Mommy Dearest

If all you’ve ever known is enmeshment, it’s much harder to imitate healthy connection. A mother with a teenage boyfriend. A mother who competes for her daughter’s sexual partners. A mother who comments on her son’s manhood. A son who has been groomed to let his mother fondle his hand, fingers stroking fingers, intertwined like lovers. A sister who approves of or rejects sexual partners for her brother. A sister who laughingly reminisces about her brother’s sexual exploits in front of his current partner. A sister who asks her brother to adopt her daughter. A sister who allows her daughter to sleep in the same bed as her brother. A sister who is furious that her brother claims to be in love, saying she was happy for him to have sex, but a committed relationship wasn’t something she approved of. A mother and son who use the pet names “honey”, “baby”, “sweetie”, and “darlin”. A sister who trades controlled substances for her brother’s time and attention. A mother who declares “I love you son, like no one else will ever love you!” A man who describes his relationship with his sister as unnaturally close. A man who accuses his sister of acting like a jealous girlfriend. A sister who celebrates her brother’s “return” to his friends, and thinks it’s normal that he took the daughter of a former girlfriend, the daughter being two decades younger, to a concert and then spent the night with her. An uncle who texts his niece that he loves her in the middle of the night. A son who exits the shower and sits beside his mother and watches a movie with her wearing only a towel. A man who calls his wife a whore, and she responds “Whore? You’ve slept with way more people than I have, and for all I know you got drunk and raped people in college.” A man who becomes enraged, eyes black, when he hears the word “raped”, and drags his wife out of the house by the neck; a man who had already raped his wife in her sleep at least twice that year.

Imitation will work at first, but eventually the facade will fray and wear thin. The actor will forget his lines. The spider won’t smell like home anymore.

Happy New Year!

We just wrapped up our first full calendar year of exploring our new keys, celebrating our founder’s survival, and upholding our lifelong commitment to Be The Last! Thank you for being part of our journey during 2025.

2025 Website Stats:

3.2K Page Visits

2.0K Unique Visitors

6.2K Pageviews

2025 Top Fans:

Huntington, WV had 107 visits and Perrysburg, OH had 108 visits, nearly tying for the most visits from an identifiable city.

Blog Reach:

“Domestic Violence Awareness Month 2025” is our most read blog post of 2025 with 183 views, and a great place to start if you’re new around here.

“Choking Hazard” is our 2025 runner up with 177 views, and full of lifesaving information you can share with anyone.

A Butcher’s Dozen

Huntington, West Virginia. Perrysburg, Ohio. La Grange, Kentucky.

Of the fifteen page views Aveon Air has had so far today, a dozen are from the nether.

What on earth are you mining for? What sort of “gotcha” moment do you think is hidden in these words? How many times can one family obsessively refresh a bookmarked webpage?

Get out your pickaxes and your shovels and your torches. Chip away at it all; parse every sentence. Whine and bitch and moan. It won’t change the truth.

I will keep writing, keep sharing, and keep working toward being the last. You can keep hitting refresh. We are not, and never have been, the same.

This is the reality of escaping not only an abuser, but an abuser’s network of enablers. If you have the audacity to survive your murder, you’ll be hunted until the day you actually die.

Empty

Empty.

Shallow.

Filthy.

It was a jarring sight.

Once a shimmering expanse, now a pit of muck, pockmarked with rubbish.

On the other side stood a creature I recognized. Its hands were bloody.

The last time we were together in this place, those hands were extending a ring. The mouth was moving, but I don’t remember the words.

Empty.

Shallow.

But the shimmering expanse, the man-made wonder, stretched before me. It looked real. It felt real. But man-made lakes don’t last. They require constant upkeep. Draining. Dredging.

At their core, they are little more than a pit of muck, pockmarked with rubbish.

Filthy.

Windows and Walls

“At fourteen, my sister sailed away from me into a place I’d never been. In the walls of my sex there was horror and blood, in the walls of hers there were windows.”

-The Lovely Bones

~ ~ ~

My life is split in two.

Before and after.

Sisters, light and dark.

The blade that sliced clean through?

My murder.

I died that day. The before. The illusion. The hope. The belief in the best. The family. The marriage.

I was born that day. The after. The stark reality. The hopelessness. The danger. The isolation. The truth.

The before is youth and laughter and color, with a sickening underbelly I couldn’t see.

The after is age and anguish and shadows, with a ribcage cracked wide open.

The before was a dream, or the chase thereof.

The after is a nightmare, and I’m the only thing being chased.

I lost everything I never had that day.

I never had a husband.

I never had a happy family.

I never had a future.

I never had a chance.

And -

I gained something that will never be taken from me.

I know what he is.

I know what he did.

I know what comes next.

I know what is worth fighting for.

I have always known who and what I am.

That didn’t change.

That is the piece of us that can never die.

Soul, spirit…ghost.

Pick your poison. To each their own. Mine is ghost, and still intact. But I’ve stepped from one body into another.

The old body was so tired. The old body hurt, and stung, and bled, and I didn’t know why.

The new body rests, and is slow, but it doesn’t sting, and it doesn’t bleed.

The old body was offered a cup of tea at night. Such a sweet gesture, an act of love.

The new body sleeps alone, behind locked doors, and drinks from no man’s cup.

The old body woke, sobbing and in agony, to find another body on top of it; to find another face sneering until its eyes locked with mine.

The new body has slowly made sense of memories, dreams, fights, flashbacks, and “symptoms” that disappeared overnight.

In the walls of my mind there are windows, and now I can see the horror and blood that my old life held.

Survivors of coercive control, spousal rape, domestic violence, and strangulation are often left grappling with broken bodies and brains. Trauma changes you in ways that nothing can prepare you for. It also reveals more than you ever wanted to know.

For me, hindsight is agony. The day I met the murderer is a day that haunts me. He lied on that day, just as he has lied to everyone around him, everyday, for his entire life. He has lied for, and he has lied against. He is what everyone deems worthy of a woodchipper, but they can’t see him standing right in front of them. Or so they say.

I see him. I see so many other men like him. I see them plainly. And I see how their friends and family lie right along. They know better. They’ve seen what I see now. They are colluding and covering up acts so vile that there is no going back now. They have to hold fast.

But the murderer’s lies have outrun his capacity for calm, cool, or collected. He can’t remember what he said under oath before. He can’t remember what he said on camera. He can’t remember what he put in writing. He can’t remember which year or which diagnosis or which version of events he landed on.

