I don’t know why this memory keeps coming to mind lately, but maybe writing about it will vent it out.
When I was 13, I had a circle of friends who just so happened to have great dads they would brag about sometimes. One only lived with her dad and had such a great relationship with him, she said he was more like a big brother. One had a strict mom but a laid back dad who would always let her get away with stuff. One had a bad relationship with her mom because she’d say she overly strict and controlling but her dad would always take her side. Another I don’t remember too much since I only knew her for a short time, but I recall her talking fondly of her dad too. Whenever my friends would get talking about their dads, I would always stay quiet. I don’t remember them asking me about my dad, but if they did, I’d probably just say “Oh yeah, my dad’s cool.” But he wasn’t. They all had the sweetest dads and then there was me - mine was scarring me for life whenever he had me alone and had been doing so for years!
Hearing my friends talk about their dads made me come to the realization about my situation with my dad. He was molesting me! I always sort of knew what was happening couldn’t have been right. My dad would sometimes tell me what he would do was his way of showing how much he loves me and it was all normal, but I never fully bought into that. I just knew there was no way all dads were doing this with their kids and it definitely wasn’t normal. Yet I still enjoyed it and would just live in the moment whenever it happened. This can’t be right, but it feels great, so whatever. I didn’t care. I sure did once the gravity of how royally messed up it was hit me. This was serious! I had to put a stop to it, but I couldn’t. I would always tell myself the next time he did it, I’d tell him I don’t want him to anymore. But I never had the courage to do so.
At the time though, I thought my dad might just stop one day to where I wouldn’t need to tell him no. After I turned 13, he started doing it less than he would before. It started when I was 8 and he would do it at least once a week until I was 12. Now he was doing it every few weeks. One time, he even went more than a month without doing it. Sometimes I thought if I just wait it out and endure it, he’ll eventually stop on his own. I’m well aware of how insane that sounds, but that’s how I thought at the time. I was dead wrong, of course. When I was 15, he started doing it every day for nearly a year and it almost got even worse!
I started hating myself for letting it to go on. For always being too afraid to do anything about it. Especially when I’d try readying myself for when I’d finally tell him to stop, but every time became “This is it, I’m saying it this time!” I’ve gotten better with the self-contempt, but every now and then, I’ll still berate myself in my head for never having the guts to say a simple two-letter word that could very well stopped it then and there. I know it’s not logical to think that because it could just as easily not have stopped it and it doesn’t matter anyway. What happened happened and what’s important is dealing with it rather than focusing on the what-ifs. At least now, I’ll finally get to properly deal with it when I have my first counseling appointment two days from now at the time I’m writing this.