I hated my father touching me in any way.
As a child, my father was always very affectionate with me. Perhaps too much. He never took as far to say it was abuse but I almost felt too loved. He had no boundaries and regularly entered my personal space. He would barge into my bedroom without knocking, invite me into his to talk (usually about my mother), corner me after I had a bath and was wrapped in a towel. His hugs and cuddles were continuous and overwhelming and as much as I adored him as a child, I still felt suffocated by his love.
As a teenager and after the discovery of his true nature, I detested receiving affection from him. Probably because I knew it was not genuine or there was an ulterior motive to it. I would avoid the hugs, I didn’t want to be that close to him for that long. His kisses became like poison to me. His dry lips on my forehead pushed me to the point of repulsion. He knew I didn’t want them, he knew we no longer had a relationship filled with affection but he insisted that as his daughter and as my father, he had the right to kiss and hug me, no matter how uncomfortable or unnecessary they felt.
As an adult, I couldn’t stand his touch. He often made me link arms with him as we walked through a shopping centre or the supermarket. He said it was because I would stride ahead leaving him unable to keep up in the sea of people. I knew he just wanted to humiliate me. He didn’t care what people thought, if strangers looked; he enjoyed the attention.
If he tried to kiss me or show any “fatherly” affection, I would offer him the top of my head. It was the only part I could take being touched. I could brush out my hair afterwards and remove any trace of him.
Hugs and cuddles became non-existent as I couldn’t stomach pressing my body against the man with no boundaries.
His kisses were poison, his love was artificial, his hugs were suffocating.