FSE

Furry search engine

formerly SoFurry search engine

What would you do if you had a million dollars? Would you get a new house? Pay off your mortgage or loans? Save it in the bank for a rainy day? Or splurge it all in one day because spending money can be exciting?

I'll tell you what I would do with a million dollars: I would bet with it. But not on a game, like scamming casinos in Las Vegas do. I'm smarter than that. I would bet on a person and before you ask, yes I'm referring to the subject of this story.

So why on earth would I bet on a person who helped drag me down into the world of depression? You'll eventually learn why.

But first, a little background. All throughout my life, I found interacting with people very hard. Because not only do words communicate, but your body language as well. I have always been afraid of talking to people because I would worry that I would say or do the wrong thing. That's why I always fidget, or tap my foot, or look down at the floor or say nothing at all.

My parents have always worried about my because I was socially awkward (still am in a way). So they would always put me into these weird social groups when I was younger. I was in Boy Scouts. I was in the Youth Group for our local church. I was in Cooking Club in middle school. Do you know which one of them I enjoyed?

None.

They were all awful.

In the cooking club, we would mostly talk about making stuff I already knew how to make and some of the kids weren't nice. The church group was annoying because all we would talk about is how "God is with us all the time" and how "You can always count on the Lord". I don't give two rats asses about religion. If there was a God, why would I be stuck in a rut? Why would the world be a horrible place to live with all the hate and violence right now? Huh? Answer me that.

But worst of all was the Boy Scout group. Half the kids were assholes. And some of the adults were too. One of which is the subject of this story. You'll learn here in a minute. I remember one adult was a complete bitch to me, he only ever spoke to me because I never participated in any of the activities with the other boys. I always wanted to be off to the side, by myself, and just think. Alone. Because that's what I found fun when I was 13. Not going camping, or learning to make fires or pitch a tent. Let me make this clear: I. Am. Not. An. Outdoor. Person. Never have been, never will be.

This person, however, never listened to me. Not just about the camping thing, but about everything!

Have you ever had every move you made, every thought you had, or every project you wanted to invest yourself in completely criticized?

That's right. Douglas... or... dad... it's your turn.

And you should've seen this one coming.

Of course, I hope you never read this because you would learn that I'm gay and I'm a furry. But if you ever read this... big old fat middle finger to you, bastard.

To everyone else, Douglas is my biological father. Do I look up to him, though? Absolutely not. He is the exact opposite of what people should try to be. For the first 17 years of my life, he has completely bullied me. I remember once I recorded him ranting behind my back to my brother, saying he didn't love me and said that he thinks I'm completely ignorant and a waste of space. Or something along the lines of that.

Can someone spell "irony"?

That recording isn't a reason why I want to kill myself, though.

The real reason is a longer story.

So, here it is. Without further ado, the day my dad -- or should I say, Douglas -- crossed the line.

(Play)

It was around Mother's Day 2016. The day before, I stayed up most of the night to make my mother the most amazing Mother's Day gifts to top all Mother's Day gifts: a large drawing. At this time, I was getting a bit into drawing. They were a bit amateurish, I'll admit, but they were decent enough.

I decided to draw my fursona holding a large heart that said "Happy Mother's Day!"

I used up two whole pink markers to make it. I was that dedicated to this project.

When I showed my mother her gift that morning, she loved it. She thought it was very cute how it looked. Dad didn't say anything. Just went on and on about how my grandparents were coming over for lunch because my mom and her mom always spend time on this day. Can you blame them?

Time skip to about lunch. I remember we had a lot of different kinds of food; mashed potatoes, banana and blueberry bread, vegetables. I think we may have had turkey; I don't completely recall that.

Anyways, my little sister, who was about 6 at this time, wanted to show grandma her room. So mom and myself helped her up the stairs so my sister could show grandma her room. During this, I thought about how there really wasn't any dessert served after lunch and I was craving something sweet. This was all around a time where I would spend some of my allowance money on donuts and I would share them with the family. Because I'm a nice guy, it's just something I would do.

