Why can't I just do it?
I'm done trying to help my dad understand that the way he's been doing business no longer works. He's going to keep doing it the way he wants to.
Per his request, I found a property management company. But they don't want him to continue his little personal verbal deals with tenants and potential tenants, and he wants to keep doing it. They've made it very clear that's a deal-breaker, and he's having a hard time deciding.
In the middle of the discussion about that, he decided that since Mom and I don't want to answer phone calls, emails, or text messages outside of normal business hours, we should be chained to our desks during that time. And when I complained about that, he started talking about what would be expected if I had a full-time job, and he didn't like it when I told him to either give me a paycheck or shut up.
He's made it very clear that he feels weird being unreasonable about all of this, and he should be allowed to continue running things the way he's always run them. He's 81, told me he was retiring, and now he's complaining that I'm stepping up and taking over.
So I drafted up an email telling Blake and Alder, are potential saviors, that he thumbs his nose at them, and came out to the bunny room with three vials of Admelog.
Because things aren't going to improve. Things are just going to keep going the way they've always gone. And I'm done with this ride.
Except I can't push the plunger down.
It's so easy. I take doses of insulin all the time. It should be the easiest thing in the world to overdose on it.
But I can't. And I don't know why.
I don't know why I can't escape.
Per his request, I found a property management company. But they don't want him to continue his little personal verbal deals with tenants and potential tenants, and he wants to keep doing it. They've made it very clear that's a deal-breaker, and he's having a hard time deciding.
In the middle of the discussion about that, he decided that since Mom and I don't want to answer phone calls, emails, or text messages outside of normal business hours, we should be chained to our desks during that time. And when I complained about that, he started talking about what would be expected if I had a full-time job, and he didn't like it when I told him to either give me a paycheck or shut up.
He's made it very clear that he feels weird being unreasonable about all of this, and he should be allowed to continue running things the way he's always run them. He's 81, told me he was retiring, and now he's complaining that I'm stepping up and taking over.
So I drafted up an email telling Blake and Alder, are potential saviors, that he thumbs his nose at them, and came out to the bunny room with three vials of Admelog.
Because things aren't going to improve. Things are just going to keep going the way they've always gone. And I'm done with this ride.
Except I can't push the plunger down.
It's so easy. I take doses of insulin all the time. It should be the easiest thing in the world to overdose on it.
But I can't. And I don't know why.
I don't know why I can't escape.
46-50, M