The ice was thin to begin with. It will never be able to support someone that dense.

Ghosts can’t drown. And this ghost will watch from the other side of the window as he drags every last one of you under.

~ ~ ~

“How to commit the perfect murder was an old game in heaven. I always chose the icicle: the weapon melts away.”

-The Lovely Bones

Abby & Gabby

Harry Potter: "Can’t anyone else hear it?"

Luna Lovegood: "I can hear them too. There are people in there!"

Hermione Granger: "What do you mean, ‘in there’? There isn’t any ‘in there,’ it’s just an archway, there’s no room for anybody to be there — Harry, stop it, come away —"

I can hear them.

They are whispering from the other side of the veil as I slowly circle the dais. I feel a wave of emotion, things that don’t belong together.

An odd homesickness; a nostalgia which makes no sense except that I have their faces memorized. I know things about them as if we had met, as if we were friends. As if we were connected by something good. But it isn’t good. We never met. I have their faces memorized for the same reason that countless others do: in memoriam, en masse.

A deep sadness; the softest side of grief…the part that is all silent tears and a lump in the throat. The kind that empties. The kind that offers no fuel to fight; no rage energy or sudden inspiration or steely resolve. Just loss.

An angry defiance. Why the FUCK did this happen? Who screwed up? What the hell went wrong? The anger builds because no matter how many policies change or procedures are followed, only future lives can be saved. Past lives that were taken cannot be restored.

They shouldn’t be there.

And nothing can change that they are.

And I’m still in that damn room. I’m still circling the dais.

He had me pinned to it, a silent scream etched on my face and hatred writhing on his. Others came. Others saw. And they chained me in the room, and helped him out. Escorted him back up to sunlight and safety. Promised him that I would pay.

They came back, kicked me to be sure I was still breathing, and laughed as I tried to crawl toward the door.

It took me a long time to realize that I couldn’t leave. That I had to pay.

The chains are invisible now. They burn into my flesh and then I wake up, gasping and shaking and clawing at nothing.

Like a crazy person.

The crazy woman who hears voices.

The voices of Abby & Gabby.

•••

Abby Bieber was murdered by her boyfriend. He had a documented history of domestic violence, but the Hillsborough County Sheriff's Office chose to employ a criminal and conceal his past. He repaid their favor on January 29, 2022 by fatally shooting Abby, a deputy at the same department, and then killing himself.

Gabby Petito was murdered by her boyfriend. Law enforcement failed to protect Gabby when a 911 call was made days before she died. She was strangled and abandoned on or around August 27, 2021. Her body was found on September 19, 2021, after her murderer had stolen her van and returned to his parents’ home in Florida. They reported him missing on September 17, 2021. His body was found the next month, and his death was ruled a suicide.

I survived attempted murder.

I’ve been locked in the Death Chamber ever since.

Abby’s story:

https://www.tampabay.com/news/hillsborough/2024/05/21/years-after-hillsborough-deputy-murder-suicide-family-wants-reform/

Gabby Petito Foundation:

https://gabbypetitofoundation.org

Sister Act

“…the more important thing is that that bitch holds the possibility of his arrest for [crime] in her hands…”

“…She needs to leave never to be heard from again son…”

“…Listen lil man, [she] needs to go away fast…”

“…l love you son Like nobody else will ever love you But [she] is dangerous to you and I cannot tolerate that…”

You don’t know, do you?

You don’t know that she talked.

You don’t know that she revealed what you are so desperate to hide.

You have no idea.

Did you ever wonder why she was panicking?

Did you ever consider it odd that she wanted me gone?

Did you ask her if she slipped up?

Because she did.

And I know what she did, and what he did, and what you did.

And I know the lengths you’ll go to.

You have to.

If people knew…

Deeper Well

The cognitive deficits sting. I’ve accepted that I’ll never be the same, but the specifics of the loss materialize almost daily.

A woman kept populating in my suggested friends on Facebook, and I couldn’t place her. I knew the name was familiar, and the face…and when it finally came to me after five or six days of seeing her in the rotation, I was stunned. She’s someone I’ve known of for decades, met, hugged, and spoken to last year, and recently found myself in a position where her profession and my personal safety intersected.

I’m getting older. I’ve been through a lot. But this one bothered me. This was one of those opaque walls that are new, and they block so much of what I knew.

Cognitively, I’m dipping from a shallower well. And it injects a small amount of hopelessness into my mind every time I am reminded. When my bucket scrapes the bottom and I dredge up useless sludge.

I was never the quickest, but I was quick. Never the sharpest, but I was sharp.

My wit and banter were cited as reasons the abuser was intrigued in the early days. I don’t give a shit why he chose me - it certainly wasn’t with good intentions - but that recollection stings a bit more.

They seek out what they want to destroy.

Unremarkable men who harm others love a bright, beautiful, bold woman.

Surviving the destruction has left me wondering what’s left. Physically, I wish I were invisible. I don’t care what I look like, or how much I’ve aged, or if anyone finds me attractive. It’s unimportant.

But mentally, I long to know if anything else will return, or improve, or heal. The opaque walls and sludgy buckets have a way of weighing one down.

That being said…

The juxtaposition of what has been taken and what has been given is a mindfuck I grapple with every day.

When it comes to what has been revealed - my god, what a deeper well.

I still have so much to learn. I’ll never be done learning. I am humbled and awestruck by the Kit Gruelles of the world. She has a gift for zeroing in on the most crucial details and the most telling signs when sharing the latest crimes in IPV. I am inspired by the moving and succinct combinations of infographics and informative text that the Eric Threlkelds share; breaking the horrors and the hope down into digestible, shareable bites.

I also have so much to offer, as I translate my lived experience into a useful body of work. It’s not easy work. The deeper the well, the more realizations I have, and they come at a price.

Abuse aims to attach shame to the survivor, and it lingers. It’s like a stain that just won’t lift. Shame keeps us afraid, fear keeps us silent, and silence is necessary for an abuser to avoid accountability. Shame is powerful, and it’s easier to shed intellectually than it is to actually rid one’s body, mind, and ghost of it. It hurts. It threatens to drag me into an eviscerating trip down memory lane…I ask why, and how, and what I could have done differently.

In that regard, time is not my friend. The well grows deeper with each passing day, and the trips become more difficult. But I am strong enough - or stubborn enough - to find a way through.

Because what has been taken is vast…but what has been given is limitless. I have but a pebble, but it can make ripples for as long as my story lives on. It has already helped some. I hope it helps many more. No sludge, no opaque walls…just the clarity to see before it’s too late. Before the well runs dry.

