I cannot remember exactly the age in which the abuse started; those years of my life continue to remain bleary at best. I think I was about ten. We had just moved into my stepfather’s house after immigrating from the UK some two years before. I remember being strangled multiple times, I use to grab the dog and put him in between myself and my abuser, knowing full well he would never hurt his dogs. Within a couple of weeks, he had figured that one out and would send his dog outside before attacking me. I remember having batteries thrown at my face, leading to a chipped tooth and split lip. I remember going to school with bruises. I remember having a steel pole swung at me, followed by being thrown at me.

I also remember the first time I told a teacher about what was happening at home, I was 10 years old. I also remember the eighth time I recounted what was happening to a teacher. Nothing ever happened. Out of the eight teachers I told, including a deputy head teacher, all but one was a man. Out of those eight teachers, it was only the male teacher which escalated my complaint further. Nothing happened as it went straight to the deputy head, she once again did nothing.

I also remember at 13 (I think) being sent out of a PDHPE class for arguing with the teacher. I argued that men are also victims of domestic violence. If I recount correctly, we were being taught that domestic violence against men and boys is so rare it is not worth referencing. I was sent out of the class for 'disrupting' the conversation and being 'attention seeking'. From then onwards I learned that, in fact, men and are almost never victims of domestic violence. It has taken me nearly a decade to unlearn what I was taught at school. For it was only in 2020 that I accepted that I, a boy, and now damaged young man, had been abused.

At 13 I remember him punching through the glass on the front door to try and grab me at 2am. He was in the garden screaming and throwing chairs saying he was going to kill himself.

I opened the door and said,

"Stop shouting it's 2am".

He then said, "I’m going to smash that little cunt".

All this time I was being taught, and accepting that men and boys were not really victims of abuse. I remember running for my life and locking the door to my room where I stood shaking like a leaf. If I wasn’t so scared, I would have cried. He paced outside my door and punched it for over ten minutes, swearing, threatening, and trying to break the lock to get me.

I also remember the night I became homeless at fifteen. He had punched me in the face and throttled me but this time his hands felt different. Normally he would grab my neck to get me to stop trying to escape his grasp. But this time I could not find breath, my survival instinct kicked in and I had to defend myself. I don’t know if I would be here writing this if it wasn’t for what happened next. I punched him back and he let go, I ran away into the trees. However, I split his nose open. I called the police and told them that I had been abused. When I called the police, he heard me on the phone. The police asked me if there were firearms on the property, and I said yes as he has many black-market weapons including a crossbow, rifle, and varies shotguns. He heard this and hid the guns before they arrived.

I remember taking a bush basher to the top of the driveway and waiting to be saved by the police. I remember they arrived about two hours after I had called and went to speak to my abuser. They then came back and told me that they had spoken to my abuser and had decided that it was me who was the abusive one. They told me to get into the back of the paddy wagon. I asked if I was being arrested. The stony silence was the only answer I needed.

I remember arriving at the police station and being put in the holding cell and waiting there until morning. I was allowed to leave then and was given a court date to attend. I remember sleeping in the park that night, and for the week to follow. Then I found a small, unlocked room at Coles, where I would sleep at night and keep my things.

Two months later I was in the courtroom being told that my abuser had taken out an AVO against me. I didn’t reply as I did not know what to say, so I nodded my head and left. I then went back to Coles. I then slept in the underground Coles carpark for another six months until I found a youth refuge to call my own. All this time believing that men and boys are not abused and are in fact only abusers themselves.

Reflecting back now I am not angry at what happened. I am angry as to why it happened. I am angry that if I was a girl this would have been stopped. I was profiled during this ordeal based on my sex, and my sex alone. If my sister (who thankfully was not living in my abuser’s house) had told any number of the teachers that I had spoken with that she was being abused, she would have been believed. If she would have called the police that night she would not have been arrested. She would not have been homeless for a year at 15 but most importantly, she would have been believed.

I get angry when I see domestic violence portrayed in the media as a gendered issue entirely. Although my abuser was a man, I, a boy, and now young man was the victim of abuse. I cannot help but feel that if the discussion around domestic violence was more inclusive of male things would have been different for me. If I was taught that men and boys are commonly victims of abuse, I may have been able to recognise what was happening at home wasn’t normal. Instead, I was punished for pointing this out. I would have been supported and helped. I would not have been homeless at fifteen. But most importantly, I would have been believed.

http://www.oneinthree.com.au/