So sorry you're going through this, Sal. 
Your father sounds a lot like mine, albeit less violent. My father was always a bit off the deep end. Mental illness runs in his side of the family. His father was a genius who bordered on complete insanity. He liked to parent by simply beating his sons. My father used to talk about it with a sense of awe and respect. Thankfully, my grandfather died before me and my brothers were born.
My father was physically abusive to my oldest brother during his toddler years, but turned to verbal and mental abuse after that. My brothers and I were never troublemakers. We always did well in school, never got detention or in any real trouble. Never stayed out late, vandalized anything, got into fights, did drugs, got anyone pregnant, etc. Yet, we were disrespectful ingrates who were lucky to have a roof over our heads and food in our bellies.
Whenever we did something he perceived as being wrong (which was based on his whims... we could do the same thing every day with no issue, then out of the blue all hell would break loose on the nth time), he would make us stand in a line like we were soldiers while he did his best drill sergeant impression, ranting and raving in our faces, telling us how worthless we were. We were 12 and younger. He was a Vietnam vet, you see. A guy who stayed in the safest areas because he was an Air Force plane engine mechanic. Yet, he demanded he be treated like a bonafide war hero instead of a grease monkey who essentially had an extended tropical vacation because he was as far from the fighting as anyone in the area could be.
He once tried to burn the house down with us inside. I was like 3 or 4. He would freak out at the drop of a hat. It was always our fault. He would kick in bedroom doors in order to yell at us.
He was always paranoid, but it came to a head when we got cable TV in 1990/1991. It was during Desert Shield/Storm. Suddenly, he was watching CNN all day every day. And then he started watching C-Span. Everyone was a communist. And not in a 'ha ha' way. The yelling and ranting got worse as time went on. It became an almost daily thing. He was paranoid that the government was out to get him, that there would be an revolution, etc. Alex Jones shit before Alex Jones even existed.
Why didn't we leave? We needed his income for my medical bills. The 1980's were a lot different than today when it came to covering complete physical disability from birth. The bulk of my 43 surgeries were done when I was a kid. We had bills out the wazoo. Mom, in addition to working a full 40 a week (sometimes more) went to night school to get her business degree so she could earn more. She also brought me to every medical appointment both locally and down in Boston. And took care of my brothers, who aren't disabled but were still kids. My father didn't do much parenting due to us not wanting him to, and thankfully he was too lazy to insert himself into it. We walked on eggshells enough with him simply sitting in the living room recliner chain smoking and smoldering with rage as he watched the news.
There was a religious aspect to it, too. He repeatedly told us about this dream he had where god woke him up from a nap on the couch. He went to the bathroom, looked in the mirror, and saw god over his shoulder. He couldn't make out god's features, just that it was glowing and kind of humanoid. And god told him he was a good person doing a good job. Between his military service and god dream, he literally thought he was righteous in everything he did. He was never wrong, never cruel, never abusive in his mind.
Turns out he was a child molester. He molested my cousin/godmother when she was 8-16. Why didn't she tell us until I was an adult? Because she knew we needed his income for my medical bills. I cannot adequately express the guilt I have knowing she was humiliated and suffered in order to protect me.
We call him Asshole. He's in prison. We were able to meet the statute of limitations for the last year of abuse (her 15-16 year). Even with just that year, he got 16 counts of felonious sexual assault. His purported last parole hearing is actually next Tuesday. My brothers and I have changed our last names to our mom's maiden name. I still live with her. She's my hero.
Now, I'm not saying this to try to take over the conversation or one up you in the misery department, Sal. I have no interest in getting into a terrible father dick waving contest. I just wanted to share my story in order to illustrate that I really know what you're going through. I get the constant defense, the locking yourself in your room, enjoying leaving the house for any reason, and dreading having to come back to a home that feels like enemy territory. I get it.
My advice is simple: do whatever you can to get the fuck out of there and don't look back. I haven't seen my father since he was arrested 15 years ago, and that time has been the best time of my life. I feel a lot more confident, I don't need to hide away, etc. Yet, I can still feel his presence in how I react to certain things. Living with a psychotic affects everything, and the effects are long lasting and sneaky. The sooner you get out of there, the sooner you get to heal, which can take a long time.
Beyond that, I'm giving you an Internet hug. Stay strong and do what's best for you. And full props to your grandma.
