I Hate My Father

I hate my father. It’s a deep, heavy hate, the kind that sits in your chest and festers, built up over years of his garbage. This isn’t about kid stuff—it’s about him, who he is, the way he played his games and left me choking on the fallout. I hate him for every sly dig, every twisted little move, every time he made me feel like I was less than nothing.

He always had his tricks, didn’t he? Those quiet, cutting jabs—calling me weak or stupid, smirking like it was a joke when we both knew it wasn’t. I hate how he’d lift my brother up, shining all his pride on him, while I got the scraps, the doubts, the “you’ll never be enough” shade thrown my way. It wasn’t just favoritism—it was a knife, slow and deliberate, carving me out of his world.

I hate how he’d tear into my mom, too. The names he’d call her—cruel, ugly words spit out like venom—while she took it, head down, trying to keep the peace. I hate him for that, for dragging her down when she was the only one holding us together. He didn’t just ruin her days; he ruined mine, turning every memory of childhood into a blur of tension and shame.

He doubted me at every turn—second-guessing my choices, mocking my dreams, making me feel small when I dared to want more. I hate how he’d shade me, subtle but sharp, planting seeds of insecurity I’m still pulling out of my skin. He didn’t just mess with my head—he stole the years I should’ve spent figuring myself out, replacing them with his chaos and control.

I hate him for all of it—for the mind games, the power trips, the way he’d twist everything to make himself the hero and me the problem. I hate how he ruined what could’ve been, leaving me with a past I can’t fix and a rage I can’t shake. He’s a shadow I’ll never outrun, and I hate him for that most of all—because he doesn’t deserve the space he still takes up in me. I hate him, plain and simple, and I always will.

Feeling this? You’re not alone. Submit your own confessions—blurt your heart out right here. Share your story, your rage, your truth. You never know who you might help, who might read it and think, “Me too.” Let it out, and let’s resonate together.

Read: How to Break Free From Generational Trauma