What doesn't kill you....

As I've alluded to in other posts, my relationship with Psycho was anything but normal. It was a crazy 4 years filled with fun, excitement, travel, sex, infedility, partying, drugs, episodes of crazy screaming and ranting (not by me), ambivilence, alcohol, hurt, verbal, emotional and physical abuse and revenge - just to name a few.

Psycho was bipolar with more than a few short circuits and a few screws loose. Add alcohol and drugs to the mix, and you had quite the cocktail.

But for some reason I stayed. It was like a drug in itself. There were lots of highs and lots of lows, but not much in between. Just when things were going really well, and I was happy he would do something that would bring me crashing back down to the ground - hard. But like a junkie itching for his fix, I waited around for that high again.

After almost 3 years, we ended up buying a house together. It was primarily his idea, and I just went along for the ride. I pretty much didn't care about anything in those days (including myself when I look back), and would just do things not because I really wanted to, but because I could and well, why not give it a try? As it turned out, we got this great little house that I fell completely in love with. It wasn't without it's challenges, but it was mine, it was just what I wanted - and most importantly it felt like home. Apartments don't feel like home to me. They never have and never will. I live in one now and am just itching for the chance to buy a house again. It won't happen any time soon, since I'm much smarter now, and I want to wait until I feel much more comfortable with my relationship with Q. I'm fairly certain that we will get there.

But I digress, back to the story.

Psycho and I had this house, and foolishly I thought that it would make things better. A lot of people fall into that trap, and I guess now I see why. I also see how utterly stupid it is - it's like thinking that having a baby will make a troubled marriage improve. During this period is when things really started getting out of hand. Psycho started drinking more, and our fights got worse. At first I thought that I might have been partially responsible, since I was drinking too, so I gradually cut back. Things still continued to get worse, only now they were becoming clearer since the alcohol wasn't fogging my brain. It got so bad that there were more than a couple of nights that I found myself running out of the house at 2 or 3 am with nothing but the clothes on my back, my shoes and my wallet. Psycho would be screaming at me out the window (in the quiet neighbourhood we lived in) saying how much he fucking hated me, not to come back etc etc etc. I had done absolutely nothing to deserve this. In fact I had every right to be in his position with our roles reversed.

The next morning, Psycho would wake up, alone, and have no recollection of what had transpired the night before. I would eventually come home, explain everything and the look of shock and dispelief on his face was genuine. Of course he promised it would never happen again, and would kiss my ass for a few days. Then, if I was still upset after that, he would get on my case and get pissy because it had happened over a week ago and I still wasn't over it.

I tried to tell him about his problem and he just wouldn't listen. I tried many different approaches. I even went so far as to ridicule him in public. Picture this - we're in the liquor store and looking at wine to bring to a friend's for dinner. Psycho picks up 3 bottles. My response (not hushed in any way): "Do you think that you should be buying that much wine? You know that you can't handle your alcohol very well." Apparently that didn't go over very well.

Another time, after his 4 day drunk fest (loosely referred to as his birthday) resulted in me having to leave for the night yet again, I snapped. We had a pretty decent sized and varied liquor collection. I came home from work shortly after the incident and proceeded to uncork, unscrew and uncap every single bottle and pour it down the drain. This included all of 13 bottles of wine Psycho got for his birthday, the unopened 25 year old scotch we bought together in Panama, and even the vodka. I poured vodka down the drain. If there were ever a more blashphemous act, I can't imagine it.

Things finally came to a head in the summer of 2003. I had gone away for the weekend to visit my folks and came home to an empty house on Sunday afternoon. I knew immediately what that meant, and began the mental preparations for yet another war. Finally at 11:00 our friend Ed called and let me know that he was bringing Psycho home from a day and night of drinking at the Eagle.

Psycho came home upset. Apparently he ran into someone he didn't like at the bar and it made him cry. Seriously. Needless to say, he didn't get any sympathy from me when he told me the story. That set him off and suddenly the hateful, spite filled screaming started. Psycho started screaming and running around the house, then stomped up the stairs, into the bedroom then back down again. All the while doing nothing but screaming AHHHHHHH!!!! Then he flipped the coffee table over. The whole scene was too much. We had thick, wooden, california shutters over the front window. Had they not been there, the table would have smashed completely through. As it was, he broke one of the slats. All of the sudden he started screaming "I broke it! I broke it! It's broken! It's broken!" Over and over again.

