For decades experts and advocates have been calling for a shift in the way we talk about domestic abuse: Instead of asking, 'Why doesn't she just leave?', they say, we need to demand, 'Why does he do that?'

But are we prepared to listen when violent men answer? What might we learn about violence from those who've committed unthinkable acts, and who say they to want to help others avoid their shame and humiliated fury exploding into lethal rage?

Here, Jason*, who in the mid-2000s was sentenced to 12 years in prison for the attempted murder of his wife, shares his experience: "The story," he says, "of a wife-bashing coward."

"You should call the article that," he suggests at the end of our second interview. "At least you might get some blokes reading it. I just want it to make an impact."

Warning: this story contains themes some readers may find distressing.

I've known lots of men like me

I'd been in jail for about five years before I realised I'd done the right thing by pleading not guilty to attempted murder, for trying to kill my then-wife.

If I'd pleaded guilty and gotten a shorter sentence — it probably would have been eight years on the top and three on the bottom — I would have gotten out and killed her. I was still so angry, my thirst for revenge hadn't gone away.

I want to be perfectly clear: men who hit women are cowards, I am a coward. But if I knew back then what I know about violence now, things could have been so different.

All my life I've barged through the world hurting people. I was arrogant, I was clever, I worked hard and made good money, no matter what I did. But I never really cared about what my wife was feeling, I only cared about myself.

And I've known lots of men who, like me, have struck out first and thought about it later.

So if I can stop someone taking the same path I did, if I can motivate one person to get help before he hits his partner, I'll be happy. Too many women in this country are dying at the hands of mongrels like me.

The violence started early

The first time I met Katie* at a party, I fell in love with her within half an hour. She was absolutely stunning: perfectly dressed, perfect makeup, perfect jewellery. Soon we were spending every night together: we'd go out for dinner, dancing, clubbing. I was head over heels.

The violence started early, after we'd moved in together. Katie had come from a very violent family. She was molested by her uncle as a child, and her father would come home drunk a couple of times a week and beat up her mother. She used to drink a lot, which never really bothered me.

But she began pushing me around and calling me names: she'd say I had a small dick, that I didn't make her come, that sort of thing. It would go on and on: Everybody hates you, nobody respects you, everyone thinks you're an idiot.

I was 110 kilos, and I'd knock Katie off her feet. ( Ben Sanders )

One night I snapped. I was ropable, I had never been spoken to like that; people had always shown me respect, and she had none. I'm not trying to blame anyone else, and I shouldn't have done what I did. But I suppose it hurt my pride, and because it came from the woman I loved, it made me feel vulnerable.

I grabbed her by the throat, lifted her up off the ground with one arm and said, "That's enough."

On it went from there. Every time she said something bad, I'd slap her. I was a big guy, 110 kilos: I never had to punch anybody, I'd slap them and knock them off their feet. And I'd knock Katie off her feet.

I'd always feel really bad the next day, I'd apologise and buy her presents but history would just repeat itself. I'd feel afraid she was going to leave me because I'd hit her, and ashamed of myself because I'd hit her. It was like being on a treadmill.

I'd never known violence like that, though the thing I remember most about my childhood was that my father was very controlling of my mother. He was never physically violent towards her but what he said was law, he ruled the house.

He worked really hard and put food in our mouths but there was no nurturing like fathers are today: there was no, "I love you, son, give me a hug".

Humiliation, spiralling rage

The worst day of my life was the day I found out Katie had been unfaithful with a mate of mine. We had a beautiful home on the water, a boat down on the jetty, two new cars, a thriving business and two gorgeous children. It was absolutely humiliating.

I put Katie in the car and took her to her mother's place as calmly as I could. The biggest mistake I made was going back and getting her. I didn't realise until I was in jail that I couldn't forgive her — I should have been a man instead of a coward, I should have stood up and said, "I can never forgive this, it's over".

But we stayed together.

From there my violence spiralled, and the court orders started. We moved to a different state, hoping for a clean start, but we just carried it all with us.

I could pick the guys who'd be coming back to prison by their eyes. ( Ben Sanders )

Three orders were taken out against me, and a couple were taken out against her. I went to prison for few months for breaching mine. Eventually, we separated but were still seeing each other on weekends.

One night, a mate of mine told me he'd just found out his girlfriend had been unfaithful, and it set me off on a warpath. I got in a taxi, and drove up to where Katie was living, determined I was going to kill her and then kill myself.

