Misery just wont leave me alone

I am back living with my parents. I hate it. With every part of me I hate it. I love my Dad. I hate my mother. I don't know how to pretend I don't. She is overseas in China for 2 months, one month left of freedom. Not that it's possible to feel free when living in a house haunted with the bad memories that molded me. I remember when I was six I was playing on... I don't know how to describe it... a great big metal monstrosity with a basket ball hoop. The metal slid and sliced off a good chunk of my palm. I cried for a bit until mum slapped me and told me it was time to go in for church. There wasn't alot of blood and I stopped crying. It still hurt though. I remember when the pastor was giving his message I adjusted my sleeve and the missing chunk of flesh fell out. I was fascinated by it. I could see layers. It stayed in a jar in my room for a little while until I lost it. Ten years later and you can still clearly see the scar. But that isn't even the biggest reason I hate that woman. I hate her for so many reasons. I remember a time when I was sick. I must've been around 9 years old. She had this rule that I had to be sick for 3 days before she would take me to see a doctor. On the second day I got up in the morning and tried to make it to the kitchen to get water. I managed to make it to the lounge before I passed out. I was feverish, weak, and hallucinating so when she came home from work I told her I needed to see a doctor. She took me. We waited for over an hour. When the doctor saw me he told her I had meningitis and she should've taken me to an emergency room. That if I had been left alone for even another hour I could've died. I remember trying to laugh. The next thing I remember was waking up on an IV drip. I personally think I sustained some brain damage because I haven't been the same since. This still isn't my number one reason for hating her though.