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Content warning: This blog post features discussions of suicide and the death of a family member

A few days ago, my father killed himself. I wouldn't say that I'd expected it, but it hadn't exactly surprised me either. He was severely mentally ill and using ChatGPT as his therapist. I'm just glad he didn't take anyone else out with him.

Don't offer your condolences. I don't want to hear them. I'm not sad—more than anything, I'm just angry. We haven't figured out much yet, but from what I do know, it was probably for some pretty selfish reasons.

To put it simply, I don't think my father was a good man. I think that he often had good intentions, but he still did a lot of bad things. I don't have stories to tell about him either because I don't have memories of my childhood. To me, he's practically just some random man. Not just that, but I know that he's a large factor in me having cPTSD and that the interactions with him I do remember were filled with me just being annoyed and frustrated with the bullshit he spewed.

So, yeah. Fuck you, Dad.

Obviously, I won't be saying that sort of thing at the funeral. But I feel like I ought to say it.

If anything good comes from this, it's that (1) his dog is going to a better home and that (2) I should probably get the life insurance. Assuming that his mother is actually capable of caring for her and that his wife is being honest saying she wants to give that money to the kids.