When The Con Doesn’t Come Cheap

Ooh, feel that? It’s the pre$$ure of trying to masquerade as a decent human being for just a little longer. It’s maxed out credit cards and unpaid time off and “Fuck, do I have any retirement accounts I can deplete?”

Then the gut punch.

“Oh shit, my wife helped me with all of that. I always picked a fight when she tried to connect about the household budget, because I had to hide my liquor store runs and ATM withdrawals. And she just got an email on Thanksgiving that I generated, which could count as contact and violate the no contact order I so desperately need to maintain to cover my ass.”

Another day, another reminder of how much was managed, maintained, and manned for you. A toddler would have a better inventory of their assets.

Poor baby. Literally.

It costs a lot of money to look that pathetic.

Hopefully Uncle Save-A-Lot can rescue you one more time.

The good news is, your sins WILL find you out, and eventually you’ll have your very own bunk and three squares a day.

You can count on that.

Snowflakes are like lies…

Snowflakes are like lies - no two are alike. You can try to recall the emotion you were imitating before; set the scene in the same way…but you’ll miss something.

The devil is in the details.

And you were never very good at details. You were a mess. A wreck. You tried to play the lovable idiot, the forgetful but well-meaning pigpen. But it wasn’t well-meaning, was it?

And when I called out the details, the devil appeared.

A mess. A wreck. A raging, pathetic, sinister little man, red faced and fork tongued.

I can’t imagine the toll it’s taken - trying to keep track of the lies. That’s one small joy I have that you never will. Even with brain damage, I don’t have to keep track of any lies. I can recall, with varying levels of clarity, the truth. It doesn’t change. And it’s such a peaceful way to move through life.

You stack lies higher and higher, and it costs you all you have to protect this fragile house of cards from even the smallest gust of honesty. You can’t afford any missteps.

But you’ve already sealed your fate.

It will all come tumbling down. The smoke will clear. The curtain will fall. The mirrors will shatter.

I can’t imagine how it haunts you.

So many lies, already immortalized. There is nothing you can do to erase them. Nothing. I bet you spend so many hours in the dark, “defragmenting”. Trying to find a way out of the mess you’ve made.

Trying to keep the house of cards intact.

Trying to hide what you are and what you’ve done.

Trying to put me in the ground, but I’m not dead yet. And even when I don’t have the strength to speak, you do a wonderful job of opening your mouth and saying exactly what I need you to.

Thank you.

Thank you for revealing you.

Snowflake by snowflake.

I didn’t know it was cancer…

I didn’t know it was cancer.

No one talked about it, so I didn’t have the words. I didn’t speak the language. I hadn’t studied the symptoms. I thought it looked different; felt different.

I thought I would know before it was too late.

I noticed changes. Deficiencies. Shadows. But I was told it was to be expected.

I felt pain. Foreboding. Deterioration.

But I was told it was my fault. If I just took better care, followed a certain set of rules, I’d be fine. If I wasn’t fine, it was because I wasn’t doing what I should be doing.

I tried to take care. I tried to follow the rules.

But it spread. Worsened. Began to creep into new places and spaces.

I was asked what the fuck I expected, being what I was.

I didn’t realize I needed help. Real help. Expert help, and protection, and life saving measures.

I was told I needed help all right, but I was probably too arrogant and stupid to listen. That I was probably too far gone.

It started to hurt when I slept. It metastasized. I could feel everything slipping away.

Suddenly he said “I am so sorry, I realize now this is cancer. This is serious. I will take care of you. I will make sure you get exactly what you need so that you can heal.”

He was lying. As soon as I exhaled, and ventured to trust again, and believed that he really hadn’t realized it was cancer, he tried to kill me.

They asked “If it was cancer, why did you only go to the doctor once?”

“If it was cancer, why didn’t you tell someone?”

“If it was cancer, why didn’t you have any bruises?”

“If it was cancer, why would he tell us he was the one who was sick, and you were hurting him?”

I didn’t know it was cancer abuse.

I shouldn’t need an autopsy to prove it.

Fifty Four

Fifty four visits between November 7, 2025 and November 14, 2025.

IP addresses are another sort of fingerprint that can’t be wiped away. Yours is captured every. single. visit.

Not Contact, Not Communication - Just Grooming

“She’s dangerous. She abused my family for years. She cannot be trusted with children.”

This is what an adult female family member of my abuser said about me.

Yet, when I was contacted in the middle of the night by my abuser, one week after I filed my EPO, in a group message that included her minor female child, she did nothing. The message wasn’t retracted. I wasn’t removed from the group until months later. Neither was her child.

This message violated my EPO, and I called the police the moment I saw it - which was almost 24 hours later. They alerted my abuser. But, in a continuation of their ineptitude, they deemed it “not contact, not communication”, because he claimed it was an accident to include me.

Can you imagine accidentally including your purported abuser when messaging a child in the middle of the night?

I can’t.

And as a mother, I can’t imagine allowing an adult male family member to contact my minor female child, or to allow my minor female child to have social media.

You see, this means that the child who received this message has a social media account that is not being monitored by an adult for periods of at least 24 hours at a time,

OR

that the adult who should be monitoring the account does not have an issue with her adult male family member in his 40s contacting her child in the middle of the night.

This same adult male family member changed his profile picture to a photo of himself and this minor female child, and kept it up for two months.

This is what grooming looks like.

It looks like late night messages saying “I love you, miss {child name}” and mothers who look the other way.

“He hates these cans!”

There I was, an unwitting parody of Steve Martin in “The Jerk”.

Martin’s character is working at a service station when a sniper opens fire. Again and again, the sniper shoots in his direction, but only manages to pepper a nearby pyramid of motor oil cans.

"He hates these cans! Stay away from the cans!" Martin’s character exclaims.

My abuser reveled in me identifying and blaming the cans.

I blamed different attachment styles, per attachment theories.

I blamed ADHD.

I blamed childhood trauma.

I blamed myself.

He ate it up.

I remember the day I said “I think you want a far more traditional model of marriage than you thought.” I extended so much grace. Tried to understand why this self proclaimed progressive empath was turning out to be a domineering authoritarian.

I chalked it up to his inexperience. His lack of self awareness, which was apparent. His lack of role models.

It was none of those things.

My abuser wasn’t experiencing a conservative awakening.

He was intentionally exerting more and more control over us.

Domination. Manipulation. Control.

