Written by: Anonymous

When I first met Daniel he couldn't look me in the eyes. Not because he's awkward or socially inadequate, but because out of the two of us my personality mostly overshadowed his and he was always too cautious to submit to his real feelings. A lot of the time in dangerous love stories it's the retiring character who seems to be on the receiving end of the abuser, but in life there is no "type". They're either abusive or they're not.

Like any story you'll read in this collection it started off "well". I had no real warning signals from Daniel in the years I'd known him and worked with him. Sure, he wasn't perfect, but he actually never pretended to be. He could be a little selfish with his free time, a little irrationally paranoid, and his humour wasn't exactly mainstream, but after we got used to each other we clicked. He had a strange, subverted way of caring, but it was definitely there, and he always made a beeline to hang out with me alone at work. Subconsciously I did the same. We flirted a lot, but mostly meaninglessly. We were never often serious when we chatted and I always looked forward to my work shift when I knew he would be there. I knew he felt the same.

My mum would always joke that I had a "type", and Daniel was the damn poster boy. People used to joke that we were made for each other because we were, quote, "both a little weird".

After a long period of denial Daniel finally admitted (in his usual round-about way) that he wanted to give a serious relationship a shot. In his own words it was, "If I had to date one person I guess it'd be you." That's Daniel-speak for: "You've stolen my heart, please be mine." I couldn't believe a guy like Daniel would have even let our years of painful flirting finally sway him.

Why? Because I'm also a boy.

It was slow moving, but that suited us both. We weren't one of those cute couples that people slap the hashtag #goals onto. We'd been friends for a long time so the transition for us as lovers took some adjustment, but we got there. We were solid mates underneath it all, though, and he would always take care of me in a sort of distant, non-smothering way. I appreciated that, because neither of us were needy. We didn't exactly live in each other's pockets, so we never got on each other's nerves. Ever. Unlike some works of dangerous romance fiction there wasn't any underlying inequality between Daniel and I. I was his equal and he was a true partner to me in every sense of the word.

But one January his life took a hit, and it would be a long time before I discovered the extent of it. Initially, Daniel handled the change in his circumstances like a pro. He didn't feel the need to involve anybody else in his problems, not even his parents, which might've been his first major mistake. It was subtle at first; from being moody over failing his driving test and more so after falling badly in a work accident and injuring his back.

His comments sometimes became snippy, especially about housework, and he'd roll his eyes if I made a stupid joke or rolled off one of my "facts" that any good friend of mine just kindly puts up with. Most often I'd try and cheer him up if his mood turned south, but I didn't know what was causing his mood swings. His jabs became more and more frequent, but I didn't exactly stand around and take it. An abused partner is not a voiceless one and it's wrong to assume that we can't, in general, stand up for ourselves.

Daniel was hiding a huge secret and it affected every day of his life. I won't go into the details of it because, while he wronged me in severe ways, it's not my place to tell that side of this story. Just know that it was crippling him and I wouldn't wish it on anybody else.

Eventually though, Daniel's problems got so on top of him that his snippy comments evolved into daily insults. I didn't recognise it for what it was, either, because the progression to emotional abuse is so gradual, as it often is. Being my friend first and foremost, it hurt so much more when he criticised me because he knew exactly what to say to upset me. He'd intentionally jab at me about my dog (he's a rescue dog -- he makes mistakes), or my hygiene (which is fine, by the way, my job is just dirty), and often put me down with words like: "you're not even as smart as you think you are". He'd say that all I ever do is stay up and write, but never do anything productive. He'd scoff at my jests and tell me they don't make sense. He'd make accusations about me spending money on things I didn't need. He'd constantly make remarks about how the house and bed always "stank" of me, because, as you can well imagine, being a mechanic isn't a clean job. I tried pretty hard to keep up with dog-training, to always smell nice, to deprive myself of "wants" and only buy "needs". He robbed me of laughter and of confidence in myself. That isn't to assume I mean in terms of looks or particularly of intelligence, but instead he made me doubt every decision I made. I lost confidence that I could be in the driving seat of my everyday life, and that if things didn't go his way that day, it was my fault.

