“Depression feels like a home movie running over and over again in my head.”

It’s the 20th of February 2019. I am sitting in my new university apartment. The grey walls and lack of natural light encompass the feelings that I have within. Emptiness, failure, to name a few. There is a storm but there are no clouds, rain or dark skies. You see this is a metaphorical storm. The battle for survival against my permeating thoughts has begun, and there is no shelter to be sought from your own mind.

I came out to my parents shortly after starting my undergraduate programme. It felt like a weight had been lifted from my shoulders, like my eyes had been opened somehow. There was a new world to explore and like a child taking its first steps unaided, I jumped in headfirst.

Accepting that I am gay hasn’t always been easy. I remember sitting with my family as a child on Sundays watching my Dad and grandfather shudder when soaps had dared to start running LGBT story lines. “Turn that off, that’s not right”. Being exposed to this kind of rejection from a young age made it hard for me to form a relationship with my father. Even today we aren’t able to sustain conversations or look at each other.

When I first started attracting the attention of other guys, I adored it. It felt like I was finally being noticed and understood. Hundreds of taps on dating apps and men fighting to get my attention. My mistake was confusing this attention for love, and that’s how it began for me.

You never spot the signs of abuse until it’s too late. At first, I was infatuated. He spent money buying me gifts and wanted to see me all of the time. We made love, he showed me off to his friends and family. It felt nice to be wanted.

By month two, he had moved himself into my apartment, gotten himself a key and claimed me as his own. By month three, he had installed a tracking app on my phone and would check my social media whilst I slept. By month four, he had poked needles in my condom supply and taken control of my finances.

That’s when I began to notice the change.

I still remember the day he hit me for the first time. We were at his parents’ place. I told him it was getting late and that I had a uni deadline to work on. I needed rest and I would probably need to move soon. I walked to the kitchen holding my things. I turned around slowly to grab his hand. However, he instead thrusted himself violently at my groin. I shook silently in pain, falling back on myself. Realising what he had done and in a state of panic, he rushed to my aid, apologising and crying. It all felt a little surreal. I should have known then that things would only get worse. I forgave him then. Things did get worse.

Put simply and briefly, I was physically and mentally abused for 12 months after that. Ground down, called fat and made to feel a failure. I’d prefer not to write out the specific details as the ordeal remains a fresh wound for me even now. A cycle of making love and being physically mistreated.

Until one day in a state of desperation and fear, I rang my best friend weeping like a child. He had isolated me from my family and friends for so long, it felt like a betrayal talking to her. It was dark and I was alone. He had gone out but not said where. I knew he was seeing other men as I had found open condoms in our washing basket earlier that month.

One sentence changed everything for me. “We will deal with the aftermath together later, but your chance to get out is now”, she said. Like a green light, I had finally been given validation and an instruction to leave. I packed one small bag and ran. I left the world and home I had grown behind, along with the man that I thought I had loved, and the person I had grown to become. I didn’t hear from him again after that. There were no texts, calls or communication. Perhaps he had seen my departure as a victory. I certainly did not see anything as a victory.

In my foolishness, I thought I would finally be free. But occasionally my mind will take me back to that period of my life. To the sound of the doors slamming when he returned after a bad day. To the feeling of my manhood being crushed. To the bruises left on my waist. To the smashed plates and glasses.

So it’s 2pm in my new university apartment. Now finally free of his grip, my mind relaxes and focuses on the sound of my flat mate calling my name. For now, the metaphorical storm is over. But just as the weather is unpredictable, so is my mind. I know that I’ll have to face the events from my past again.

Depression is a taboo subject, covered in the webs of Cognitive Behavioural Therapy and pills. To me, depression feels like a home movie running over and over again in my head with all of the things from my past that have challenged or dented me somehow. I now know that my depression has been triggered by a long term abusive relationship. A trauma. I have made my peace with it but it hasn’t made its peace with me just yet.