how do you tell your husband that his dad is a lustful old man?

i mean those little seemingly innocent back rubs that last a little longer, feels a little tighter, when you only intend to get a quick hug. those creepy looks that seem to peel off your clothes when his son is not around. those accidental bumps and hits on the private places. those kinds of things.

it’s not that i didn’t make excuses. i always told myself that i should be ashamed for feeling uncomfortable. i reasoned out that their family is the complete opposite of what we are, and their being touchy feely is just normal to them. besides, it’s not like i am the prettiest among his daughters in law. if i have never heard anything from them about him taking advantage, how can i even entertain such a thing? i always felt dirty remembering his looks and touch, but i felt worse mentally accusing him of being a pervert.

last week however was a totally different story.

they were visiting, and as usual, he was playing with the kids. we were waiting for my husband to come back from work, and after all the running around, i ended up napping on the couch. it was unplanned. the TV was on, and some show about room makeovers was glaring.

i thought i was dreaming about something. the scene was a little bit blurred. in my dream, i saw myself sleeping on the couch, and there he was, the man i learned to call dad, staring. he had this very familiar shirt on. i thought it was weird that he was wearing that exact same shirt that i saw earlier, but i didn’t bother to ask him. i don’t know how long he had been standing there, a couple of feet away from me. all i knew was, even in my dream, the kind of look he was giving me was not the kind of look a father-in-law should be throwing at his daughter in law. it gives me the chills to say this, but i can’t be wrong. his gaze was sexual in nature.

he started moving towards me, his right hand directly aiming for my thigh. it was at this moment that i struggled to wake up. you probably know how that feels. when you have a bad dream and at a certain point you realize it is a dream, and you will yourself to wake up because you can’t handle whatever it is that is happening or you assume will happen.

i kept telling myself i needed to wake up. i was breathing so fast i almost thought i was going to choke on my own breath. when i finally woke up, he managed to remove his hand from my thigh, and pretended he was putting back the little decorative pillow on the couch.

i didn’t say a thing. it was not out of lack for words to say. it was that i was clearly aware that for every word i would have said, there will be certain repercussions, none of them good. i looked at him, unaware that i was crying. he had this sorry look, and he attempted to talk, to reach out. i didn’t let him. i felt like i was burning. my throat closed, my eyes flooded.

i was able to convince my husband that i was just tired. i managed to escape the ritualistic goodbye hug when they left. i didn’t remind the kids to say goodbye to their grandpa, they did it on their own anyway. they were used to the routine.

how do you tell your husband that his dad is disgusting?

it’s not one of those things you practice in your head. it’s not one of those things that is easy. like when you tell your husband, “honey, the faucet is leaking” or “the light bulb in the bathroom is broken”. those kinds of things are easy to fix.

how will he fix this one?
he worships him and everything that he is. i hate to burst that bubble.

to make matters more complicated, our three kids adore him. i hate to break that relationship.
what about his wife? she trusts him to the core of his being. they have been together for over thrity years. i hate to ruin those years.

but for the life of me, i cannot stand a single minute in his presence. i just can’t. i know that hate is a very strong word, but i actually want to invent one that is stronger.

when i say i don’t know what to do, i really don’t know what to do.
should i keep quiet and suffer in silence?
after all, it’s not like he raped me. what is a little touch, right?
should i tell my husband and rock the boat?
am i ready for the unspeakable changes?

for the nights and days that i have been emotionally restless, you would have thought i have at least done something. i haven’t. the more i think about it, the more i am convinced that i do not know what to do.

then it dawned on me.
i realize now that i have a better understanding of people who commit suicide without the usual suicide note. i’m not saying they were molested by somebody they can’t tell others about, (not even the ones they love, who love them in return) i’m just saying something life changing might have happened to them and they just cannot make up their mind on what to do anymore. i know that feeling.

all of a sudden the idea of death seemed relieving.
is there a difference between wanting to die and wanting to kill yourself?

i do think there is, but i’m not sure what.
for the record, i don’t have plans of killing myself.
i just want to escape.

to a place where the memory of last week can’t follow me and haunt me to do something, or do nothing.