My father and his fiance did their best to help me. They told me about programs I could apply to, and encouraged me to keep applying for jobs. I got a position at a deli for a local supermarket, and quit after one four-hour shift. I really was pathetic.

Tension between myself and my father grew, but he was exceptional at managing it. Even when it began to boil over, he refrained from making any uncouth remarks or doing more than giving me a long look, which in fact was far more effective than any insult would’ve been. It still wasn’t enough to motivate me however.

Outside of my job search, I was doing alright. Still slow at losing weight for reasons unknown to me at the time, but I had started to venture outside of my shell, and the house. I found a local comic shop that I’d spend afternoons at sometimes, chatting with people and just enjoying the ambiance of fellow nerds. I did apply to more jobs, but had little luck. Turns out, not many people wanted to hire a guy who only worked freelance, a few years at a student job and had an unfinished Bachelor’s.

Things eventually came to a head when my father told me one night that I needed to do something, to make some move or he’d get me a ticket ‘back home.’ It cut me to the core, because at that point I had associated every bad element in my past, in my whole life with where I grew up. The thought of going back there was marginally better than dying. I left the house, went to the nearby park and ended up sleeping out there that night. Not well; I woke up when daylight started to come out and loitered a bit longer until I knew both dad and his fiance left the house before going back inside.

I thought about going to my other stepmom’s house; she lived a few towns over. I even asked her, but she had her own foisted issues to deal with. Her father recently passed and his young daughter needed to be housed. There’s so much more that I can’t write here, but in short: that wasn’t an option.

I still didn’t know what I wanted to do, but at this point I started to realize more than anything that I wanted to leave. I didn’t want to stay there anymore, but didn’t know where I wanted to go. Or hell, where I could go.

As a last-ditch effort to try and salvage my father and I’s relationship—which had unraveled even more as we both realized that the tension was as much due to a childhood bond that never existed as it was our current states—we went to therapy. I believe it was the first or second session that I had said, after a tearful struggle that I didn’t like my father. I truly don’t remember what I said, except that I did use the words “and I just don’t like you.” In response, my father told me “Fuck you.”

Truly, I don’t blame him. He had given a lot to take me, his mid-20s fuck-up son in. He paid for my medical bills, he didn’t charge me rent or anything. And while it’s his fault he left behind as a child, he was working to, if not make up for it then at least do the right thing now. Most importantly? We were both mad. We were stressed, upset and needed help expressing it. Those therapy sessions, in retrospect did more for our relationship than anything up until that point. But it was clear that our relationship wasn’t going to be fixed overnight, nor was there any promise it’d be fixed at all.

I couldn’t stay with him any longer, and I couldn’t go to my other stepmom’s house either. I didn’t have the money to cover rent, let alone a job to afford it. In that moment, I knew I had two options. I could just leave. Hit the streets, find something and see what happens. Or, I could go back home.

My mother and I had been talking, and the subject of me returning to university was broached. She had the money available, and told me she’d be willing to put me up as a residential student in a university near me, not back home. It was exactly what I needed to hear. It also didn’t pan out, because that money wasn’t really available. It was for my ailing grandfather, in case he needed sudden medical care. Not being a selfish monster, I understood—but the idea of returning to university had taken root, so I was willing to go back home if it meant I could finish what I started. Even if I had to confront the demon that is the student loan industry.

This is perhaps a good (if late) time to mention that part of the reason why I imploded so badly in my previous attempt at university was due to the fact that I had financial aid. My tuition was covered entirely, as long as I maintained respectable grades. The more courses I failed, the lower my GPA got until I lost that aid entirely. So even if I felt like I wanted to keep trying, I knew I couldn’t afford university, so why keep trying? You can see how that was a terrible cycle.

So, my choice was made. I packed my things, told my family over there goodbye and went to the airport. I remember my father telling me, sincerely, that “you don’t have to do this.” He remembered how bad off I was back home, and I know he was afraid I’d go right back to that point. I was too, but I knew I couldn’t stay and thrive. I couldn’t, with my particular brand of inadequacies and self-flagellation.