He was a good man. He raised me when my parents couldn't. He taught me French, how to read and write, and he made me fall in love with math. He even taught me piano and we would sing in the synagogue together. I would sit on his lap while he put his big hands on mine when we would touch the keys together.

I remember his face. It was hairy, brown curly hair covered his mouth. He was green-eyed, very pretty eyes behind round glasses. He had a fat nose and thin lips. I remember his voice. Soft, always sounded like he needed to cough. He used to let me rub his beard. It felt rough. He was tall, almost like my dad. He was a big guy.

We would sit together and do homework or watch movies. He would do silly dances when I practiced piano. He loved to give me gifts. I don't have many of them anymore, I only have a stuffed teddy bear from the third night of Hanukkah. He would smoke a lot, I think that's why I do it too. He would smoke when he gave me a bath or when we would go to the park after service. It was just us. He never had a partner, nor did he look for one. I remember one time, after a party, I was asleep on a chair. He picked me up and gave me a big kiss on my cheek. He carried me all the way home. I touched his tiny braid as he rubbed my back. I felt very safe. I was loved.

He was amazing. He called me his son. I actually thought he was my real father until he reminded me of what happened. I missed my parents, but he was there. I wasn't alone. He would let me sleep in his big bed when I would have nightmares, or the thunderstorms scared me. He would hold me tight and tell me stories. He gave me everything I wanted, but I didn't ask for much. As long he was there, that's all that mattered to me.

Something changed when I was five. He started to drink a lot, I don't know why. One night, I was having a hard time with my homework, and he was drunk out of his mind. He got angry, started shouting, I was crying, then he smashed the bottle of beer on my head. It was the only time he did that. I remember waking up confused as he was wrapping my head in banages. He started to cry as he was saying how sorry he was. I wrapped my arms around him and apologized instead for being stupid and not understanding simple math problems. I still think it's my fault for not knowing he wasn't himself and getting him upset.

He did that more often. He would throw things at me or shout at me. Once, he told me my parents didn't love me and that's why they didn't want anything to do with me. I remember being so sad that I ran to the closet to hide. But he found me. He dragged me out by my feet to my bedroom. I remember trying to grasp the floor and begging him to leave me alone. He took off his belt and hit me with it. It wasn't the only time he did that, but it was the only time he apologized for it. He never remembered what he did those nights, but I hate to think that he did remember and decided to play the fool.

The night it began was an average night. He hit me, threw beer cans at me, and sent me to my room after I couldn't stop crying. I was snuggled up in the blanket and hugging my teddy bear. He came in, I could smell him before he sat on my bed. He wrapped his arms around me, and I saw tears getting trapped in his bushy beard. I wiped them with my fingers and told him I was sorry. He said we were going to play a game.

He turned off my lights. I heard him take off his clothes first. When he flicked them on, I saw him naked. I gasped, then laughed. Little kids think that's funny. I stopped laughing when I saw his red eyes. They had a look that would become familiar very quickly. He turned off the lights again and told me to take off my clothes. I did what he said, I wanted him to stay in a good mood. I was six.

He told me to lay down, and I did. He laid on top of me. I couldn't really breathe well. I told him I didn't want to play anymore. I got scared. I asked him to stop.

It happened.

It hurt.

I grabbed at his beard. I tried pulling it. I screamed. I told him no. I told him to get off me so I could leave. There was so much blood. I started to cry. I begged for God to help me. I begged for my teacher. I begged for my parents. Nobody came for me. I covered my ears and shut my eyes tight.

It was only night he stayed after he finished. He fell asleep on the bed next to me. I was shaking. It hurt so much. I saw red all over my sheets. I couldn't walk to the bathroom. I stayed there with him. I looked at him. I saw his hairy back. I saw the wall.

The next morning, he remembered what he did. I asked to go to the doctor. I asked him why he did that. I saw his eyes. He knew he did me wrong. He knew it wasn't right. He said we couldn't tell anyone or I would be taken away and he would be placed in a dangerous place. He was crying. He was holding me. I forgave him. I said I was sorry. I didn't know why I was sorry. He kept me home from school for two days and gave me all the sweets, toys, everything I could want. He let me stay up late and watch adult TV. He didn't drink for a whole week. He held me, his touch sickened me yet comforted me.

I felt so disgusting. I felt so dirty. I would sit in the bathtub and just scrub my skin for hours straight. I thought, if I got clean, it could go away. My skin would break and become red. It never went away. It will never go away. It's like a monster that climbs on your back and never wants to get down. It's heavy. It makes you feel dirty and like everyone is looking at you.