So I ask my mom if I can run down the street real quick and buy some donuts. She said it was okay. I laced up my shoes, a $20 bill stuffed in my pocket and head down the street.

(Pause)

My sister does play a key part in this story, so keep this in mind. But not in a negative way.

(Play)

I go to the Speedway which is only down the street and I buy myself and iTunes card and a big bag of powdered donuts. When I get home, I go upstairs and tell the girls "Hey! I got some donuts; who wants some?!" Of course, my sister is excited about this.

However, somewhere among the trip downstairs, I forgot how exactly the conversation went, but I remember that my little sister called me "Banana Head" because that's her version of an insult. I'm sitting there shocked, because I have no idea why she was being rude to me. So, naturally, I don't let her have a donut, because there was no way I was going to reward her for her bad behavior. I didn't let mom have on either, because the look on her face said to me that she was going to give it to my sister the second I offered her one.

(Pause)

My sister is eight years old. Yes, I was completely aware that she was six at the time and she was only a kid. But the key part here was that she was being rude. So why on earth would she deserve to get a donut?

(Play)

Simply put, the bad remained closed for like 15 minutes. Mom and grandma continue to talk. My sister is pouting because she didn't get what she wanted. My older brother is sitting to my left. I saw out of the corner of my eye that he was getting steamy. I remember hearing him take long exhales out of his nose; which usually means that he's pissed off for some reason.

Out of nowhere, his hand snatches the bag of donuts from my lap and tries to pull it away from me.

I grab the bag as well and pull back. The bag exploded; donut bits got all over the floor and all over the carpet.

Not even a second goes by after the bag gets destroyed an my brother is yelling at me. "What the fuck is wrong with you?! You're disrespecting your own mother and I'm sick and tired of it!"

So I yell back, "I didn't do shit! You're the one who fucking grabbed the bag out of nowhere and started shit with me, you fucking asshole!!"

Then he starts swinging punches at me, trying to nail me down onto the floor. But I pushed my left foot out, and used my weight and shove him back against mom's china hut next to the kitchen. I manage to block most of his jabs, and I'm laying onto this dude, my fists are flying. Our limbs get tangled together and I can feel the sweat dripping off my body.

The fight ends when my mother manages to pull us apart and makes my brother go into the living room to calm the fuck down. Grandma goes in to check on him and when she comes out, she tells us that he's muttering to himself. But the crown jewel for me was she told everybody that he had this huge knot in his forehead the size of a walnut.

Grandma and mom try to calm me down, because I'm shaking to the core. Imagine 17 years worth of piled up adrenaline unleashed in two minutes. That's what I was feeling. But I also had a sense of triumph, because I just won a fist fight against my own brother. I look down at my own skin, and I don't see anything; no bruises, no cuts. Nothing.

(Pause)

I know, I know, this part had nothing to do with my dad; that was about a fight with my brother. But my brother doesn't make me want to kill myself. He just makes me want to punch a hole in a brick wall because he's a fucking prick.

It's the next part that gets fucked up...

(Play)

So my mom wakes up my dad, because he was taking a nap on the couch and explains to him what happened. He comes out into the kitchen and he sees the donut mess all over the floor. No bullshit, he looks directly at me and says, "You need to pick this up."

I'm flabbergasted at this point. "Are you fucking serious? No. I'm not going to. I didn't start this fight; I didn't make this mess, he did!" I'm pointing to the living room, telling this bastard that my brother was responsible. I sit down in one of the chairs, not moving. Because I was not about to take the fall for something I didn't do; and that happened a lot in this house.

Dad grabbed my by the arm and pulled me out of the chair; he's fucking red mad because his house is a mess in front of my grandparents (even though our house is disgusting anyways). And he tried to force me to clean up the mess.

Then I decided no. I was NOT going to take his shit anymore. I ripped my own out of his grip like some Jackie Chan movie and pushed him away from me. "Get your FUCKING hands off me!" Then he charged at me, trying to punch me in the face.

