Welcome Boudicca, and may I say I am loving the mental image your username is giving me. Fierce angry woman on a chariot with spiky wheels and great big speakers blaring out reggae. That'd shit the Romans right up. 
And I am glad you've realised unresolved trauma leads to terrible choices of partner. I wish I'd done the same years ago. In fact I wish I'd learnt that one is supposed to choose a partner instead of just saying "oh, okay then" when someone shows an interest. I distinctly remember, the first time I properly met the ex, thinking "okay, don't actually fancy him, but, like, arranged marriages and shit can work and there don't appear to be any other options on the not-dying-alone front, so let's give it a go and see how it works out cos it'd be really fucking rude and ungrateful not to."
Oh, how I wish I had run a bloody mile!
Other moments that would have had me running a mile if I'd had healthy boundaries instead of having being, y'know, repeatedly traumatised for two decades include: the time he said the things he was looking for in a partner were basically the ability to cook and a readiness to perform fellatio; the way he turned into a horrible racist tory whenever his dad's around; the weird codependent relationship with his previous ex (still ongoing); and the whole inability to actually live like a grown up, with personal hygiene and a job and life goals and so on.
And then I tried, so very hard, to be totally cool with the ladies' knickers things - which meant he opened up and talked about the fetish, which left me less and less comfortable, and it's only fairly recently I've come to accept this discomfort was rooted in the cognitive dissonance of trying to believe he loved me while being repeatedly confronted with the evidence that I was nothing but a prop for his sexual fantasies.
Sorry, that was a bit of a ramble. It's Friday, it's therapy day, my brain's a bit all over the place.