The Story of Being Raised by an Unbelievable Otaku Father and a Mother with Unbelievable Affection

My father was an unbelievable otaku who would create nude mods for girls in Xbox games right in front of his children. It was beyond unbelievable. He once poured boiling water on my face while I was sleeping and submerged me (at age 4) in the bathtub just because he was annoyed. Unless I was an incredibly annoying kid, that's an impossible move. To top it off, he was a bespectacled, chubby otaku who cheated constantly. He pulled too many crazy stunts as a father. I suspect he was a man who lived with his "insanity gauge" permanently unleashed.

After the divorce, we fled from Osaka, where we lived with my father, to Kyoto. But my mother's direction of affection was also unbelievable.

To prevent me from becoming a crazy otaku like my father, she first restricted all forms of entertainment.

TV, music, anime, manga, of course—and even books. Perhaps she didn't like that I was a bookworm when I was little, because she even snatched away and hid books I had borrowed myself.

Also, going out was forbidden. She was overprotective.

Because of this prisoner-like life, I had very few friends. So, I endured the loneliness by reading my mother's shojo manga, Shinichi Hoshi's novels, and Norwegian Wood, which were hidden in the closet. It was a bit annoying that while she forbade me from being an otaku, she was being one herself behind the scenes.

Eventually, she caught me reading them in secret. She became hysterical, flew into a rage, and threw all the books away. What the hell? There were times when she used padlocks, so all my hard work picking them with hairpins went down the drain.

And my mother's brand of "affection" didn't stop there. If I didn't kiss her on the cheek before going to school, she'd get angry. When she came home, she'd find any excuse to lash out at me. If I didn't listen to her venting, she'd be in a foul mood. There were times I was treated half like a boyfriend. Sometimes she'd get mad and throw away my textbooks. I've written such terrible things about her, but if you ask, "Do you hate your mother?" it's not really like that. After her mood hit rock bottom and she spewed verbal abuse at me, she would apologize, saying, "I'm sorry for being such a mother," and I would spend hours comforting her. She sometimes praised my persistent mental strength, and when she was in a good mood, she'd take me to family restaurants. Eating the same meal as her there was a lot of fun. If asked if she was a good mother, I'd hesitate, but if asked if I hate her, I'd say no.

I just plain hate my father. He wasn't just toxic; he was simply insane, and I resent the madman who hurt my mother.

Also, the teachings my mother gave me, like "Don't act with your balls" and "A man should walk on the roadside in silence," have been very useful. There are parts of my current relationships with various people that exist thanks to those teachings.

Thank you, Mom. Drop dead, Dad.