These are the common threads of serial criminals, and this man is the most dangerous kind of criminal.

It wasn’t the cans.

Five Myths About Strangulation

This resource was created by the Training Institute to present the five myths about strangulation, with facts and solutions for each.

FIVE MYTHS ABOUT STRANGULATION

Prepared by Gerald Fineman, Assistant District Attorney, Riverside County, and Dr. William Green, Medical Director, California Clinical Forensic Medical Training Center/ CDAA 

Myth #1:  STRANGULATION AND CHOKING ARE THE SAME THING 

Fact:

STRANGULATION is the external application of physical force that impedes either air or blood to or from the brain. CHOKING is an internal obstruction of the airway by a foreign object. 

Solution: 

 Use a diagram. Compare to the flow of electrical current. Compare to the flow of air/water through a closed system (fish tank). 

Myth #2: STRANGULATION ALWAYS LEAVES VISIBLE INJURIES 

Fact:

Studies show that over half the victims of strangulation lack visible external injury. A victim without visible external injury can still die from strangulation. 

Solution: 

Demonstrate cutting off blood flow to your fingertips by squeezing your wrist with your other hand. Upon release of the grip, you will likely have no identifiable marks. If you do, they will be very short in duration. 

Myth #3: IF THE VICTIM CAN SPEAK, SCREAM, OR BREATHE, THEY ARE NOT BEING STRANGLED 

Fact:

Since strangulation involves obstruction of blood flow, a person can have complete obstruction and continue breathing until the moment they die from lack of oxygenated blood flow to the brain. 

Solution: 

Again, grab your wrist and squeeze. You can still breathe, yet blood flow is obstructed to the fingertips. If this was the victim’s neck, they could still have an open trachea (windpipe) but have lack of blood 

Myth #4: STRANGULATION CANNOT BE HARMFUL BECAUSE MANY PEOPLE PRACTICE IT (MARTIAL ARTS, MILITARY, LAW ENFORCEMENT) 

 Fact:

Martial arts are a form of combat. The military and law enforcement use strangulation as a lethal form of force. 

Risk: 

There are numerous incidents of death resulting from strangulation. This can even occur during otherwise supervised events, such as sporting events, law enforcement 

Myth #5: STRANGULATION VICTIMS SHOULD BE ABLE TO DETAIL THEIR ATTACK

Fact:

Trauma impacts the brains ability to store memory. In addition, the hippocampus (part of the brain where memory is stored) is the most sensitive to oxygen deprivation. When a victim is strangled, both factors can impact the ability to recall. 

Solution: 

Give the example of how limiting the flow of electricity to a digital recording device will prevent it from recording. 

This project is supported all or in part by Grant No. 2016-TA-AX-K067 awarded by the Office on Violence Against Women, U.S. Department of Justice. The opinions, findings, conclusions, and recommendations expressed in this publication/program/exhibition are those of the author(s) and do not necessarily reflect the views of the Department of Justice, Office on Violence Against Women. 

Doorways, Eye Contact, Macaroni & Cheese

Doorways, Eye Contact, Macaroni & Cheese

What do these three things have in common? My abuser told me they were all an invitation to hurt me. That if I dared, he dared.

I couldn’t “block” doorways aka stand anywhere near an entrance/exit when he was angry. If I did, he would charge at me, pick me up and throw me, or push me into a corner and crush his forehead into mine. He blamed it on childhood trauma; being blocked into rooms and beaten.

I couldn’t make eye contact during conflict. Eye contact was a challenge. Something only an “alpha” could do. So if I looked him in the eye, I was telling him he could attack.

Once I had my back turned to him as I was heating up dinner for my daughter, and he crossed the room, wrestled the pan out of my hands, and dumped the macaroni & cheese everywhere. He said his childhood trauma involved people using pots and pans as weapons, so he thought I was going to attack him.

What else? Crossed arms. A raised voice. Disagreeing. Contradicting him in front of anyone. Taking a step toward him. Sitting down on the couch if he’d told me to stay away from him (he refused to go to another room when he was “tapped out”; I had to stay away from him, even in common spaces). Asking questions. Taking a shower before going to see Christmas lights.

Sighing.

One morning I woke up, and I let out a sigh.

“Already f’ing starting!”

It never ended. I tried to comply, but the rules changed. Because of course they did. He had to give himself permission to be the monster, the alpha, the winner. It was his world and I was just surviving it, all the while wondering what on earth I was getting wrong.

No one will tell you to file for divorce over “not being able to stand in doorways”, but let me tell you something - that’s exactly the sort of warning sign that you should be aware of.

Love isn’t quicksand. Marriage isn’t an escape room. Safety is not a man telling you to fix your face or else. That’s coercive control, and coercive control is a better indicator for murder than physical violence.

Wormtail

My dad was screaming. Chasing me. Hitting me with a piece of wood. He was so angry. So scary. I was gasping for breath and trying to explain and then I woke from the nightmare, sweating and shaking on my plastic mattress, my children crying out in the dark:

“Mommy, what’s wrong?”

What’s wrong? The legacy I tried to outrun is painted on these walls in blood. The only inheritance I had any hope of, and a sum that wasn’t worth its weight in feathers. Three decades ago I saw my mom with tears streaming down her cheeks, and said “Mommy, what’s wrong?”. Three decades ago I was doubled over in pain, whimpering to the god of the bathroom floor as I fought through another debilitating stomachache. Three decades ago I was so, so careful as I carried my bowl of lucky charms to the big velour recliner, and despaired when some of the milk betrayed me and I caught a sharp but well-meaning rebuke from the volunteer in the kitchen. I was already ashamed to admit I enjoyed watching Barney. Making a mess in this strange place was almost too much to bear.

I have no memory of our room in the shelter all those years ago. I have one flash of another family’s room, four children and a mother, because my little sister opened the wrong door and a boy smaller than us was startled with no diaper on. I have some memory of my bouncy horse flying off of the porch, hurled by my dad in a rage. “I’ll kill you, I’ll kill the kids, and I’ll kill your entire family.” To this day I don’t know what set him off.

It was a terrible rage. An honest rage. A rage that made my mom run. It took her longer than normal to soften; to look back.

I can’t blame her. I know what he would have done. We would be hunted down. There was no safe refuge. There were worse monsters to be swallowed by. With him there was danger AND protection, rage AND love. We had little hope of leaving and staying alive. Staying meant living, and living meant being left with deep, lasting scars, dredged into us like trenches in the deep.

