It could never happen to you

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Status: In Progress  |  Genre: Memoir  |  House: Booksie Classic
Warning , This essay is of a Adult Nature , Violence , Homosexuality , abuse ,foul language ,and other disturbing topics are covered.

He screamed “Useless fF&%$, you waste of space... I hope you die” Those words seemed to hurt more than the bruise on my face. I felt humiliated and ashamed, I am a man, this isn’t supposed to happen to me. Domestic violence were the male is the victim is so often unreported

Submitted: October 07, 2019

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Submitted: October 07, 2019




I felt his hand around my throat, as he squeezed and threw me up against the wall. I managed to twist out of his grasp but not before he managed to grab me by my face and slam me into the floor. I was to shocked and stunned to even think, I just reacted. I grabbed my bag, my motorbike helmet and ran for the door. He screamed “Useless fucken cunt, you waste of space... I hope you die” Those words seemed to hurt more than the bruise on my face. I felt humiliated and ashamed, I am a man, this isn’t supposed to happen to me.

I had been living with him for 15 years, not that we were a couple, not really, just two gay men who live together. I always laugh at our idea of sex; it was saying “screw you “when we walked past each other. Passage sex. We jointly bought items for the flat, supported the other when sick, paid bills when one was not able to. Yea, a bit like a working marriage but without the sex. Probably like allot of people’s marriages to think of it.

I guess that’s why it worked for so long. 15 years and we only had sex at the very start. We had tried to date and do the boyfriend thing, but that never worked. He was a chronic alcoholic and I was a sex addict. I liked sex with a variety of different men. Monogamy wasn’t my strong point ,I would go for weeks without anything, then go on a binge. He  liked his booze. A litre at a time, he would start drinking at the respectable hour of 1 in the afternoon(Sarcasm), and by 5 in the afternoon I would be avoiding him. He could not manage for more than 3 days without drinking. In those " between " days I would be able to rest and recuperate, and then when the drinking started, I could quickly gage how quick I needed to disappear.


Sure it wasn’t the ideal relationship, I always laughed and called it mutual parasitic. We did the same job, so landed up been away from our flat for months at a time. I do not drink, or smoke, he would make up for my lack of sins in that department, but when it came to sex, I would be the win the gold on that one every time. Once saturated with sex, a few days would pass and I would be out on the hunt. When at work and away overseas, I would seldom go adventuring for sex, unless it was Rio, but that’s a whole other story.


15 years is a very long time for anyone to live with another, even for pot plants. You really get to know who they are, you see the warts, the smells and the psychotic behavior’s, but you learn to deal with it, or work your way around it. I would ignore certain remarks; I would play to his manipulations as long as I could get something out at the end.  Most of the time we just ignored each other’s crap and carried on. We both knew how fickle and fast gay relationships were. Here today gone tomorrow. I would joke that gay relationships are to be counted in dog years, I normal year is like 7 years.


I am not too sure when it happened. That little breaking point in our relationship. Was it maybe when I started on Prep, the HIV prevention drug? I always thought I was HIV Positive, maybe it was my twisted sex addicted lifestyle. But when I found out I was negative, something just clicked. I did not need to just have anonymous sex; I could forge a relationship with someone else. And so I did, the guy just happened to be HIV Positive.  That is another whole story on its own on how I came to accept that I was negative and how I could be with someone who was Positive. 25 years of believing and having that constant drum beat of “HIV “ = “Death “ , over and over again. If you’re not muscular, fat or health and vigorous looking and you are gay, there was a good chance you had that dreaded disease. I was slim, pale and lanky. He would use this against me, telling me he was horney and wont sleep with me because I probably had aids, how those words stung, how those words would manipulate my behavior into only been there for him, as I was never good enough for anyone else.

 The first time he hit me, it was “an accident “, a bit of rough play. He was drunk, I was being cheeky, so I buried it. Woke up in the morning suspicious and wary, but he was so good at just playing it never happened, that even I did not want to admit it. And so it continued.

He was once in drunken rage and threw a wooden statue at me all because of some infraction I had done. We had long since stopped sleeping with each other and one could still see the deep dark mark accusingly above my bed where the statue smashed into the wall.
 A month or two later and I was picking him up from a bar, it was routine I had gotten into, me the inabler, my karmic debt, I volunteered to pick him up whatever time so that he would not attempt to drive home drunk. It wasn’t about him, it was about who he could kill, and I felt guilty about that.
Driving home he was sullen and moody and erupted into some accusations of me been a total whore and he did not want to nurse me when I got sick. Before I could answer he lunged for the steering wheel and tried to pull the car off the road, and attempt to roll the car in some messed up jointed suicidal attempt. I managed to bring the car to a screeching halt and Shouted “What the fuck? ”... The word had not even finished the sentence when his fist caught me on the jaw, He grabbed the radio face and threw it at me, it bounced off the side window and hit the front windscreen, a huge crack spidered its way all across the windscreen.