Close ones will understand that I still feel the repercussions of this and my personal presence is still in recovery. The line "I'm sorry if I'm annoying you" is all too commonly said.

Emotional abuse is almost so subtle that I thought I was imagining it. I should've known better because my father was an abusive prick and I grew up watching him torment my mum and brother if they didn't behave according to his rules. The difference between them is that Daniel would quickly apologise, but that doesn't mean he's any less wrong. Unlike my father he acknowledged what he was doing, but it seemed he just couldn't help himself, even if he'd sobbed through an apology only ten minutes prior. I stayed with him through this because when he wasn't being an ass, he was still a friend who was hurting.

I hate to throw "ifs" around, but if I hadn't been his friend for years and didn't care deeply for the guy whether he was my partner or not, I'd have most definitely walked. There is certainly nothing "romantic" about me staying, either, or my reasons to do so. It's beyond this point in the story that readers and listeners alike may start rolling the word "stupid" around in their heads, either in response to me or my decisions. I'm definitely not stupid. I reserve a sinful amount of pride in being pretty damn sensible. I don't partake unnecessary conflict (when I do, I mean it). I make a U-turn at the first whiffs of drama. I have and will cut toxic people from my life. The difference is that abuse is not something you can predict or immediately identify. I certainly didn't know any differently with the way my father treated us. It's never fair to blame the abused party when they aren't the ones raising their fists, their voices, or their expectations.

I will never forget the expression on my doctor's face when I admitted I was self harming. I'm surprised he even made sense of the words through my big, ugly tears. I don't wish to turn this into a sob story, but while it appeared to Daniel I was taking his insults on the chin (or in a lot of cases, being defiantly sarcastic in response), I was actually taking it out on my thighs.

I was upfront with Daniel about being put on antidepressants. He was sympathetic, and for a week or two he went out of his way to do something nice for me. It could be as simple as, "How are you doing today?", to helping me keep appointments, or coming home with an armful of our favourite foods. His gestures meant a lot, and I suspect sometimes he did them to make himself feel better too, but he was treating my sadness rather than addressing the reason I was depressed in the first place.

Following the incident later that same week, it would be a long time before I could walk out into the garden again and not feel a pang of hatred for the place. Simply put, it was where he first struck me. I told my close ones that I'd fallen over a deck chair, but it didn't add up to the sprained ankle and bruised face, no matter how many times I told it or laughed it off as some slapstick comedy. It was only half of the truth. I did fall over a deck chair and get my ankle caught in it, but it wasn't because I'm clumsy (I am, but that isn't the point), but rather because I "was in the way".

Oh, but he did apologise. He apologised in the way they call victim blaming. It wasn't "I'm sorry for hurting you" anymore. It was "I'm sorry you were there when I lashed out." And I doubted myself because he was actually very convincing. I often wonder if he was really just trying to justify it. I'm certain he never could.

I remember going upstairs to bed in the middle of the afternoon, which is something I've done since my teen years to avoid thinking about the stuff I don't want to think about. My bedroom had always been my comfort space -- like for many, a place to block out and forget -- but it was after he'd bullied me in the garden for being "mopey" that he also robbed me of my last sanctuary.

I truly don't wish to go into any exact details here at the risk of exposing too much personal information. In my first year of university at age 18, I was taken advantage of, sexually, by a man I didn't know. His first interaction with me in a club was to ram his hand down the front of my jeans. I was irresponsibly drunk and he made sure I staggered home safely, though also made sure he made a whimpering mess of me before he left, manipulating me like a marionette. I can never forget it.

Daniel knew about the encounter (though many years after it happened) and understood why certain things in our sex life were off limits from the start. His chin wobbled as I told him. He made the limitations seem like no big deal to him, but obviously everything was on my terms. One evening, the bolt holding him back snapped. Often he gently suggested we try something and often my reply was "no".