When the cosmo-not, the fauxton, the predator came along, the surface concealed what lived underneath, and I was distracted by his whirlwind endeavor to touch every sail, every line, every map. We were drifting off the path, almost from the moment we cast off. Eventually I could see, with more and more clarity, the divergence. Perhaps an unscarred and unscathed daughter of a safe father would know about anchors, and flares, and the coast guard. This daughter knew only how to weather the storm. How to set my jaw so that the gales didn’t rattle my teeth. How to deftly navigate a treacherous route to nowhere, nothing, and never.

I found myself alone as he disappeared below deck, emptying our vessel of innocence and hope right under my feet. I fought to keep my eyes open as I clung to the rudder. He set off on his own, careening wildly from port to port, a reckless, unscrupulous wretch, with a whale of a tale for every unsuspecting soul he crossed paths with. The hero of every yarn, sometimes pirate, sometimes admiral, but in reality always the antithesis of both.

As he traversed the waves, a mutiny was swelling in the Bermuda Triangle that became more jagged and opaque by the day, and I sacrificed more and more to secure safe passage. I was drenched by the spray, battered by the wind, and the sun beat down on my back day after day, but I faithfully honored the intent of the voyage.

It was only at the last, slumped against the railing and dazed by his blow, that I finally sent out an SOS call.

Little did I know I would be dashed upon the rocks, and made to answer for the wreck and the wreckage. Loyal as a bilge rat, he scurried out of sight. A pathetic Pacific Peter Pettigrew. Licking boots and scrounging crumbs, and squeaking on and on about the villain he so narrowly escaped.

Oh Wormtail…you forgot, but I did not.

I have the Marauder’s Map.

And I solemnly swear I will end you for good.

Domestic Violence Awareness Month 2025

Last September I called 911 during an attack that was meant to kill me. I was arrested, named the perpetrator, and charged with a misdemeanor. Jail was the only place my abuser could not reach me, and my arrest saved my life. I’ve learned so much since then, lost so much, and experienced so much. I want to share what I went through in the hope that I can help someone else before it’s too late. Tomorrow is the first day of October. The first day of Domestic Violence Awareness Month. Last year I went to the Kentucky state capitol, shook the governor’s hand, and cried as these names were read. I came so close to being nothing more than a candle at a vigil, but I’m not dead yet. I’m going to spend the next 31 days sharing as much as I can. I wanted to Be The Last, but dangerous men move so fast, so I’ll settle for being a light in the dark, a voice in the silence, and a life extracted from the cruel grip of death.

DVAM Day 1: Intersection

According to the CDC, the leading cause of death for pregnant women in the United States is homicide.

Research from the Alliance for HOPE International found that in cases where information was available, 75% of officers killed in the line of duty were murdered by men with a history of domestic violence.

According to a 2021 study, approximately 68% of mass shootings between 2014 and 2019 involved a domestic violence offender, either by killing a family member or intimate partner during the shooting or by having a prior history of domestic violence.

For the United States, the total economic impact of domestic violence is estimated to exceed $8.3 billion annually, and includes healthcare expenses, lost wages and productivity, criminal justice system costs, property damage, and increased costs for services like shelter and legal aid.

Domestic violence affects every single one of us, and it is a public health crisis. October may be Domestic Violence Awareness Month, but perpetrators harm 24/7/365, so please take what you learn this month and use it all year long to support survivors and hold offenders accountable.

Day 2: A dream…but no sleep

I almost fell asleep at the wheel, driving my kids to their dad’s house for the weekend. I was exhausted, because I was in love! So many late nights, so many conversations, so little sleep…after 18 months of almost complete solitude aside from the kids, I was struggling to keep up. Struggling to stay awake.

While I was crashing, he was riding high. Starting anew. Doing his research. What I thought was attention and infatuation was really interrogation, and every detail he gleaned and every detail he shared was used to burrow further and further into my life - to assert control. It happened so fast, but I was reassured by everyone around him. He was a good man. Would do anything for anyone. Always helping, always giving, always working…it was always something.

This reputation that he protects so fiercely is one of the many red flags I missed in the beginning. I heard over and over about how he sold his belongings to send a student to camp. How he bought his sister and niece the latest iPhones. How he did this and that for this person and that person. He was a self proclaimed knight in shining armor, but it didn’t take long for the gleaming shell to tarnish…

The chaos in the beginning stole my peace but made me feel special. Seen. Chosen. Loved.

But it was none of those things. It was the great whirlwind, the first act: Lovebombing.

Day 3: Geometry Lessons

Triangulation is a common tactic used by abusers, but it can be difficult to detect at first. The lovebombing that swept me off of my feet only lasted a few weeks, but by then he had taken hold of me and my life. The “good man” who had been so excited to get to know me became diminished, elusive, mysterious, and surrounded by shadowy figures who seemed to influence the relationship from afar.

I often wondered in the beginning why I never seemed to get the same story from any two people in his life. Why there were so many people in his life who didn’t like me, or seemed to have an inaccurate impression of me, or who I was kept away from.

I asked a lot of questions. I brought up a lot of issues. I tried to build bridges and facilitate peace, but little did I know what was happening behind my back. I have no doubt now that from day one, the seeds were being sown to preemptively discredit and devalue me.

Our coworkers, his family, his friends, his exes…there always seemed to be a problem. Problems that didn’t exist in my world. I don’t have ongoing feuds, or ghosts from the past, or delicate relationships I have to shield. I’m an ordinary person and I thought I was dating an ordinary person - but I wasn’t.

Predators groom everyone around them, often very successfully, and by the time a victim realizes the danger they are in, no one in the predator’s orbit will help.

One of the red flags I missed in the beginning was the confusion I constantly felt. Why did his sister hate me? Why did my boss offer to help me with my “anger issues”? Why wouldn’t he introduce me to an ex who lived nearby and had an unfinished project he had started at her home? Why did my concern about his drug use get weaponized into me trying to hurt his fragile uncle?

It was always, always something. No peace. No clarity. No headway. A dizzying prism of chaos.

Day 4: Fix Your Face

I had never met a person like this. He said that his childhood was so traumatic that he couldn’t handle conflict. Emotion was painful. Love cost him dearly. He claimed he had isolated for so long because human connection was so difficult, but we were worth the price he had to pay.

That was utter bullshit. But I believed it for a long time. These lies laid the groundwork for him to demand that I never disagree with him, never argue with him, and never call him out - because conflict hurt him.

