My father told me to take cold showers, always saying, “You smell horrible, go take a cold shower and use the soap I gave you.” And I did—like five times a day. It was driving me mad. My skin felt raw, and I started getting paranoid that something was wrong with me. My mom stayed silent, which was strange since we were usually close.
One day, my boyfriend Silas came over, and I asked, “Do I smell bad?”
He laughed like I was kidding. “You smell like shampoo and honey. Why?”
I didn’t even get to answer before he headed to the bathroom to wash his hands. A few seconds later, I heard a loud gasp.
Then nothing.
I found him standing in the doorway, pale, holding the soap I’d been using. “Who gave you this?” he asked, his voice shaky. “Are you taking cold showers with this?!”
I felt my blood freeze. “Yeah… why?”
He looked at me—like really looked at me—and started crying. Not sobbing, but quiet, panicked tears. “They didn’t tell you, did they? Baby… this isn’t soap. It’s formalin. It’s used in embalming. Like, for dead bodies.”
I thought he was kidding, but Silas was already pulling out his phone, frantically searching. He showed me images—brown bars with faded labels, chemicals, warnings in tiny print.
I ran to the trash can and fished out the packaging. It didn’t even have a real brand name. Just some label in tiny print that read “Preservative Use Only.”
I felt sick. All over. Like I’d been dipped in poison for weeks and didn’t even know it.
I confronted my dad that night. My voice shook the entire time.
“Why have I been bathing with something that’s not even SOAP?! What is this?!”
He didn’t look surprised. Didn’t deny it. Just sat there in the kitchen like I’d asked what was for dinner.
“You needed it,” he said flatly.
“I needed embalming chemicals? Are you listening to yourself?!”
“You wouldn’t understand. There’s a reason.”
That was the moment I realized something deeper was going on.
Later that night, Mom came into my room while I was packing a small bag. Just socks, underwear, and the photo of me and Silas at the lake last summer. She closed the door and sat on my bed.
“I wanted to say something,” she whispered. “So many times. But your father… he said if I told you, he’d make sure you were taken away.”
“Taken away? What are you talking about?”
She reached into her purse and pulled out a manila envelope. Inside were a handful of documents—old medical records, some birth certificate copies, and a single page from a hospital discharge summary.
It said I’d been declared dead. At birth.
Stillborn.
But clearly, I wasn’t. I was sitting right there.
I stared at her in disbelief.
“I had a complicated delivery,” she said, her voice trembling. “You were born early. No one thought you’d make it. They told us you were gone. We signed papers. But then, an hour later, you… you started crying. They’d already tagged you. Moved you.”
“I don’t understand,” I whispered.
“Your father… he took it as a sign. Like God had returned you. But something shifted in him. He became obsessed. Convinced your body needed ‘maintenance.’ Like you were still… I don’t know, half-dead somehow. He thought those cold showers were keeping you alive.”
I could barely breathe. “So he was preserving me?”
Mom nodded. “In his mind, yes. He thought the formalin helped. Like it stopped… something.”
“That’s insane.”
“I know.”
I stayed with Silas for a few days after that. He helped me see things clearer than I ever had before.
With his help, I contacted a counselor, then child protective services. I was legally 18, so no one could remove me from the house, but the authorities still opened an investigation.
My dad was taken in for psychological evaluation.
Turns out, he wasn’t abusive in the classic sense. Just broken. Traumatized by almost losing me and never fully recovering from it. What he did was still wrong—dangerous—but it didn’t come from hate. It came from fear and a deeply warped sense of protection.
Mom filed for divorce quietly.
As for me? I started over. Cut my hair short. Got a part-time job at the bookstore down the street. I still flinch when I pass cleaning supplies in the store. But the scars on my skin are healing.
So is everything else.
Here’s what I’ve learned:
Sometimes the people who claim to love us the most are the ones hurting us without realizing it. Love doesn’t excuse damage. And silence isn’t protection—it’s participation.
If you’ve ever questioned something that didn’t feel right… trust your gut. Ask. Speak. Push back.
Because you deserve truth. And healing. And a clean slate—not a cold, chemical one.
💬 If this story touched you or made you think of someone who needs to hear it, please share it. You never know who might find strength in your voice.
