I don’t remember my entire childhood, but I will never forget the fragments of the past that I now find not just disturbing but downheartedly dreadful. It happened almost every bath time. I don’t know why mom never thought of it as weird, but I remember dad always insisting to give me my bath each night. I remember other moms from my school saying how lucky mom was for having such a hands-on husband.

My dad gets along well with other kids in my school. Apparently, he loves kids. I remember him asking me if it felt good, and to me, it wasn’t painful. I no longer remember how many times it happened. All those night sessions stopped when I was around 12 years old. I never told anybody about until college. My roommate shared that her friend got sexually abused, and I got tempted to share my story too. I actually kind of regret I shared it, but it was too late as I already blurted the words. Until now, my roommate was the only one who knew—unless she also shared it to others haphazardly. But after having found this blog, I have realized that there actually are a lot of crazy stories like that, and there’s a level of relief I cannot explain.

I don’t hate my dad—I know I should– but until now I’m just confused why things like that happen not just to me but to a lot of people in the world. My parents are already divorced, and I have no connection to my dad anymore. I know I should accept the world and all its realities, but somehow I just can’t help but wonder how awful things come about ceaselessly. I want to see the good in humanity, and I am actively seeking ways to revive my faith in it, but I guess it would take time. I know there are a lot of good things in the world, and I know that soon enough, I’ll be totally okay.