CCChat-Magazine_Issue-13

Dominic's Story
A male victim of abuse speaks up.
“Gradually, violence became a part of our lives – with K attacking, and me
defending myself. I think I’ve blotted out many of the memories from that
period, but one is burned into my brain. It was the day when I fought back.”
So – an honest account from someone who has experienced
coercive control? Tricky. We all like to see ourselves as
innocent. As essentially good, if occasionally mistaken. And
hindsight is a wonderful helper when our halo seems a little
tarnished. So I’m not sure I can actually give an ‘honest
account’. But I will try.
My relationship with K – as I’ll call her – began at university
in the early 70s. I was 19, a naïve, over-sensitive and overimaginative
only child, and a practising Catholic who’d been
educated at a single-sex direct grant school. Though I was
rapidly maturing in my new environment. When I met K I’d
just emerged from my first university ‘love affair’, which
ended when my then girlfriend replaced me with a man I’d
regarded as a good friend. Looking back, I’m not surprised.
My Catholic scruples were still fighting a rearguard action
against my overactive hormones, so we’d never had full
intercourse. And my own behaviour had been a little
controlling. Like most men in the 70s, I’d grown up with
precisely that image of women that modern feminists rightly
condemn. But I’d also learned not to underestimate women,
if only because my mother was a superbly capable person
with a formidable intellect who, in many ways, did not fit that
image at all.
At first my relationship with K was almost purely sexual. She
made no secret of her attraction to me, and proved a willing,
experienced and inventive partner who blithely brushed aside
even my most deep-seated inhibitions.
She was intelligent, perceptive, and incisive – as any woman
had to be to win a place at my university. It’s worth remarking
that men outnumbered women there by about five to one at
that time.
K was also a vocal feminist, at a time when that was still
unusual. This tended to create awkward social situations:
she would sometimes take deep offence at a casual remark.
Looking back I’d say she sometimes had good reason,
although my more perceptive friends did listen, take notice,
and try to understand her reactions. And I’ll freely admit that
she made me rethink my ideas about women and their place
in society.
Sadly, though, she was also very insecure. As a provincial
woman from a working-class background she felt out of place
at the university, and seemed convinced that others regarded
her as inferior. I honestly don’t believe that was the case –
certainly not among those in our own immediate circle – but
that didn’t alter her own strongly-held beliefs. I did invite K to
meet my parents, but it was not a success. If anything it
highlighted the internal conflict I still had between my
somewhat puritanical Catholic upbringing and K’s own
liberated sexuality. Her almost militant feminism also made
for uncomfortable conversations with my (then quite elderly)
parents.
A little over a year after I met K I completed my degree
course and left university, but our relationship continued. I
made frequent visits both to see her and to reconnect with
friends who were still finishing their degrees or had chosen to
settle in the area. A few months after she finished her own
degree I secured my first full-time job, and rented a bedsit
close to my work.
Some time later K got a job within commuting distance of my
new home, and joined me there – a far from ideal
arrangement that put even more stress on an already
strained relationship. It couldn’t last and I did, eventually,
persuade her to move out to a bedsit of her own, closer to
her work.
Making The Invisible Visible