Story Time -- Dealing with MY Boomer Parents

Hello, everyone. My husband found this subreddit, and we decided that this is my chance to shine.

Let us begin with some background knowledge of said parents. My mother (59, and technically a Gen X) and father (62) have been married for almost forty years, to my surprise. Both of them did not have the best childhoods. My mother's mother (I will call GMC for ease), left her when she was young. GMC was only 15 when my mom was born, so after my mom like 2ish, she left her and her then-husband. Eventually, my mom had to move to Oklahoma with her dad and new step mom. Step GMA was an awful person, and I'm pretty sure it was just because she was jealous of my mom and HATED GMC. Anyways, relationships with her parents eventually did get better, but I mean, it didn't really matter.

My father. The TRUE boomer. Oh boy. Here we go.

So, my dad, born and raised in Indiana, was the youngest (and only son) of seven children. His father (I will call GPJ) only wanted a son. Hence why my dad was the LAST child. I don't really know much, because my dad doesn't share "how" things actually were. He was the son, so he always thought that the MAN of the house needed to be respected, obeyed, and taken care of. I'll get to that soon. My aunts, however, hated their father. It wasn't until after my brother was born when GPJ started becoming more family oriented. He loved his grandchildren, and eventually realized they were his pride.

My father, don't get me wrong, he loved his kids. We never felt like he wasn't supportive. Until he wasn't. What I mean by that is he is an alcoholic. Big time. He also smokes pot, which is fine, but he drank so much, everyday, that he was blacked out by bed time. He would buy a case of beer EVERY DAY after work. If he had a day off, he'd buy two cases. Having company? Three cases. Oh, a party? FIVE CASES. He would drink like 70% of them. All the time. My mom actually told me once that she would only drink to tolerate him.

(Oh, and my brother and I are 10 years apart)

When I was born, my parents were party people. My dad use to do cocaine. Got to the point where he started stealing from his wife to get drugs. My mom was responsible, so don't worry. When his best friend passed away in 1997, he changed. I believe that he went into a deep depression where his anxiety and paranoia came in. But, don't even mention that he had mental health problems.

(Here's the fun part)

SPEAKING of mental health problems, when he lost his job he worked for 32 years, he went into a severe depression. He refused to get a job for about 3 years. He was one of those people that in order to get his unemployment, and keep getting it, he had friends vouch for him saying he applied and they weren't hiring, yadda yadda. If you even mentioned him getting a job, he'd retaliate. He kept thinking we were trying to poison him or something. I don't even know.

My dad is definitely a germophobe. Conditional, of course. He was racist. I should have added that. I think this is funny, because while growing up, he told me some of his best friends were black. He thought because of that, he had the right to say, uh, you know, towards anyone. Anyways, he didn't want anything to do with the public or sickness. When I was sick, I didn't even see him. He would just lock himself in his bedroom so I couldn't infect him.

OH, speaking of sickness. My parents are smokers. Big time. They smoked inside the house all the time and around me. Lucky me, I now have an awful time with breathing, in general. Oh, but it's my fault that I have asthma. My brother mentioned this to him recently. We both have families, now. We don't want our babies to be anywhere near that. When my brother said something about how my lungs are crap now, my dad literally said "But you guys are still alive."

At this point, I'm just going to give you stories.

We had two large dogs growing up. One was a German Shepherd, the other was a Black Lab and Border Collie mix. Our German Shepherd was, pretty much, the same age of me. My brother had told me that one day, my dad woke up, stepped in puppy shit. What did he do? HE THREW THE DOG OFF THE BACK PORCH. Which was probably about 15 feet high, over hanging a hill. The dog was fine... ?

Every time I would spill something, I would hear, "Do you still need a fucking bib?"

When I was in the hospital, about to give birth to his grandson, named after him, he never came to the hospital. The only time I saw him in the first few weeks post partum was when him and mom came over to clean. The whole time, he bitched about how dirty and awful my house was. Like, thanks. I just gave birth after having one hell of a fucking pregnancy, but I'll make sure the house is cleaned for you.

Here's the most recent. I had to go to the hospital at the end of March for severe dehydration. I was so sick. I had texted my mother saying that I needed her because I was in pain. My husband said I was pretty delirious (like I said, I was SEVERELY dehydrated). She told me it was just flu pains and I'll be fine. That was it. My dad called about a week later asking how I was. He then says, "It's been a while since I heard from you." My reply, "Yeah, I'm pretty upset with yall." His reply, "I don't understand why, but okay."

I could count on one hand how many times they have visited my house since moving in 2019. They only live 20 minutes away.

I haven't heard from my dad since the beginning of March. Honestly, it's been nice.