His complex mood swings and his constant criticism of me not behaving how he wanted me to behave, eventually resulted in Daniel pushing my boundaries in a way I won't forgive. There are only so many times one can say "no" before anger gets the best of them and Daniel's final mistake was that he didn't back off. This time it was me who reacted badly and I shoved him.

He didn't like that. HE was hurting and HE felt entitled. How dare I react as if HE was my rapist, after all HE had put up with from me.

He grappled with me, pulling on my clothes and at my hair before I could run. The grappling continued, once at the foot of the television where I banged my head hard on the stand, and again after I ran off a second time and he grabbed me by the door.

I did what I could to keep him from overwhelming me, even if it meant curling up in defence. I don't know what was going through his head, but I could see it on his face that he knew what he was doing was wrong, but for whatever reason he'd lost the ability to figure out where it should stop.

He didn't have his way with me. I don't even think that was what drove him to want to overpower me in the first place. Apart from banging my head and a few minor carpet burns, I wasn't physically hurt. Scrapes and bruises disappear, but the paralysing fear of believing your partner is going to kill you... that doesn't.

Daniel's words after that were: "I think I should leave." Sobbing face down on the floor, I did not stop him.

The disruption in my life after that lasted at its worst for about six weeks. I stopped turning up for work and got threatened with dismissal on two separate occasions. My doctor wrote me off for a month. My manager was displeased I'd not initially followed proper protocol, but was otherwise understanding. My mum and her new husband took me in for a while; I couldn't bear the looks on their faces. As a Wattpad Ambassador I did try and continue for two days following the incident that ended my relationship, but then took a week off without notice or explanation. I knew nobody would ask questions, but admitting defeat was hard.

I won't go on about the upsetting stuff. Just know that I was isolated, vulnerable, confused, and grieving.

That's all just how I got to this point and isn't actually the topic I wanted to write about. The point of sharing my story is to bring a voice to a vein of domestic abuse that is so badly underrepresented in general and, more specifically, MISrepresented in fiction. Abuse isn't a fate only suffered by women. Men receive it too, whether from their partners, siblings, parents... Same sex couples are not exempt from abusive relationships either. Men, women, heterosexual, homosexual, cisgender, transgender, etc. It doesn't matter who -- it happened and it's not to be disregarded.

People don't often consider that men can be vulnerable, or a victim of manipulation and abuse. Why? Because from a young age boys are led to believe that they're not allowed to show weakness. Often as boys we're told that it's childish to cry, or to "grow up" or "man up". A "gentleman keeps a stiff upper lip" if we are to believe the Victorians. It might be outdated, but the concept never went away, did it?

Truth is, as you may have noticed by reading this story: men cry. Even if it's predominantly when they're alone. We're fed the impression that men can and will "fight back" in abuse and assault, and I have heard it said that a man who can't stand up for himself "deserves to be walked over".

Amongst other men he's given names like "wuss" and "whipped" as if to poke holes in his masculinity, as if this concept is his armour. It's taken me a while to realise that I'm no less a "man" (whatever THAT means!) just because I have suffered abuse. Masculinity doesn't make us bulletproof.

In particular, this is me holding out my hand to same-sex couples and other LGBTQ+ survivors of abuse and assault. What upsets me in fiction in particular is that same-sex couples are often written as an object of fantasy and abuse is just a plot point. "He/she hit me, but we'll work through this because romance." No. Abuse is so, SO much deeper than just an isolated assault incident. (Don't get me wrong -- assault still isn't on.) If writing abuse into your fiction, do survivors some justice.

Don't make us stupid, weak-willed, submissive, or living in some romantic daze, because we aren't. It's playing into a stereotype that needs to be shaken off. We have voices and we have complex feelings, motives, and everyone's reaction to being treated wrongly is individual. There is no "type" of person who receives abuse. There is no one gender, or sexuality, or age group that gets spared it.

And some survivors I know and love are damn well made of steel.