‘I’m a gay man who was a victim of domestic abuse – it doesn’t only happen to women’

I first met Scott* in a nightclub. I had been in an on-off relationship with another guy who wasn’t really committing. I broke up with him and then, within a month, bumped into Scott. I felt like he was able to be vulnerable with me in a way that my ex hadn’t; we had lovely, deep chats. And he was hot, so yeah, that helped! We spent a lot of time together.

We looked after each other; he bought me thoughtful gifts. We spent our first Christmas together and it was like: “Oh, so this is what love is!” Love is this thing that gay people often really aspire towards. To finally have that opportunity to do what straight people do and have a monogamous relationship where we were a team was amazing. I felt really lucky.

I believed at the beginning that I had found someone who was a soulmate; someone sweet and kind; someone I was going to marry. I genuinely didn’t notice any red flags. And that’s because – and this is an important part of abuse – people can be completely normal until they’re close to you.

It started off small. We’d play Mario Kart a lot, but he didn’t like losing. If I beat him, then he would literally beat me. Or if he lost a card game, he would punch me and it would hurt. I didn’t find it funny and I’d call it out. He’d say, “It’s just a joke, it’s nothing.” At this stage it wasn’t excessive enough for me to recognise it as real violence, but looking back now I can see that it was, and that it was a precursor to a more serious threat.

Then it escalated into other things. He would get angry if he had burnt something when we were cooking, or if I accidentally dropped a potato in the sink – small things like that would become a trigger for a violent reaction. He would push me or punch me. There was an occasion where he put his hands around my throat. I’m honestly not sure why.

He would say he was more upset than I was about these incidents – that he was sorry and he didn’t want to do it. He would position himself as the victim, albeit of his own actions. But he wouldn’t do anything to address his anger, and then, of course, it would happen again.

We’d get into arguments about other things – politics or people in my life that he didn’t like – and sometimes that would get physical too. There was an occasion where he pushed me when we were at the top of the stairs. At that point I realised he could accidentally kill me, or really hurt me. I started becoming scared all the time. I didn’t enjoy being near him; I felt constantly unsafe.

It was a long period of unexpected but expected physical violence, on and off. It was rotting away at me, making me feel less and less confident, less and less myself. But I had that feeling you get when you’re on an aeroplane in turbulence and you think, well, I could die this time – but actually, it might be fine and I’ll land in Florida. I was really hoping we’d somehow land in Florida.

I told two people in my life about what was going on, but completely minimised it. I just said, “He gets angry sometimes.” One of them understood though, because she’d been in something similar. She told me it was not OK; she kept pushing me, asking whether he’d got a therapist yet, telling me I needed to leave him if it didn’t happen within a month. She gave me very clear instructions, and I think that did help me eventually find a way out. I’m lucky that she saw through me.

One day, I was at a Botox appointment. The woman was coming towards me with a needle and I had a massive panic attack, crying and out of control. I felt really unsafe suddenly. She asked if I was OK and I said, “No, I think I have to leave my boyfriend.” And then she shared a story about her ex-husband – how she’d had to escape him to protect her and her daughter because he was violent. Her story saved me because she saw what was going on somehow, in a way that I guess only survivors can see it.

Very quickly from there, my wall that I had built to protect our relationship came tumbling down. I finally really saw everything and realised what was happening. Within a week, I told him I couldn’t live like this. I left.

It was incredibly emotionally difficult to walk away, not least because it meant fully admitting what was happening to me. But at the same time I couldn’t understand why I hadn’t been able to leave earlier. And this is the cycle that traps many people in domestic violence situations. I’m eternally thankful that I found the strength to leave when I did.

It was hard for me to recognise what had been happening to me, because I’d always heard about domestic abuse being a man hurting a woman. I’d never heard anybody talk about it being a woman hurting a man, or a man hurting a man, or a woman hurting a woman. I’d never seen it or heard of it in queer spaces. I always thought, my entire life, I was going to get gay-bashed on the street. It was completely in my blind spot to think that I could get gay-bashed in my own home. Because why would that happen with a boyfriend?

As queer people, we all have quite a lot of trauma; there is still a lot of homophobia in the world and almost every queer person encounters it regularly. So you understand why people have issues, because you have issues too, and that answers why you stay with someone like Scott – you think, “Well, they’re a victim of their past.” But you can quickly become a victim of their present.

Sometimes I still feel pretty sad about it, because I think, if only he had been brave enough to deal with his unresolved historic trauma, we wouldn’t be here. He wouldn’t have hurt me. We could have had a really good relationship. But he didn’t want to face that. And I don’t want to live my life focusing on the “what ifs”.

I don’t think there is accountability for a lot of abuse in the world, because so many people that experience it are silenced. It’s a huge, huge number of people who suffer this kind of thing, and we’re all just expected to be quiet about it. I think it’s important for people who’ve experienced abuse to say, “Me too” – because then, hopefully, it will happen less.

Someone sharing their story helped me to leave my abusive ex. Hopefully me sharing my story might help others recognise the situation they’re in, and take steps to do the same. And just maybe, someone perpetrating this kind of abuse may read this, recognise this behaviour in themselves, and take it as a sign that they need to change.

James Barr is performing his stand-up comedy show based on his experience of being in an abusive relationship, ‘Sorry I Hurt Your Son (Said My Ex To My Mum)’, on Sunday 15 September at The Museum of Comedy in central London; tickets £9.

*Name has been changed