He stresses me out

I hear his voice from downstairs, and my heart shrinks.
I hear his footsteps coming to my door, and my brain freezes.
He knocks on my door and invites himself in.
He inspects my room in his own time.
He probably didn't think I know why.

They ring the bell and I panic.
I glance outside and hope I don't see his car.
I proceed downstairs to take the orchestrated dinner.
All the while avoiding his deadly stare.
He would often talk about the serious stuff.
It always end up with: lawschool, current events, errands, finances, or the future.
That or he'd judge my: weight, hair, clothes, or friends.

And it stresses me even more.
No wonder I hate seeing him.
No wonder I hate being with him.
No wonder I hate talking to him.
He stresses me out.