10 years old.

10 years old. When a girl is 10 years old she should be worrying about what color dress to wear, or how to do her hair. What she shouldn’t worry about? Her father. Growing up, I was always close to my dad. He was my hero, my role model. He would be my hug when I came home from school, the one to tuck me into bed at night, the one who always was there for me. Until something changed. He changed me. In ways that no daughter should ever be changed by her father. In ways that no 10-year old should ever have to feel. In ways that permanently scarred me. I am now scared. I’m scared to let him in my life. I’m scared to ever say no, because he told me that “my voice didn’t matter” and that “I must do what he said” because “he said so”. I’m scared. When I was younger I always wanted my dad by my side and I could imagine him walking me down the aisle and handing me off to my husband. Now? I can’t even imagine being in the same room as him without being terrified for the life of me.