed up and they pointed one at me and then I was here.”
We lay silent for quite some time. Slow tears rolled down my cheeks. The lump in my throat made it difficult to talk, but I managed to say the words.