"You ungrateful fucking son-of-a-bitch!" he growled. He goes for my waist and tries to pile drive me into the glass cart, which would've severely punctured me if I didn't do what I did next. I dragged my feet into the floor and push back. I get his knees to collapse and he falls to the ground. And without any type of hesitation, start punching him HARD on the back of his head and his back. Over. And over. And over again.

(Pause)

Hold on! Before I continue this story, I want to point something out to all of you reading this.

(Rewind; Play)

I get his knees to collapse and he falls to the ground.

(Pause)

That's right. Douglas fell to the ground. Not me. Why am I pointing this out? He's been lying to people about who won the fight. How do I know? About a year after this occured, I remember bringing it up and he said to the whole family that I was the one who fell to the ground and he won the fight.

This was a big fat lie.

He didn't win that fight. I did.

(Play)

Of course, once again, mom manages to get me and dad to seperate. He's on the ground, panting hard, the smell of blood was in the air, but I didn't see any. Later on, he would show me and mom that his arms and face were covered in bruises that I landed on him. And still, I didn't have anything on me. Not even a single scratch.

It never dawned on me what would happen if I got into a huge fistfight with dad. Grandma mentioned that mom could have called the police. Secretly, I wish she would have, because he deserved to go to prison for child abuse. And then I would get a restraining order and I would never have to see him again. Unfortunately, that didn't happen.

Mom takes dad out to the other room to try to calm him down. Remember, my sister and my grandparents just witnessed everything that happened. Me, I'm not a physical person. I had no idea who the hell I just was five minutes ago because this person was not who I am. So I'm looking at me sister, she looked shocked and terrified. Which makes sense because she's only 6!

I go up to her and I tell her calmly, "I'm sorry that you had to witness that and I'm sorry I didn't give you a donut."

She tells me it's okay and she apologizes for calling me names. We managed to forgive each other.

But my dad continues to rage on during this, saying I'm a bad person and that I'll "pay for this" or some stupid shit. I remember specifically, and I will never forget what I said to him, I yelled "WILL YOU BACK THE FUCK OFF AND LET ME APOLOGIZE TO MY SISTER???"

Nobody in the house said anything after that transpired. My brother moved back to Columbus after that to finished his semester of college and dad and I hardly spoke after that.

(Stop)

That's what really happened on Mother's Day.

How do you feel, Douglas? Ashamed? Proud? Whatever it was, I don't care what you felt after that. Because no matter what, your actions were completely inexcusable. You tried to get physical with me over something I didn't cause. I really hope one day you get some sense knocked into your. Or at the very least, mom gets a divorce against you because I don't care how nice you may seem when others are around, you're a complete scumbag on the inside and if everyone knew that, then you would probably be in jail by now.

Then again, that's kind of why I'm writing this.

The reason this event really brought me down was because it really struck me that it showed my dad's true colors. The recording from years ago, the endless torment for 17 years and now this? You never cared about me at all. Go ahead and say that "Oh yeah? Well I provide food and shelter for you, so you can't say anything about it."

Guess what? I just said something about it.

It sucks because I'm stuck living with a child abuser until I finish college. Or at the very least, find someone who needs a roommate that can pay with a delivery driver wage.

And it doesn't matter what you provide for me. When you BEAT UP YOUR KID, that pretty

much destroys any good memories that you had with them. And they were so rare, you could count that many memories on two hands.

I said in the beginning that if I had a million dollars, I would bet it on a person. Well, that person is you, Douglas. I'm willing to bet a million dollars that you will never change by the time I'm 35. You'll still be the same, poor, lousy, drunk, child hitting, sorry excuse of a father. And it makes me worry for my sister's future. Are you going to try to hurt her too when she's older? It pains me to think about what would happen under the hands of this monster and I cannot live with such thoughts.

To all of you reading this, I'm sorry you had to visualize that. But this guy, Douglas, is part of the story of why I'm depressed. Because it was the point where my trust in him was completely shattered. It's why I no longer refer to him as my father except to his face. Other than that, he's completely dead to me.

And I can no longer trust the man that gave me life ever again.

(Next)