He asked for me to limit big emotion, which turned into a command: “Fix your face”. I was not allowed to wear an expression that he did not approve of. I couldn’t look sad, serious, disappointed, frustrated, or angry. Never angry. And this is one of the biggest misconceptions about coercive control and domestic violence - that the abuser has anger issues. They don’t. They are in complete control of their anger. They have an issue with YOUR anger. They remove your right to be a complete human being with a full range of emotions.

What began as his claiming his face felt numb and his side hurt and his energy tanked soon turned into physical assaults, violent threats, and hours long tirades. Roaring that there could only be one alpha, and that he wasn’t going to be a simp. I had to google both of these concepts, and slowly began to grasp what a very small, weak, and toxic person he actually was.

I had so much empathy and compassion and pity for his initial story; for this tortured experience he imitated in the early days. I had no idea that a human being could lack a conscience to the degree that he did and does. I now know that there are many people who don’t feel guilt or remorse, and who can lie and harm and take from others and sleep soundly at night.

If your partner tells you to “fix your face” or some other iteration of limiting you and your emotions, it’s a huge red flag that something is very wrong with them and the relationship needs to end immediately. I’m not sure exactly when “fix your face” mutated into something much more sinister, but based on my journal entries I was being called the C word and selfish within a few months, and overt and covert violence had both crept into the relationship.

Day 5: I’ll Be The Biggest Asshole In The Room

I’ll likely never know what was truth and what was fiction, but this is what my abuser told me. He said he used to go looking for fights in bars. That he needed to be hit, not just do the hitting. That he had a criminal record that was expunged in another state. That for his entire life, he’s been the “biggest asshole in the room”.

He explained exactly what he meant by this. That no matter what, he was going to win every conflict with every person who engaged with him. That he went to extreme and even illogical lengths to come out on top. That he’d told his sister he’d shit on her ceiling; that he’d wrestled his mom into submission. That violence was a language he had spoken his entire life.

That if I was stupid enough to try to go toe to toe with him, I would get hurt. That he couldn’t control his reaction. That if I provoked him in any way, I was responsible for what happened next.

This was initially presented as a heavy cross for him to bear, that he would try to protect me from the harm he could inflict on me should he ever lose control. That he lived in fear of being challenged lest he split someone’s face open.

Soon enough, like everything else, it morphed into a roaring threat. “I’ll be the biggest asshole in the room!” “I don’t lose!” “You don’t get to be aggressive with me!” “Look at me, you pathetic piece of shit!”

I couldn’t raise my voice, cross my arms, move closer toward him, or challenge anything he said. He started getting in my face, pressing his forehead into mine, backing me into corners and bending me over countertops. I had to be small, and silent, and stare at my feet.

Even eye contact was labeled as aggression. If I dared look him in the eye, it was just asking to get hurt. Once he had “warned” me about all of these missteps I had better not make, any future instance of them meant he was absolved of the blame, shame, and responsibility for his violent responses, because the only promise he knew he could keep to me was that he would be the biggest asshole in the room.

Day 6: We met at work.

He was there first. A spring and summer semester earlier. We shared a direct supervisor, and held lateral positions - Program Coordinators of our respective disciplines. But I was a temporary, last-minute hire. A single mom bouncing back from a pandemic layoff. He was established.

He had worked as an educator before, and he twisted both his permanent position and his background into controlling me in the workplace. It was one of the reasons he burrowed into my life so quickly and one of the barriers to exiting the relationship - I subconsciously knew that if we broke up, he would ruin my career.

Our shared female supervisor asked him to work on her home, wrote him notes with cash tucked inside, and scheduled weekly check-ins with him. She became more hostile toward me, even suggesting once that she could help me with my “anger problems”. I was at a loss, felt trapped, and was constantly being pointed away from the true source of the ever present uncertainty. I have pictures of myself installing electrical outlets with him in her home on a federal holiday. She never thanked me. She barely acknowledged me.

I was a fantastic hire. My students loved me, I was phenomenal in my role, and I won awards for my course design during my first year. He missed deadlines, couldn’t manage his small cohort of students, and slept in his office. He kept a camping cot in the corner, and his clothing and personal effects were strewn everywhere in the grubby, sticky room. The residue from crushed pills clung to the surface of his desk, and I found a syringe in his desk drawer as we moved him out. “Planted”, he said. I wonder…

He was fired and blackballed from the statewide college system.

I allowed my contract to expire and left on good terms. Then I got word that the adjunct position I was looking forward to at another school was no longer available. I was blackballed too.

Day 7: “My Unmedicated Brain is Scarier”

I had never seen a rolled up dollar bill, or a razor blade dusted in white powder, and suddenly they were everywhere. Sure, my dad died from an overdose in 2007, but I was out of the house by then and simply had no firsthand experience with drug use or the paraphernalia, so this scared me.

My fears were belittled as sheltered, and my abuser downplayed the harm and emphasized the necessity. He said “my unmedicated brain is scarier than any drug”.

He claimed that until he had better coping mechanisms, his drug use was the only way he could get through a day, because he was so fragile and special. An orchid. That if I wanted him to stop, he would not be able to teach, not be able to be in a relationship, and not be able to function.

To that end, asking him to stop would be “selfish” and “cruel”. This sat on the shelf of utter bullshit right beside “Fix your face” and “I’ll be the biggest asshole in the room”. But I didn’t want to be selfish or cruel, and I continued to believe the best in this wretched, pitiful, afflicted man.

The following is an excerpt from my journal, written February 19, 2022:

“My heart is pounding in my ears. It’s beating so fast.

I don’t want to hear it. It’s louder than you think. It’s a collection of familiar sounds. The chair. The blade. The card. The snort. I’ll be focusing on something and I hear it, and everything inside of me freezes.

Am I wrong for not stopping you? Am I a horrible person, a horrible partner? Am I watching you kill yourself?

All of my thoughts seem dramatic and dark and heavy, and I remind myself that people do so much worse.

And some die from far less.”

He knew how worried I was, and weaponized my concern. If I messed up in any way, I was the reason he had to do drugs. If I argued with him, it stole his energy and he had to do drugs. If we had a wonderful day, the price he paid for emotional connection was so hefty that he had to do drugs. So the rolled up dollar bills and razor blades persisted, and I was slowly being erased.

Day 8: “Coercive control is a better predictor of domestic homicide than previous violent assaults.”

One of the most stunning things I’ve learned in the aftermath of my attack is how much research has been conducted on domestic violence, how great our body of knowledge is, and how long that body of knowledge has existed. Equally stunning is that domestic violence accounts for 15% - 20% of violent crime committed in this country.

