physical abuse – Hearts Still Care

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.

I always believe that talking about one’s issues detracts much of the power they seem to instill within them. Without portraying myself as a victim, I must talk about what I faced with my father.

I don’t know why the abuse happened. Maybe because while I grew my father realized that I wasn’t what he would term ‘a normal son’. I was effeminate. I loved dressing up in girls’ clothes. I identified as homosexual by the age of thirteen.

I don’t know why the abuse started. I was raised amongst the strongest women I know. My grandmother, my mother and my aunts, paternal and maternal, my sisters – all immensely strong women. I had no great male role models. My father was an alcoholic and jobless, since a couple of years after I was born. So, I never really had a healthy relationship with him. I do remember hoping he would be a good father. Having ideas of him taking care of me and my sister and being there for us. I looked up to him, but my real, first memory of him was punching fists into a wall.

That kind of physical stress was mandatory and I guess he must have had his own frustrations. That being said, I have a very low opinion of people who do not take care of their own responsibilities. He had a family. He had a wife whom he had pursued and won over in college. She was responsible and hard working. He had two children. He had a brave mother and wonderful sisters. But these things were irrelevant.

Now, we know that addiction is a disease. And he may have suffered, too. There was not many a time when he would be sober enough to have even a modicum of a civil conversation. By nature, I suppose he was a bully and the drinking exacerbated that trait within him.

When we lived in a joint family, I was sheltered. My grandmother and nanny would shield me from any outburst. At the point in time, his attacks would be generic. Onto a wall, a yelling match, beating the floor. When my mom took us away from the joint family and into the home she built for herself, he followed us there.

She decided to give the marriage another go. However, that time proved the worst for me. I was reeling under the pain of the separation from a grandparent I loved dearly, the house I grew up and the school I was familiar with. I went into a locality that was not populated, a school where I was bullied mercilessly and a home that felt alien.

My mom and sister would leave in the morning with me. School, for me, ended at one pm. But my sister’s convent had the timing of 9-4pm, so my mom would finish work and come back with her. That generally meant that I was home alone, from one to around five. That also meant I was the only one left to deal with my father.

He would be at home, inevitably drunk, and to a thirteen year old, he appeared terrifying. At school, because of my being effeminate, I would get picked on by the boys. Anyone who has been bullied at school would understand this. I got picked on during recess. It got bad and so I would go and either be by myself in the playground or go and lock myself in the toilet, until recess would end. Two boys, Shakeel and Shoaib, brothers, finally decided to become friends with me and included me in their group.

When I would leave from school, I would get back home, hoping that my father would be passed out on the divan in the hall, so I wouldn’t have to deal with him. I would open the door, praying that he would not be at home. On one of these days, when I got home, I chanced upon my first porn. He had passed out with the porn playing on the television. It was 1988 and I was thirteen.

Dad would bang open doors. That is how he declared he was awake. To this date, if someone slams a door, my heart sinks. He would pick a fight with me, on any pretext. It could be something as simple as getting him a glass of water. He wouldn’t want to do these chores himself. He would want to be served. Most times, I would give him lip. And that would end up with me being shoved around.

The beatings ranged from mild to severe. However, most of the trauma was psychological. His approach. What he would ask for. What he would do. If I wouldn’t listen, he would beat the cupboard or the wall. It reminded me of how a male gorilla throws a tantrum and beats his chest. If I would not acquiesce to his demands, I would get a slap. Or he would catch hold of the flesh of my trapezius muscle and squeeze. Hard. Or he would hold my neck and throw me down on the bed.

This carried on for a few years. I grew up but I was gangly and thin. The fear he had ingrained set in deep. Outwardly, I wouldn’t let it show. I stood up to him, got beat and stood up again. The day he choked me until I blacked out was the day it all changed. You see, my maternal grandparents witnessed this happening and they couldn’t stop him either. So, my mom was told and she took the necessary steps to get him out of our lives.

Years later, I hold no grudges against him. He was not meant to be a father. He was not meant to be much at all. He had his own demons, I would guess. I remember also the time he had hugged me and he had apologized. I had cried in his arms. But he was drunk then, too, so I wonder if he remembered that episode, ever. A few years ago, he said, “I knew you were that way (gay), since you were two.” By that, I assume he remembered a lot.

When he passed away in July 2018, I felt no acrimony, or anger. I cried as I set fire to his pyre, because of all the things that could have been but were not. I cried because like society, or like life itself, he personified all that could go wrong, and despite him, I became who I am today. I prevailed.

I remember all of it. I express it to share my experience. I write this not just as a mere catharsis, but as a testimony to the fact that life does get better. You realise that there are reserves of strength deep within you that can see you through anything – and if I didn’t have a father worth the name, I had a mother who was better than most (of course, it is a whole different issue that she wanted me to join the army).