Battered Lives
FEATURE
Gone are the days of spouse plus black eye equals abuse. Domestic violence can take many forms and with as many as one in three same-sex relationships affected, Tim Warrington takes a closer look at this most intimate form of abuse.
Almost 12 years ago to the day, I returned home from work with a bottle of Dom Perignon and a packet of Camel soft pack 20s. I didn’t smoke and I rarely drank champagne, but that didn’t matter, I had something to celebrate. As I walked through the living room I pushed over a large Waterford crystal vase full of lilies (his); kicked a soccer ball (his) through the kitchen window (mine, oops) and zapped several pictures of him in the microwave. God, it felt good… good but not great. It needed a little something. I finished my champagne in one gulp and hurled the glass (a gift from him) at the wall. Much better. I then followed suit with the rest of the champagne flutes, the wine glasses (red and white) and the Villeroy And Boch Vinoble Mouthblown Wine Decanter (his, his, his). Smashing. After that, I proceeded through the house with a rubbish bin, collecting every single item that reminded me of him. CDs, books, letters, a pair of underpants, soft toys, more clothes; things he had left behind; things he had given me. I dumped everything in the kitchen sink and set fire to it. Burn baby, burn. As the flames began to caress the kitchen cupboards and race up the curtains, I took the only logical action, I pulled down my pants and peed on the flaming remnants of my abusive relationship. Heaven. I continued to sit at the kitchen table guzzling champagne from the bottle and dragging on cigarettes, watching the photographs sizzling nicely as they circled slowly in the microwave. The glowing embers of my kitchen sink inferno warmed me nicely as Carly Simon serenaded me with strains of You’re So Vain from the stereo. As I contemplated the smouldering carnage in my kitchen sink, I vowed that no one would ever lay a finger on me again. I’m not sure if this is the natural conclusion to a domestic violence story, but it was mine. And after a year of being used as a human punching bag, it was just what I needed: closure. Now, rewind 12 months. I knew I’d probably pushed my luck by accepting the dessert menu. But the waiter
was flirty as hell and hot to boot. Besides, Julia and I were having a ball and I fancied a scotch for the road. As I savoured my single malt, I eyeballed Julia and declared, “I’m in love.” Michael (him) and I had been seeing each other for three months and he was amazing. Perfect. Almost perfect. He was a little possessive and had grumbled at not being invited to dinner. But Julia had news (she was pregnant) and she had the whole first-trimester-secrecy-thing goin’ on. Nothing sinister. Michael had finally agreed to stay home. That night I left the house in good spirits – maybe just a little confused at having to explain in minute detail what I would be doing and where I would be and precisely when I would be home.
“It has been argued that domestic violence is the third most severe health problem for gay men, following HIV/ AIDS and substance abuse.” Much of the dinner conversation was spent on Michael. I could not believe how lucky I was. He was handsome, fit, well-educated, successful and so, so sweet. He used to make me a packed lunch every day. There was always a sweet note nestled between my muesli bar and banana. Who does that? In the cab on the way home, I switched my phone on. Immediately following the Nokia jingle came the first sign that something was wrong. There were 67 missed calls from Michael. I had been incommunicado for less than two hours. That’s one phone call every 1.8 minutes. I concluded that there must have been a death in the family; it was the only logical conclusion I could draw from such a pressing
need to contact me. As the cab pulled into my driveway, I steeled myself for terrible news. My booze-hindered attempts to get the key in the lock were hampered further by my haste to discover the reason for the evening’s crazed dialling. Suddenly, the door burst open and Michael appeared. He was a broad guy and filled the doorway easily. Dripping with venom he snarled, “Are you drunk?” “No, I’m a little tiddly,” I replied somewhat euphemistically with whisky-tinged breath. I continued, “What’s wrong?” “You’re late,” came the reply. “Late for what?” Signalling my frustration by throwing up my hands. He ignored me and continued, “Where have you been?” (Now, he knew where I had been so the temptation of a dismissive and highly-sarcastic response hovered at my lips for some time, but a sixth sense warned me not to and I swallowed my glib retort in favour of silence.) I looked up and collected his eye with mine, seeing his pupils constrict I knew then I was in trouble. He was red-faced and trembling. I had never seen such physical symptoms of anger and I suddenly realised I was in dangerous territory. I felt like I was eyeballing a wild animal that could snuff me out in a second. I decided I would diffuse the situation by going to bed. I announced my intention and began to walk up the stairs. Habitually tardy, I’d been faced with anger at my lateness more than once before. A surly note and a snoring boyfriend was the norm. Occasionally there were harsh words and a door slam. Warranted. But not Michael. No. Michael, my boyfriend of three months, decided that my late arrival home was best met with a perfectly executed sucker punch. Nothing restores sobriety like a punch to the windpipe. The intoxicating effects of scotch and a bottle of Chateau de la Tour Burgundy vanished completely when the love of my life decided to introduce me to the hitherto foreign concept of domestic violence. And just like that I became a statistic. According to studies, both in Australia and overseas, about one third of lesbians and gay >> DNA 57