When I was little, my world felt safe because of him. My father wasn’t just a parent—he was everything. We went fishing before sunrise, laughing when I couldn’t even hold the rod properly, and he would wrap me in a towel after swimming like I was something fragile and precious. At night, I would fall asleep beside him, feeling protected in a way only a child understands. This is what love is supposed to feel like, I used to think. He treated me like I mattered, like I was his whole universe. And maybe that’s why what came later didn’t just hurt—it shattered something deeper than trust. It rewrote my entire understanding of love.
It started slowly, so quietly I didn’t even realize what was happening. Puberty crept in, changing my body before my mind could catch up. One year I was just a kid in oversized clothes, and the next, everything was different. My body filled out, my height changed, and suddenly, the way my father looked at me… changed too. It wasn’t obvious at first. Just longer stares. Tension in his voice. The way his eyes lingered too long on places they never used to. And then came the rules. The yelling. The insults. “You’re not wearing that.” “Stop sitting like that.” “Who do you think you are?” The words didn’t make sense at first—but the way he said them did. I understood what he meant, even when he didn’t say it out loud.
My own house stopped feeling like home. It became a place where I had to calculate every movement, every outfit, every second I existed outside my room. I started wearing oversized clothes, hiding every inch of my body like it was something shameful. Even then, it wasn’t enough. If my shirt shifted the wrong way or my posture slipped for a second, it would trigger him. Screaming. Cursing. Calling me things no father should ever call his daughter. And the worst part? The way he looked at me after. Not like a parent correcting a child—but like a man angry at what he sees and blaming the person in front of him for it. I began to realize… this wasn’t about me at all.
I adapted the only way I knew how—by shrinking myself. I changed in my car so he wouldn’t see me. I wore slippers constantly so my feet were hidden. If I forgot, even for a moment, panic would hit like a wave and I’d rush to cover myself, heart pounding like I had done something wrong just by existing. I was living in constant alert mode inside my own home. And every single day, the same thought echoed in my mind: He’s my father. This isn’t supposed to feel like this. Not in any universe.
People would say the same thing if they knew. “You’re an adult. Just leave.” As if it were that simple. As if you can just walk away from the person who raised you, the man who once made you feel safe. I’m trying—I really am—but healing isn’t instant, and escape isn’t always immediate. And talking to him? Impossible. He doesn’t believe he’s ever wrong. Not once. Not ever. If I tried, it would just be more yelling, more denial, more anger thrown at me like I’m the problem. Meanwhile, my mother stands by him no matter what, cleaning up after him, defending him like he’s still the man he pretends to be. And I’m left alone with a truth no one wants to acknowledge.
The hardest part isn’t even him anymore. It’s what he turned me into. I can’t walk past a group of men without feeling exposed, like they’re all seeing something I can’t hide. Even when no one is looking, my mind tells me they are. They’re staring. They’re thinking things. You’re not safe. It doesn’t stop. It doesn’t turn off. And relationships? They feel impossible. I tried loving someone once, but the moment I felt desired—even in a healthy, normal way—my chest tightened. My mind twisted it into something dark. Something wrong. Something familiar. And I HATED THAT I COULDN’T TELL THE DIFFERENCE ANYMORE.
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