Your father sounds a lot like mine, albeit less violent. My father was always a bit off the deep end. Mental illness runs in his side of the family. His father was a genius who bordered on complete insanity. He liked to parent by simply beating his sons. My father used to talk about it with a sense of awe and respect. Thankfully, my grandfather died before me and my brothers were born.My father was physically abusive to my oldest brother during his toddler years, but turned to verbal and mental abuse after that. My brothers and I were never troublemakers. We always did well in school, never got detention or in any real trouble. Never stayed out late, vandalized anything, got into fights, did drugs, got anyone pregnant, etc. Yet, we were disrespectful ingrates who were lucky to have a roof over our heads and food in our bellies.
Whenever we did something he perceived as being wrong (which was based on his whims... we could do the same thing every day with no issue, then out of the blue all hell would break loose on the nth time), he would make us stand in a line like we were soldiers while he did his best drill sergeant impression, ranting and raving in our faces, telling us how worthless we were. We were 12 and younger. He was a Vietnam vet, you see. A guy who stayed in the safest areas because he was an Air Force plane engine mechanic. Yet, he demanded he be treated like a bonafide war hero instead of a grease monkey who essentially had an extended tropical vacation because he was as far from the fighting as anyone in the area could be.
He once tried to burn the house down with us inside. I was like 3 or 4. He would freak out at the drop of a hat. It was always our fault. He would kick in bedroom doors in order to yell at us.
He was always paranoid, but it came to a head when we got cable TV in 1990/1991. It was during Desert Shield/Storm. Suddenly, he was watching CNN all day every day. And then he started watching C-Span. Everyone was a communist. And not in a 'ha ha' way. The yelling and ranting got worse as time went on. It became an almost daily thing. He was paranoid that the government was out to get him, that there would be an revolution, etc. Alex Jones shit before Alex Jones even existed.
Why didn't we leave? We needed his income for my medical bills. The 1980's were a lot different than today when it came to covering complete physical disability from birth. The bulk of my 43 surgeries were done when I was a kid. We had bills out the wazoo. Mom, in addition to working a full 40 a week (sometimes more) went to night school to get her business degree so she could earn more. She also brought me to every medical appointment both locally and down in Boston. And took care of my brothers, who aren't disabled but were still kids. My father didn't do much parenting due to us not wanting him to, and thankfully he was too lazy to insert himself into it. We walked on eggshells enough with him simply sitting in the living room recliner chain smoking and smoldering with rage as he watched the news.
There was a religious aspect to it, too. He repeatedly told us about this dream he had where god woke him up from a nap on the couch. He went to the bathroom, looked in the mirror, and saw god over his shoulder. He couldn't make out god's features, just that it was glowing and kind of humanoid. And god told him he was a good person doing a good job. Between his military service and god dream, he literally thought he was righteous in everything he did. He was never wrong, never cruel, never abusive in his mind.
Turns out he was a child molester. He molested my cousin/godmother when she was 8-16. Why didn't she tell us until I was an adult? Because she knew we needed his income for my medical bills. I cannot adequately express the guilt I have knowing she was humiliated and suffered in order to protect me.
We call him Asshole. He's in prison. We were able to meet the statute of limitations for the last year of abuse (her 15-16 year). Even with just that year, he got 16 counts of felonious sexual assault. His purported last parole hearing is actually next Tuesday. My brothers and I have changed our last names to our mom's maiden name. I still live with her. She's my hero.
Now, I'm not saying this to try to take over the conversation or one up you in the misery department, Sal. I have no interest in getting into a terrible father dick waving contest. I just wanted to share my story in order to illustrate that I really know what you're going through. I get the constant defense, the locking yourself in your room, enjoying leaving the house for any reason, and dreading having to come back to a home that feels like enemy territory. I get it.
My advice is simple: do whatever you can to get the fuck out of there and don't look back. I haven't seen my father since he was arrested 15 years ago, and that time has been the best time of my life. I feel a lot more confident, I don't need to hide away, etc. Yet, I can still feel his presence in how I react to certain things. Living with a psychotic affects everything, and the effects are long lasting and sneaky. The sooner you get out of there, the sooner you get to heal, which can take a long time.
Beyond that, I'm giving you an Internet hug. Stay strong and do what's best for you. And full props to your grandma.
"I was thirsty for everything, but blood wasn't my style" - Live, "Voodoo Lady"
