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Brian, my dad, told me that for my birthday he was taking me out for my first legal "drink" in Liverpool—his way of saying, "Happy birthday, son."There were no other options, obviously; no alternative. "This is what I'm doing. You'll enjoy it. You're lucky to have such a caring dad."We started in Widnes at 11 AM, a fairly normal time for Brian and his alcoholic mates. Not so much for a boy pretending to be a man just because April 8 had arrived. First venue: the Castle pub, a place oozing the acrid scent of broken homes, hearts, and livers. Sticky floor tiles and yellow smoky walls. A small battered portable telly showed horse racing on mute. In the far corner the tiles were further worn where many had danced on Sunday karaoke night. We kicked off with pints. I had to keep up. It would be suicide to embarrass Brian in front of his mates by declining a drink.Immediately I look for the signs. That narrowing of the eyes. How he talks, enunciates and gesticulates. Every mannerism I calculate. I watch how his jaw clenches and tightens. Eighteen years of observing meant I could instantly weigh up the situation. But I also knew exactly when to look away, as there'd been many cases where he'd caught me sizing him up, resulting in nights that seemed to go on forever.Taxis ordered. Backs slapped. Shots knocked back. Spilled outside. Midday sunshine. Jumped in our cab. Heading for Liverpool. The big glam city to Widnes's little featureless brother.READ ON BROADLY: When You Live With a Man Who Wants to Kill You, Where Can You Possibly Go?
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The vodka bar.Cheap neon lighting. 3 PM. Empty. Dance music pumps out. Brian keeps staring at me. I avoid his eye. Pretend to smile. Gets hazy. Suddenly I'm on my knees in the toilet throwing up, but with the hand dryer on because Brian will fucking kill me if he hears me being sick.Blackout.I'm in a cab again.Sat next to Brian. His jaw looks set to break. I sway back and forth. Motorway. Sign posts. Widnes. Heading home. Oh no. Not home. Ted's in the front seat. Oh please come back with us, Ted. He won't beat me til three in the morning if you're there, Ted.Blackout.Walking up the path to our house. No sign of Ted. Pavement zig-zags in front of me. His hand on my back. Not supporting. Not guiding; pushing, forcing.Inside."Get inside, you little cunt."READ ON VICE: Perpetrators of Domestic Abuse Are Using Arson as a Weapon
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You are not weak. You are not pathetic. You are not any less of a man for your suffering.
The reason I wanted to write this article was because there are many, many other men and boys out there who have gone through—or are currently going through—what I have suffered. I wanted them to hear an organic, honest account from someone who went through it all, the absolute worst of it, came out the other side and is now happy, strong, and fairly successful as an actor and writer.Our voices have a right to be heard. You are not weak. You are not pathetic. You are not any less of a man for your suffering.That is not what you are.You've been brainwashed, bullied, and beaten to such an extent that that person—that man, that woman, that monster—in your mind becomes all-powerful; invincible.But that is not what they are. That is what they make you believe. What they want you to believe.You can get out. Your voice can be heard. And there are people out there who want to listen.Follow Carl on Twitter.If you, or a man you know, is suffering abuse, visit the National Domestic Violence Hotline website or call the hotline at 1−800−799−7233 or TTY 1−800−787−3224.