I broke in, smacked her around a bit, and strangled her until she was unconscious, before going into the kitchen, swallowing a handful of Valium and finishing off the scotch I had with me.

I was there for about an hour before the police came; they said they found me on top of Katie, choking her.

I pleaded not guilty to attempted murder, though, simply because I could have killed her in the first five minutes. And because I was angry.

Men with dead eyes

This will sound stupid but going to jail wasn't rock-bottom. It was absolute relief because it meant we couldn't contact each other.

I'd bash anyone in there who looked at me sideways, and I spent a lot of time in the detention unit, which was a good place for me to be. I didn't feel depressed when I was fighting.

In my 10 years behind bars I met one guy I could actually call a friend, and I've continued to visit him every month since I got out. He was a rapist, and I hate rapists — I don't understand how men can brutalise, shame and degrade women like that. He said he was full of rum when he did it, he was totally honest and he owned his crimes.

Most of the other blokes in there all have the same story: either they didn't do it, or they pleaded guilty to get less time. I met plenty of killers who'd brag about bashing women, but I couldn't condemn them because how could I, given what I'd done?

About halfway through my sentence, I stopped being angry. I just woke up one morning, my hands swollen from bashing some piece of shit, and thought, I can't keep doing this.

By then, I could pick the guys who'd be coming back by their eyes. If their eyes were shining, you knew they were going to get up to no good as soon as they walked out the gate.

It was the men with the dead eyes — the ones who'd done more than 10 years — who you could tell had had enough and just wanted to go home and be left alone. By the end, that was me: I just wanted to go home to my family.

Turning points

I got out on parole about six years ago, without much warning: they told me on a Monday and on Tuesday I moved in with my mum.

I had nothing; Katie had spent all our money and was slowly drinking herself to death. She died of organ failure not long after I got out, and I have to take responsibility for my part in that — she was completely traumatised by what I'd done to her.

I got a job as a line marker and started going to a men's behaviour change program, which I attended every Wednesday night for 26 weeks — not that I wanted to in the beginning.

Sometimes I can still feel that mongrel inside: like when I'm driving, and some idiot pulls out in front of me. ( Ben Sanders )

The facilitators seemed to appreciate having me in the group because I'd call it the way I saw it. A bloke would be sitting there, explaining how his partner was seeing another man but that it was okay because he was still able to see his kids.

I'd say, "You're an idiot, get out of the house before you end up in jail because you've killed somebody."

Sure enough he bashed up his wife and went to jail. He was in the same boat as me, really, trying to make good of something that was rotten, not thinking before he struck out.

That program helped me understand my triggers and my reactions, to know when to stop and walk away. I couldn't believe that just not reacting when something bothered me would make me feel better than exploding.

I worked out, too, that drinking made my violence so much worse.

Fears and forgiveness

I had a saying in jail. I used to say to the other blokes, "Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I fear no evil". I'd say, "Do you know why? Because I am the meanest, evilest bastard in the valley, mate."

And that bloke, that utter bastard, is still there, but he's dormant.

Sometimes I can feel that mongrel inside, stirring around: like when I'm driving, and some idiot pulls out in front of me and gives me the finger, I have to stop myself giving the finger back because I don't want to end up on the side of the road and back in jail, especially for something violent.

That's probably one of my biggest fears — that, and losing my children again.

I'll never forgive myself for bashing the only woman I've ever loved. ( Ben Sanders )

Recently my kids invited me out to dinner for the first time in a long time. And at one point my daughter started laughing, just like her mother used to. She looks just like her — she has the same figure, she is so beautiful. I cried most of the way home that night, thinking about what I'd done.

Can violent men change? They can change their behaviour, maybe.

I have partially accepted responsibility for what I've done, though I still live with shame, guilt and regret every day. I'll never forgive myself for bashing the only woman I've ever loved.

If I had my time over again, I'd like to think I'd have cared more about Katie. I never thought of her as an equal; I'd think, she's out of work and I'm the one making the money, so I'm superior. I was so full of myself. I should have cared more about what she was going through, the pain she was in. I should have asked for help.

To the men who are using violence in their relationships: Ask for help. Find a counsellor — there are so many good ones out there. Get off the booze and drugs.

You can't just barge through life being an arrogant prick like me and not accept help, or you'll end up behind bars, watching the world go past on the TV every night, missing birthdays, Christmases, life.

*Names have been changed to protect the privacy of the subject's family.