I’ve always been Daddy’s little girl.
I grew up trusting in his everlasting love and guidance until everything turned upside down.
Now 23, I continue to live in the home my parents originally provided as a “safe haven,” equipped with a room and a private bathroom on the second floor. However, with time, that sense of security began to crumble.
My father followed tight restrictions and felt that “character is forged in discomfort.” He would repeatedly say, without pity, “You smell terrible! Go take a cold shower and use the soap I gave you.”
These words rang through my days like an unwavering command. My mother was loving—always available with a kiss or a warm meal—but she never defended me against these harsh accusations.
My father handed me a bar of soap that I had never seen before. It was a green, lumpy bar with an unusual aroma, and he insisted I use it every time I took a cold shower. Terrified and humiliated, I started following his directions to the letter.
I soon found myself showering up to five times each day, furiously scrubbing my skin until it was dry, scaly, and rough.
Despite my best efforts, my father insisted that I smelled like rotten onions.
The breaking point came when my boyfriend, Henry, noticed something was seriously wrong. I had become so insecure, so desperate to get rid of this imagined stench, that I stopped seeing him regularly. One day, in a moment of vulnerability, I questioned, “Do you think I smell bad?”
Henry chuckled, figuring I was joking, and entered the bathroom. Moments later, he returned, pallid and scared, holding the same bar of soap.
With shaking eyes and tears flowing down his cheeks, he asked, “Who gave you this? Are you really showering with cold water using this product?”
My heart sank. “Yes, my father gave it to me… Why?” I managed to ask. Through his tears, Henry revealed the horrifying truth:
“This isn’t body soap, Amy—it’s an industrial degreaser meant for cleaning machinery. It’s toxic and causes chemical burns. You can’t be using that on your skin!”
The sh0ck was tremendous.
Not only had I harmed my body, but I had done it on the erroneous directions of the person I most trusted.
Henry’s revelation opened my eyes to a truth I couldn’t ignore. That horrible day, through tears and shaky hands, Henry begged me to go to the hospital and report what was going on, calling it abuse.
However, I couldn’t bring myself to characterize my father’s behavior as such.
Torn between terror and a burning need for freedom, I determined I had to leave. With Henry’s assistance, I moved into a modest apartment that, despite its small size and basic furnishings, felt like a sanctuary in comparison to the home that had earlier served as my haven.
The next day, I returned to my parents’ house with all the confidence I could manage. I addressed my father, holding the same bar of soap. “I never imagined you would do this,” I said firmly. “This product is toxic—it’s poisoned my skin. Why did you do it?”
He responded with a chilly, cynical smile: “You needed to learn a lesson. And remember, you’re not even mine.”
At that point, everything made sense: the unrelenting humiliation, the constant degradation, and my mother’s silence, which never defended me.
I couldn’t handle it anymore.
Through choking sobs, I said, “You’ll be hearing from my lawyer.”
Soon after, my father was served with a restraining order and subjected to a court process that shattered his arrogant confidence and wrecked his reputation. My frequent hospital visits became a part of my new reality, and while the physical scars took time to heal, I eventually found serenity and strength in my newfound freedom.
Today, living with Henry and surrounded by supportive friends, I reflect on those difficult times with a mix of sadness and relief.
In the harshest possible way, I learnt that my self-worth and safety should never be based on anyone’s nasty words—even those spoken by someone who was supposed to protect me.
Despite the profound wounds, I’m steadily reconstructing my life with dignity and freedom. Each new day presents an opportunity to heal, grow, and rewrite my story on my own terms.
