From the age of 13 to 19, I endured physical abuse from my father, and as a gay teen, this had a profound impact on me. Beyond the trauma any child experiences from abuse, my sexuality made me a particular target for my father’s rage, which was fuelled by his homophobia. What should have been a safe space, my home, became a place of fear and isolation.
The beatings weren’t constant, but they came when I challenged his authority. These moments left me with deep emotional scars, especially when I realised that the very person who should protect me from the world’s cruelty was the one inflicting it. Like many queer teens, I was already grappling with internalized shame due to societal rejection. But when that rejection comes from your father, it cuts way deeper. His abuse reinforced the debilitating belief that I was undeserving of love simply because of who I was.
A father, in most cultures, represents the ultimate symbol of masculine protection. For me, already feeling distant from these expectations, his violence only reinforced the notion that I wasn’t “man enough” not just by his but by society’s standards. Yet, despite his aggression, I refused to believe I deserved it. I learned to stand my ground outwardly, though inside, I was terrified.
What was not standard was my reaction to this abuse. Unlike others who may internalize such hatred, my response to the abuse was different. Rather than feeling shame about my sexuality, I grew more determined to embrace it. I devoured any knowledge I could find about gay pride. I fully understood by 15, that society expected something I could never give. While the abuse made me feel as though I was being punished for who I was, it didn’t lead me to hate myself. Instead, I became prouder, hungrier to learn about myself, and more resolute in my identity.
The violence instilled a deep wariness towards men, making me see them as potential bullies who, like my father, would hate me. This abuse also left me with profound trust issues, especially in forming healthy relationships. The painful irony is that I feared the very people I longed to be loved by. Emotional safety felt elusive, and I was constantly bracing for betrayal or harm. Anxiety has been the undercurrent of all my relationships with men, rooted not in who they are, but in how I see myself, deep down. When these relationships fail, I often end up blaming myself, unable to hold the men I love accountable, even when they cause me pain. I do stand up for my beliefs and fight when wronged, but there’s always that nagging fear that pushing too hard might drive my partner away. The fear of abandonment overrides my sense of self.
It’s no surprise that physical abuse during adolescence can lead to severe mental health problems. For gay teens, the risk is even higher. Depression, anxiety, PTSD—these are just some of the effects I’ve struggled with. To this day, I can’t enter a room full of men without feeling a wave of panic. Every slammed door brings back memories of my father’s drunken rages.
The abuse left me feeling powerless and ashamed that I couldn’t stop it myself. It only ended when my sister and grandfather witnessed it firsthand, which ultimately led to the tearing apart of my parents’ already frayed marriage. Over time, I let go of the bitterness towards my father, replacing it with indifference. But his homophobia never died. I remember, at 35, after a Pride meeting at home, he admitted he knew I was “like this” since I was two. Those words indicated he still held my sexuality against me.
I remember just two incidents when he did anything remotely fatherly. Once, when he was terribly low and horribly drunk, he had hugged me. I won’t forget his smell or the mixed emotions coursing through my body at that display of abject emotion. I remember every detail of that scene, predominantly because it had never happened before or after. The second thing he did was tell me to get into the stream of Arts instead of Commerce or Science. He was lying in bed and I was discussing college with my mother when he said, “you need to get into Arts.” And I did, never regretting the choice once.
As the years passed, I don’t pretend the abuse didn’t shape me. It did. I became clingy in emotional relationships, seeking validation from men even though I could manage well on my own. Authority figures still unsettle me, and I often assume they’re entitled bullies. But the abuse also made me stronger, more capable of standing up to those who try to control or demean me. It instilled a fierce pride in my queer identity. It’s why I came out to my mother at 16 and to the world by 20. It turned me into an activist, someone who wears their heart on their sleeve and fights for acceptance. I wouldn’t change any of my experiences because, in the end, it made me who I am.
Abuse takes a terrible toll, but it doesn’t have to define your life. For me, it became the catalyst for pride, resilience, and a commitment to live authentically. The scars remain, but they remind me of how far I’ve come.
Hearts Still Care 
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