He drank again and it happened again. And again. And again. He drank every night, so it happened every night. He left once it was done. I think he was trying to get away from what he did. I would cry and ask God to help me. As sick as it sounds, I preferred it when he did it on school nights so it would end earlier. When there wasn't school, he would do it for hours and hours.

School was my escape, yet I didn't feel entirely safe there either. I would get teased for looking too Asian. I would get pushed or kicked around. My teachers stood up for me, but I was more scared of them than the bullies. If they knew, they would take me away. I loved my uncle, I told him that every morning when he would beg for my forgiveness. I never wanted him to get in trouble, even if he made me sad and bloody every night.

On the last night, just a month away from my seventh birthday, he was the cruelest. He was sick and yellow, but it didn't stop him from throwing spoons and pillows at me. He destroyed my dollhouse and all my pretty little dolls. I was numb to it. I just stared at all the pieces of the pink house on the dirty floor. I didn't cry anymore. I didn't cry when he did it with me in bed until four in the morning. I didn't pray. I went to sleep immediately after he left.

In the morning, I was awakened by sirens and a police woman carrying me outside. I was informed in the softest way possible that my uncle died in the kitchen, they said from heart attack. I sobbed so much that I threw up all over the officer, who was so patient with me. They called people, and I was placed with my aunts Annie and Martha.

I wasn't scared. They were both women. They were so nice to me. One day, they found me playing with myself in a very inappropriate way. Aunt Annie shouted at me, but Martha asked what happened. He was dead. They couldn't hurt him. I told them. Martha held me throughout the night, I felt her tears falling on my back. I found out Annie destroyed her baby brother's grave and spat on it. She still doesn't mention him, Martha said she only had a sister up until she died.

I remember going to Vagu before middle school started. I was frightened. There were three males in the house. I was clingy to my new sisters, which annoyed them until I told them a man did something terrible to me. I don't know if they figured it out, but I think it was just the womanly instinct. Valentino was easy to trust, especially after we watched Winx. Hunter, as much as I hate him, never showed any sexual feelings for me. If anything, he avoided me and hated me. I actually preferred that, I knew he wouldn't hurt me. He couldn't even look at me, let alone do anything like that.

My uncle Ho, I was very scared of. He likes hugs and kisses. I like them too, just not with men. But I quickly found out that romantic attention from anyone made him sick. He never wanted to date. He never wanted to have sex with anyone from any gender. I was so happy. I remember I hugged him and he was so happy. He was the first man I felt safe with.

Things changed when my parents came back. I was upset with them, but I was closer to my mom than my dad. I was okay with her touching me or kissing me, but I would literally jump up if dad sat next to me. I felt like shit for hurting his feelings like that, and I wanted to be loved by him. It was just too scary.

"Hey," my parents and my uncle sat me with me one day in my room. "is everything alright? Why are you so scared of appa?"

I tried to lie at first, but they eventually demanded the truth. I told them what happened. My uncle cried, my mother was sobbing, and my father looked broken.

"I'm so sorry!" I told them. "I know it's my fault! I tried telling him no!"

"That's not your fault. That's never your fault." My uncle said. "I'm sorry that happened to you."

My father spoke to me in a gentle voice, I could see the tears in his eyes. "Do you think I would do that to you?"

I nodded. I felt ashamed. My father is a great guy. He would never dream of doing something like that.

"I would never, ever, ever do something that disgusting to you. I know I wasn't there, I know I abandoned you, but I love you. And I don't love you like how that sick fuck did, I love you as my son. I want to protect you, not hurt you."

And since the first day I saw him, I hugged him and cried into his shoulder.

I slowly began to trust men. Now I love spending time with my dad, my uncle, and my brothers. I have male friends. I don't feel scared of them. I got my first boyfriend in middle school. I was scared of him, and I sadly did have reason to be. He was abusive, and of course, he was a whore. We all know what ended up with him.

But with François, I feel completely safe. He respects my boundaries, he doesn't hit me, shout, curse, he's so nice to me. He saved my life twice.

I still feel guilty sometimes. I think it's my fault. I told my boyfriend once that I'm sorry for not being a normal man. I think maybe if I were normal, it would've never happened. He said it didn't matter to him what I had. He said he loves me for me, not for my genitals. He's literally the best boyfriend ever. In a way, I'm happy we both know the struggles of having something we don't want. When I have my period and feel really bad about myself, he buys me candy and makes me feel better. He knows what it's like, and he understands in ways that make me think we were made for each other.

I tried getting bottom surgery like he had, but it didn't work. I was really depressed about it, but I'm starting to be ok with having my problem. Sometimes, I don't really see it as an issue. It's just something I have. It's alright, I know that now.