Since childhood, I have always been a daddy’s girl. I grew up believing in his unwavering love and guidance until everything turned upside down. Now, at 23, I still live in the house my parents once provided me as a ‘safe haven,’ with a room and separate bathroom on the second floor. But over time, that sense of security began to crumble.
The Beginning: A Rigid Daily Routine and Growing Self-Doubt
My father adhered to strict rules and firmly believed that ‘character is forged in discomfort.’ He constantly said, without sparing himself, “You smell terrible! Go take a cold shower and use the soap I gave you.” These words sounded like an inexorable command in my life. Although my mother was loving — always ready to kiss me or feed me a warm dinner — she never protected me from this harsh criticism.
One day, my father handed me a bar of soap unlike any I had ever seen. It was a green bar with a distinctive smell, and he insisted that I use it every time I took a cold shower. Frightened and humiliated, I began to follow his orders to the letter. Soon I was showering up to five times a day, scrubbing my skin so vigorously that it became dry, flaky and rough. However, no matter how hard I tried, my father continued to insist that I smelled like rotten onions.
Middle: A devastating revelation
The turning point came when my boyfriend, Henry, began to notice that something was very wrong. I became so insecure, so desperate to get rid of this imaginary stench, that I even stopped seeing him regularly. One day, in a moment of vulnerability, I timidly asked, ‘Do you think I smell bad?’
Henry chuckled, thinking I was joking, and went into the bathroom. A moment later, he returned pale and shaken, holding that very bar of soap in his hands. With trembling eyes and tears streaming down his face, he demanded, ‘Who gave you this? Do you really shower with cold water using this?’
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 designed to clean machines. It’s toxic and causes chemical burns. You can’t use it on your skin!”
The shock was unbearable. At that moment, betrayal pierced me to the core. Not only was I harming my body, but I was doing so on the mistaken orders of the person I trusted most.
The End: Liberation and a New Beginning
Henry’s revelation opened my eyes to a reality I could no longer ignore. On that agonising day, through tears and trembling hands, Henry persuaded me to go to the hospital and report what was happening, calling it abuse. But I couldn’t bring myself to call my father’s actions that. The very idea of considering my own father capable of cruelty was unthinkable.
Torn between fear and a desperate need for freedom, I decided that I had to escape. With Henry’s help, I moved into a modest flat, which, although small and sparsely furnished, seemed like a refuge to me compared to the house that had once been my home.
The next day, summoning all my strength and courage, I returned to my parents’ house. Clutching the same bar of soap in my hands, I confronted my father. ‘I never thought you would do this,’ I said firmly. ‘This stuff is toxic — it poisoned my skin. Why did you do this?’
With a cold, cynical smile, he replied, ‘You needed to learn a lesson. And remember, you’re not even mine.’
At that moment, everything made sense — the constant humiliation, the constant degradation, and my mother’s silence, who never defended me.
I couldn’t take it anymore. Through choking tears, I warned, ‘You’ll be hearing from my lawyer.’
Shortly thereafter, my father was served with a restraining order and faced a lawsuit that shattered his arrogant confidence and ruined his reputation. Frequent visits to the hospital became part of my new reality, and although the physical scars took time to heal, I finally began to find peace and strength in my newfound independence.
Today, living with Henry and surrounded by his supportive friends, I look back on those dark days with a mixture of sadness and relief. That painful chapter taught me to question everything and never blindly accept what is imposed on me. I learned the hard way that my self-esteem and safety should never depend on someone else’s cruel words — not even those who were supposed to protect me.
Despite the deep wounds, I am gradually rebuilding my life, regaining my dignity and freedom. Every new day is a chance to heal, grow and rewrite my story on my own terms.
