This is personal

I relive memories I would prefer not to, and every time I do I realize more and more about myself. See, my issue is I never like using the term “abuse” for the things I went through, simply because I don’t want to take away from those who did suffer more than I did. My dad had PTSD, before it took its hold I was really close to him, and of course I went through stages of mommies girl and daddies girl but I had an other wise decent relationship with him. As I got older he changed, he increasingly became dependent on medications the V.A. would prescribe him, they had no care in how they may affect him and also didn’t care about how the many medications would interact with each other. He got worse. And worse. It was seemingly never ending, he became paranoid covering the webcams and any other type of camera in the house with tape. He would lock most doors inside of the house at night and I would hear him through the house checking to make sure all windows and doors were locked at random times. He would forget I was home and I would find him creeping around the corner coming towards me with a gun, he once thought my mom and I were robbing the house and pointed a gun inches from my head through a window screen. He became suicidal and my mother would hide the guns from him, she would find him crying in closets. He would throw things at us, break things and scream at us at the top of his lungs. I could never leave, I never once went to a party during that time and I rarely got to sleep over anyone’s houses. If I broke any rules he would smash my electronics with a hammer in front of me and then make me clean up the mess. This environment created a teen that stopped listening and most of all I stopped caring if I lived or died, I was so tired of him trying to create fear in my life, I started abusing drugs, stealing his pills, having sex, drinking, I was arrested once for sneaking out, so as a response they sawed my door in half and took my phone, I had NOTHING for years. I would draw pictures of myself shooting myself, cutting myself, and they never once helped me, my cries for help were ignored. Recently discovered my mother had to be put on anti depressants at the time because she started having symptoms of PTSD, because of him, I BEGGED her to leave him, I HATED him. Now as an adult I am suffering from my own mental illnesses, all stemming from my childhood, therapists say it will be long and require extensive therapy for me to be back to “normal” whatever that is. I try everyday, and the funniest part is I don’t even hate him anymore, you know…..he was wrong in so many ways for the things he did, he killed me a long time ago, he robbed me of an adolescence. Somehow I blame myself, I pretty much blame myself for everything others do to me, he had a friend who tried to kiss me when I was like 10, when I described that situation to an old therapist I followed it with “I probably deserved it, I was probably doing or acting a certain way.” her look of disbelief. my disbelief looking back at that moment, he was clearly wrong, but i still some how feel like it was my fault.