You've never understood me, even when I was a small child. Maybe because you traveled so much for work as I was growing up. Somewhat ironic, really, as I can see similarities between us. I don't think you love Mom. I think the two of you are only still together because she is emotionally damaged, probably bipolar, and emotionally dependent and you felt you were "supposed" to. Just like you probably felt you were "supposed" to get married when you did. Perhaps being the youngest of a half dozen children had some effect.
I resent you more for telling me you are proud of me than anything else, because it lays bare how hard you are grasping to convince yourself you're happy with how your life turned out. It's not sympathy when I'm unemployed out of college and struggling with what was apparently ADD and bipolar disorder. I suffered, and while I resent you for instilling in me a doubt of such things as I grew up, I hate you for not noticing I was suffering. I hate you for reflexively turning to frustrated anger when you see something you can't fix. And, as I said, I resent you most for telling me you were proud of me for earning my job a week after implying I was happy to jack off and play video games in my parents' house and to beg them for money every time I want to leave the house.
In a week, I'll have to ask you for money again. A month ago I told you I hadn't been to work in months, that I had to be fired by now, that I needed money for rent and car payment. I'm struggling. I'm trying just to pick up the phone--no--I'm trying to just open the letters from HR and not have a panic attack while doing it. This after successfully checking my mail without having a panic attack just this week.
And when I ask you for this money, you're going to ask yourself if I'm just playing video games all day. You may even ask me. And the thing I'm not sure I can ever forgive you for is something I know you and I have in common: I'll tell the truth. I'll speak true words. I'll have disconnected from the part of me that suffers, that empathizes with myself. I'll lie with my tone of voice, with my body language. I'll try to tell you I'm working on it. I'll make some token promises that me five minutes before (and after) knows I can't be sure I'll keep. I'll get depressed. I'll get anxious. I'll sit down at my computer. I'll load up a video game to deal. I'll blink and it'll be 4am.
That's okay. I'll try tomorrow. When you'll call me and wake me up. Maybe you'll invite me to lunch. Maybe you'll ask me to help you move a dresser. I resent you for being so transparently concerned for my well-being without fucking asking me if I'm okay. I resent you for being scared you'll empathize and realize that maybe you aren't fucking perfect or normal either. And maybe that'll be enough, and you'll tell me what I "need to do", or you'll critique my life choices, or perhaps mention again how you "vowed to stay out of it".
And I'll keep it together while we're on the phone, because that's what I do. I keep it together while people are watching. Then I'll hang up and scream. I'll throw my phone. And I'll deal with it. I'll protect my headspace like I always have. And I'll load up a video game, or I'll open up a Bash terminal and start figuring out the right wget command to download that one manga I wanted to read, or I'll dive in to parsing binary game logs so I can pull out my performance statistics over the course of several games, or I'll hop on Reddit and write an overlong, rambling reply to a random thread tangentially related to what I want to say at the time.
And then I'll blink. And it'll be 4 am. And I'll try again tomorrow.
Fuck you, Dad. Fuck you. We both know you aren't retired any more because Mom drove you fucking nuts. We both know you can't find fulfillment. Maybe you could help me if you were genuine with yourself for one fucking moment, then genuine with me. Right now, you don't help. You make it worse, and you waste my time long after you stop talking. I demand a better future, and I have work to do, so leave me the fuck alone when I clearly want to be left the fuck alone.
As one final thought: when your son doesn't answer his phone because the panic he felt at the phone ringing outlasted the actual phone ringing, and he got up and took a shower, and you just show up at his apartment door 30 minutes later just as he returns your call... maybe try saying "I was worried you finally cut your wrists" and emote like a goddamn human instead of frowning and saying "you need to clean your apartment".