They think Im doing this to spite them, to make them suffer or some shit.
This so resonates with my own experience, my whole life up until 18, and much of it after. It can be summed up in one event. I promise at the end of this, I'll bring the focus back to you.
When I was 14, a couple months after my boyfriend committed suicide, I wasn't getting a lot of support at home, my parents were clueless about empathy and support. My mom picked me up from school one afternoon. It was raining, which was rare where we lived. My mom asked me where my umbrella was, I said I'd forgotten it. She said, "Why do you keep doing this to your dad and I??"
Forgetting my umbrella, an act that only affected me, was an assault on her, and on the united front of my parents.
Something snapped inside.
I thought, "I'll never do anything to you again."
When we got home, I went straight to my room. I sat at my desk, and got out paper and a pen to write a suicide note. My mom called me into the living room, we talked it out. I don't remember the outcome, there was some kind of detente, I think I was somewhat soothed without her admitting fault, and I didn't write the note nor attempt.
It sounds to me like you've had your own crazy-making issues with your parents, having blame projected onto you. I was the perpetual scapegoat for all problems and misery, and it was always assumed that I had only nefarious and cruel intentions for all of my actions. Perhaps I'm wrong that you were scapegoated, too. If I'm right, sending understanding and support. I myself used to believe that if something tragic happened to me that didn't quite kill me, my parents would show up and care. Yet things did happen, not tragic but bad enough, and I was nursed back to health, but left mostly alone except for when being necessarily served, rarely amused or connected with. It was really lonely. I was lonely a lot growing up, not interacted with enough, not enjoyed just for me, resented for not liking the same housewifey, housekeepy things my mother did (this was the early 70s and she hated women's lib), and yet not allowed to go anywhere. If boredom and loneliness could kill, I would have died before I could talk, and after that, hundreds of times over.
Apologies if I made this response too much about me. Some things came pouring out after reading your comment. I'm sorry for your suffering, and the suffering in me that hasn't healed responded to yours. Sending compassion and empathy, with wishes for your well-being, equanimity, and empowerment, and if none of that is what you wish for yourself, then sending the caring intentions instead, if you want them, for you to apply wherever and however is best for you.