I looked over at Ed. Up until this point, no one had ever been witness to the private hell that I had been living through. Ed saw it, and for the first time, I saw it through his eyes. I suddenly saw the situation for what it was, completely removed from the internal drama, and was witnessing this madman tearing up the house, while his boyfriend stood there - brave, yet battered and helpless. I was horrified at what I saw and walked out of the house.

Ed and I sat on the steps of the rec centre across the street, listening to the commotion coming from the house. At this point I knew I could never go back. I had tried. Tried to be understanding, tried to be forgiving, tried to help him deal with his problem, tried to keep our relationship alive, tried to hold on to this house that meant everything to me. Tried to go on living with the abuse and decided finally that I'd had enough and wouldn't take it any more.

Ed thought it would be a good idea to go back into the Amityville house and try to calm Psycho down. He came out a few short minutes later telling me that in all his life he had never, ever witnessed anything like that. I quietly started to feel ashamed. I ended up going back to Ed's that night, went to work the next day, came home silent and stayed that way. The next day I went to the gym after work.

As I was on the treadmill, I just kept repeating the words "gotta leave" to myself over and over again. With every step I was saying it and growing stronger. Finally I headed home, walked in the door, up the stairs and began packing my suitcase. Psycho had been in the backyard and after a few minutes came upstairs and quietly asked what I was doing. Quietly asking because he had completely lost voice from his hysterical antics.

I calmly replied that I was leaving. He didn't try to stop me. Didn't even ask me why, or if I'd reconsider. It was the calmness in my voice that did it. It was very apparent that my mind was made up and that it wasn't open for discussion.

As I walked out the door I started to smile. It soon spread wide, from ear to ear. I think it was safe to say that I was beaming. The weight was lifted off my shoulders and I was free. Free from the tyranny and free to live my life - not someone else's. I have to say that there is nothing more grounding in life than leaving all your material possessions behind and starting from scratch. It was both terrifying and exhilarating. I eventually came back for a lot of my stuff, but for a while nothing in this world held me down. I had my clothes and my car and it was all I needed. Also, thankfully Psycho and I had made up a pre-nup before buying the house. Pretty much everything was all ready settled so that wasn't a worry.

At this point, I'd like to say that I lived happily ever after, but this isn't fiction, it's life and there are consequences to your actions.

As any victim of abuse will tell you, there's a lot of baggage that comes along well after it's over. You feel guilty that it happened. You feel ashamed. You feel like less of a person. When I got my sense of confidence and self worth back, I looked back at my life unable to believe that I had let someone do that to me. That I had let someone treat me so badly and kept coming back for more. That it was my fault all along for staying in the situation and not leaving. It's classic, it's a normal reaction to the situation, and it hurts.

What made it worse was that I was having a lot of trouble dealing with the aftermath, and went searching for help. I asked my doctor, but the names and numbers he gave me weren't what I was looking for. I tried the local gay resource centre, but the people there (bless their hearts for trying) weren't much more than above school councelor in their abilities, in my opinion. I was left feeling helpless once again.

Abused women have shelters, support groups, books, online resources etc. Alcoholics have programs like AA. Families of alcoholics have ALANON. What did I, as a gay man who had been abused, have at my disposal?

Nothing.
Zero.
Nada.
Zilch.

I was left to deal with it on my own, and up until this point, did the best I could. But the aftermath is still there. The thoughts of revenge and hatred still lurk. The anger sits in my core and burns as bright as always. The shame of putting myself through this still hangs over my head. And at certain times, when the situation is just right, I will find myself cringing, waiting for the ensuing onslaught. The onslaughts don't happen anymore, but the memory is still just as vivid.

I'm not dealing with this on my own anymore. Through sheer luck I've come across a therapist who specializes in men with abuse issues. She even reaffirmed my disdain at the lack of support for men in this country. She recognizes this herself, and that's why she chose to concentrate on the type of people she does.

If only more people would think that way.