Somehow, though, most people are not familiar with the concept of coercive control - even law enforcement officers.

Biderman's Chart of Coercion is a table developed by sociologist Albert Biderman in 1957 to illustrate the methods of Chinese and Korean torture on American prisoners of war from the Korean War. The chart lists eight methods of torture that will psychologically break an individual:

1. Isolation

2. Monopolization of perception

3. Induced debilitation and exhaustion

4. Threats

5. Occasional indulgences

6. Demonstrating "omnipotence" and "omniscience"

7. Degradation

8. Enforcing trivial demands

Coercive control is now understood to be a powerful indicator of future harm and increased likelihood of lethality in domestic violence situations.

“Almost all domestic homicides are preceded by coercive control,” says Lisa Fontes, author of Invisible Chains: Overcoming Coercive Control in Your Intimate Relationship. “In fact, coercive control is a better predictor of domestic homicide than previous violent assaults.”

“Coercive control is devastating. It tears down the individuality and the centeredness of a person. It leaves them open to self-doubt and therefore makes it more difficult for them to leave an abusive situation,” says Jamie Sabino, Deputy Director of Advocacy at the Mass Law Reform.

Domestic violence homicides are increasing, and I believe one reason is that we don’t speak openly about coercive control. Understanding this pattern of behavior is lifesaving, for ALL of us - because we also know that DV offenders are willing to harm anyone, not just their partners.

Day 9: Batting For The Wrong Team

The comments were subtle at first. Little sugarcoated digs he snuck in between compliments. Praising me, putting me on a pedestal, but already picking at me. First it was my clothes. “You are so beautiful, but that shirt looks like a weird cupcake.” “I’ve just never seen someone your age with a grandma cardigan like that.” “Don’t you like looking feminine?”

Then it was my hair. I was a busy single mom, spending my free time in my woodworking space, and I had kept my hair short for years. It was blonde and cute, and I loved it. He said “I thought you batted for the other team.”

The digs got deeper, the complaints were more frequent, and I found that if he mentioned something more than once or twice and I continued to wear or enjoy it, his critiques became more harsh.

As the abuse took more and more of a toll and my energy waned, I was more and more desperate for solutions. Anything for peace. Anything for hope. So I stopped dying my hair blonde and grew it out. I changed the way I dressed. I tucked away the cute shirt my mom had bought for me, the one that looked like a “weird cupcake.”

I gravitated towards softer hues and more feminine styles and silhouettes as his accusations of me being too aggressive, too manly, too “alpha” intensified. He would compliment and encourage what he liked, and vehemently reject what he didn’t.

The cruelty piqued a few weeks before the attack. I’ve never been spoken to the way he spoke to me in the onslaught of emails he sent for days on end. The insults and devaluation cut me to the bone, but looking back, I wish I had recognized the red flags in the early days: the subtle, sugarcoated digs that morphed into daggers. They were enough to signal that this was a dangerous man.

“You don’t deserve to wipe my ass, let alone be my wife.”

“You are mud beneath my feet.”

“You are a miserable woman and you deserve a lot. But it’s not whatever you want. You deserve to shut the fuck up and know your place. You are not and never have been good enough for me. You are not on my level. I’ve helped more, served more, saved more. I’ve brought more good into this world than you could ever hope to if you dedicated the rest of your life. You are not nearly as capable, caring or talented as I am and you never will be. You’re selfish and arrogant and intolerable and I’m tired of it.”

Day 10: “I am one of those women.”

I wrote the following note on my phone on October 28, 2023. I was so exhausted. When we moved to Nicholasville in 2022, the bottom fell out. Everything escalated. And for a while, I resisted. I tried to hold my own. And I realized quickly that I was going to get hurt, badly. I didn’t know what to do - I was so confused, heartbroken, and tired.

There is no easy answer when you are trapped in a relationship like this. I was looking for help on marriage blogs and in books about communication and ADHD and trauma. Desperately trying to crack the code. I didn’t want to get divorced again, and I was being told every single day that everything was my fault. And there was something else…I believed he had a line he wouldn’t cross. That he wouldn’t hurt a child. That although he was hurting me, I could tough it out for them so they didn’t have to be uprooted again. I was so wrong about that, and would do anything to travel back in time and shake me.

But I didn’t know. I didn’t know a fraction of what I know now. So I want to reach back to 2023 and hug this girl, tell her that she didn’t cause this, and help her safely escape. I would not find out until September 2024 that the majority of women are killed immediately after they leave. But I knew something was very wrong, and I was scared. I was scared that he might kill me. Less than a year later, he tried to do just that.

“This entire month is almost gone.

My favorite month.

A blur of exhaustion and tears.

Countless fights.

Today is the day you broke our bedroom door. Flipped our family room coffee table. Threw my drink.

You say I'm the reason.

That no one could or would or should put up with me.

I deserve to have my teeth knocked out.

I deserve to be thrown out of a window.

I deserve to have my pride taken away.

You call me aggressive. Abusive.

You want respect.

You demand obedience. Silence.

My biggest fear is that I'm one of those women. The ones you say are idiots to not leave. The ones you don't understand.

You say tell the world. Post pictures. That the world will laugh at me and take your side.

Every fight is my fault.

Every misunderstanding is my fault.

I am one of those women.

I hope that if you kill me, the kids will forgive me.

I want to believe the best in you. Make excuses. Keep it hidden.

What if that's what they all do?

What if they think that was love too?”

Day 11: Wormtail

On March 5th 2025 I witnessed another crime. Perjury. Lying under oath is a felony, and the lies poured out. My family and friends, through open records requests, have copies of the entire hearing. Our testimonies are immortalized, and just as you cannot unring a bell, you cannot erase sworn testimony.

Dan Carman, a criminal defense attorney, has a very helpful section on his website that describes Kentucky perjury laws.

March 5th was also the day our Emergency Protective Order was denied conversion to a DVO, so my children and I entered a domestic violence shelter a few days later. It was one of the best and hardest decisions I have ever made, and one of the best and hardest experiences of my life. We lived in the shelter for four months.

During the first few weeks there, I wrote the blog “Wormtail”, examining the connection between my childhood experience as the daughter of a violent alcoholic to my present experience as attempted murder, domestic violence, sexual assault, and strangulation survivor.

Day 12: Operation Dalmatian

I was warned about calling 911. On April 11, 2024 I received the following Facebook message:

"And you can call the cops if you like. That's your right. But it won't make things easier or better for you. Believe me, I know. I've seen it before."