He screamed and yelled and raved at me. I wanted to get out the car and walk home, but I knew he would do something horrendous, so I drove back to the flat with him howling in my ear. For 4 hours I had to listen to him scream and shout, spit flying from his mouth, his vodka and coke getting throttled in the tall glass, his knuckles white and his hair seem to stand on end. His eyes bloodshot and his words seemed to be like missiles looking for weak spots.  When someone tells you that you are useless, the first few times you can just shrug it off. But when the one person in the world who you have spent most of your adult life with tells you this, you start to believe it. Maybe I am useless, maybe I will never be able to survive without him, maybe I am a person who is incapable of love
Maybe I was useless, stuff like this doesn’t happen to normal people, I brought this on myself, it was all me, me, me , I was the selfish one.
 I wrapped my sorrow around me like a blanket, and when the chirping birds woke that morning, I was lying in bed, stiff and bruised and feeling like someone had ripped my soul into a million pieces. I could hear him snoring in the other room, not a care, not a worry. My karmic debt was to feel the pain for both of us.  I would have day dreams of 1960’s house wives sit coms , “ he still loves me “ , and “ I walked into a door” , or my favorite that I would tell myself “ it’s the drink , its not him” …


 When I came home from work that day, I knew I was in trouble, I could hear the anger in his voice when I greeted him. I arrogantly stood my ground and I felt his hand around my throat, as he squeezed, he threw me up against the wall and one of my framed photos came flying off, it felt like I had taken its place. I managed to twist out of it but not before he managed to grab me by my face and slam me into the floor. I was to shocked and stunned to even think, I just reacted. I grabbed my bag, my motorbike helmut and ran for the door. He screamed “Useless fucken cunt, you arsehole , you waste of space.. I hope you die” Those words seemed to hurt more than the bruise on my face. I felt humiliated and ashamed, I am a man, this isn’t supposed to happen to me.


I raced off on my motorbike and it felt like I was running from him. I was panicked, humiliated, tears streaming down my face.  I was pulled over by the police, and I cried and cried.  Eventually they had me in a police car and snorting and sniffing, and I have to hand it to them, I would have just locked myself away ,  I had that wild animal look in my eyes, I was shaking, I could not string a sentence together. They gave me a R500 fine for speeding and told me to go report the incident at the police station. It was with blurryeyes I saw two of the policeman whisper to each other, and then a side long look at me. The one laughed. I cringed … I could feel the redness in my cheeks, I was devastated, I took my fine, climbed on my motorbike and headed to my friend’s house.  No one ever needs that, no one … I was gulping air like a fish when I got to my destination. He calmly lit a fire and let me just sit and try make sense of it.
I slept in his bed that night, deep and dark holes in my dreams, and me curled into a fetal position. I should have just driven head on into a car and killed myself, that’s how I felt. 

I think back to when I stopped calling “the flat” my home ,4 maybe 5 years ago, somehow the word home could not be used to describe the place where I slept. A home is a place where one can recharge and hide from the world. This was not home.

 My face must have looked like a thunder storm the next morning, this negative static energy swirling around my head, a black hole of nothingness. I saw my friend recoil and although I had offload just a bit the night before, I realized my mistake. My circus, my monkey. I cannot expect a friend to know those magic words to make it all get better, I could not expect him to listen to me, I had already burdened him with my monkey, and it wasn’t getting off my back.That Sunday morning, I rode to work, the day was bright and sunny, but I was in some deep dark space, I could feel the skin on my face taunt and stretched like a drum, my jaw was painful, maybe a bit from the abuse I had suffered but also from painful way I was clenching it in pure frustration and anger. I had the keys for my work place, I went inside, locked up behind me and thought I could cry, but I just sat there, looking at the wall. The hours ticked by before I made a conscious decision to ask my brother for help.

I am 43 years old, I have accomplished allot in my life, done things that I never in my wildest fantasies would have imagined doing, I have lived life like I was on a  rollercoaster,  taking the up and downs as best as I could. I was still breathing.  I knew one thing, I needed help. As much as I hated to relay on another person, I could see that this trauma would not be able to just buried. It’s a guy thing, we clam it all in and play it didn’t happen.


The following few days’ death threats would appear on my voice mail. He would send me Whatapp voice messages, I could hear the rage in his voice. The more I avoided him, and refused to talk to him, the angrier the messages got. I would shake in fear and I would catch myself looking for the nearest exit.
I could not talk to him, and refused to engage with him, a friend phoned him and arranged for a time I could collect my clothing and goods from the flat and that he would not be there.

I remember gathering my cloths, he had thrown them all onto the bed, it looked like a tornado had hit the place. I was shaking in fear, I kept expecting him to come around the corner from his bedroom, white knuckles loaded for the next round.  I took what I could and left knowing I would not be back.
My 15 years of accumulated “stuff” managed to fit snugly into my friend’s backseat of his car.  I had been wearing the same cloths for 5 days, so this was a relief to get some fresh cloths.

I am not some sniveling little fragile guy, I have sailed across oceans, I have hiked in Rainforests, slept in deserts, and traveled the world. I knew that I would need help. I just didn’t know where or how. What cemented this thought was when I was sitting at work and just started shaking, quivering and for no reason. My body was in high alert mode, I had hardly slept, I was jumpy and I could not concentrate.

I sent a mail to Health for Mens clinic, requesting help and we arranged a meeting. I needed to try and figure everything out. I don’t care how many times I could repeat to myself “It’s not me, It’s not me”. It has happened to me. I needed tools, I needed to talk it out, I needed another person’s perspective. I could not burden friends and expect them to help. They would offer me the support I would need in the following months. But I needed was to get this out of my head , I could slowly feel my mind twisting itself inside out , he was winning.  I was not going to let that happen. My life without him starts.

By Paul Watson

© Copyright 2019 Paul Watson. All rights reserved.

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