April 11, 2024 is also the day I completed my application for a townhouse. My lease was approved the next day.

I called it “Operation Dalmatian”. We had started couples counseling, but the language was being weaponized and the abuse was intensifying. I compared it to going to cooking classes, but turning around to find the kitchen was in fire.

The flames needed to die down before we could rebuild. We needed the fire department, not a therapist. I signed a six month lease, signaling that I was serious about needing space and peace, but not ready to give up. Now I know it doesn’t matter how gracefully you retreat. When an abuser begins to lose control, they spiral.

75% of homicides occur upon leaving, and violence increases for the next TWO years. I had no idea. And I trusted that if I ever had to call for help, help would come. But it doesn’t work like that, because it’s not the fire department that responds.

Day 13: The Sunny Side of Control

When I got divorced in 2019, I rented a cute house from a retired couple. It was just me and the kids, and very few people visited that house because I had boundaries in place to ensure we were safe. I was working remotely as an accountant, taking care of the kids, and focusing on woodworking. The rental was in my name only, and although it was old, it was a great place to live.

My abuser couldn’t leave well enough alone, and insisted on various projects, all of which he leveraged into more control over my life and a way to insult and belittle me. He tore apart the bathroom over a few loose tiles in the shower, replaced the water heater, replaced the furnace, and installed a mini split in the attic.

The bathroom project took longer than anticipated, was incredibly stressful, and the cost was mentioned constantly. The water heater replacement was turned into a test of my skills, and he was so mean to me as I tried to solder the lines and install the electrical wiring. The mini split installation morphed into him not contributing to shared expenses even after he moved in, because he gave my landlord such a good deal. The furnace project was started but took months to finish.

He was always “helping”, always reminding everyone how useful and hardworking and wonderful he was, and always seeking out ways to gain more power over me. He hated living in a house in my name, so he found ways to insert himself until he could move me away from my safe space. I often told him that it’s not “help” if it’s not wanted, and that help was the sunny side of control. I didn’t realize that his insatiable need for control would turn deadly.

Day 14: “Shhhhh!”

A few days ago I shushed my boyfriend. I was on the phone with my mom, and was wrapping up the call as I pulled into his driveway. He approached the vehicle, smiling, and reached to open my door for me, but I held a finger to my lips and silently mouthed “shhhhh!”.

He stepped back, acknowledging that I needed a moment. This man is kind, understanding, and safe, and a polite request for privacy and patience didn’t damage his ego. We went on to have a wonderful day.

The last time I shushed a partner, there was hell to pay. It was on a weekend trip to a large city, and I’d booked a cute AirBnB for us. I was sitting on the steps in the hallway, talking to my mom about something sensitive in her life, and he opened the door and began to speak. I shushed him and waved him away, silently conveying that I needed privacy.

He exploded with rage the moment I ended the call.

It wasn’t my “place” to shush him. I had no “right” to wave him away. I was this expletive and that expletive; stupid, crazy, asking for his wrath. On and on he went, ranting and raving.

I wish I had driven home without him. Instead, I tried to make peace, and this turned into an hours long temper tantrum that wound around the city streets, along the river, and finally back to the car. His language was disgusting, his excuses for his rage were despicable, and the threats he made were unforgivable.

Shushing this fragile, weak, obsessively controlling man was dangerous, and he made sure I understood that. He reveled in reminding me how badly he could hurt me, as if there was some virtue in making the threats but not yet following through. As if he were anything more than a skulking coward who demanded control over every aspect of my life.

Day 15: Natalie

On Memorial Day weekend 2024, a month after moving into my townhouse to have some peace, I was given a disgusting ultimatum that I rejected. Something along the lines of never arguing with him, handing over complete control of the kids, and that “every tentacle of the post-move Bekah must be destroyed”.

This is a textbook tactic. They put you on a pedestal initially, then begin to devalue you over time. The devalued version of you is compared to the idealized version of you, and as neither version exists, they will never accept or appreciate the real you.

During this weekend I was also told to stay the fuck away from his house and to stop contacting him (all via text). He then told his family I wouldn’t allow him to attend their holiday weekend events without him, ensuring I was blamed for his no show. He needed cover for what he actually did - he stayed home and created a Match dating profile.

As I cried in bed in my townhouse and posted some cries for help on my close friends IG stories (which are still on my profile), he used pictures I had taken of him at my home to lure his next victim. When I found out, he told me he had created the profile amid an onslaught of OCD intrusive thoughts. When I challenged this (that isn’t how OCD works), he conceded that it was “just in case” but he had never made it active.

Then I saw the email from Match. “Natalie just liked you. See if it’s mutual.” His profile was active, and he was engaging with (preying upon) single women in our area. He had also claimed he didn’t know how to delete his profile - but was livid when I started the (very simple) deletion process.

I took pictures of his profile displayed on his iPad screen, and forwarded Natalie’s email to myself. As his family trashed me and called me controlling and claimed I was isolating him and cutting him off, I was cowering as he screamed at me.

He would go on to create a Tinder profile and a Bumble profile within days of the attempt on my life.

At the end of the relationship he began calling me his “greatest teacher”. Now I know why. Unlike the story I was told, that “I never want to pass on my genes”, he embarked on this hunt with the intention of establishing a much more foolproof method of control: having a biological child with his victim.

Day 16: “You said THEIR Dad!”

I was married once before. We met in high school, were together for three years, and then married for another eleven. The divorce was quiet and respectful - we didn’t even use separate attorneys. We share two beautiful children, and did our best with 50/50 time sharing for years.

Then jobs and life and compulsory attendance changed things, and he worked out of town a lot and I moved a couple hours away, but we still did our best to share time.

One day, my abuser and I were at a parent teacher conference discussing my son, when I mentioned that the kids see “their dad” most weekends. Due to his work schedule, their dad didn’t get to be very involved in school or other weekday life in the city I lived in. He came to dance recitals and soccer games faithfully, but he didn’t meet their teachers in person. My abuser did. And he left this meeting in a state of fury that exploded behind closed doors.

Apparently I was supposed to imply that stepdad was biological dad. I was baffled by my abuser’s anger, his claim that mentioning “their dad” erased him from the conversation; that I left him no place and no authority, simply because I shared that the kids have a biological father who loves them and sees them regularly. His rage stemming from this incident was immediate and ugly. I didn’t understand why, but I wish I had known what this could mean.

“Do you have a child that is not his?” is a risk factor for homicide and included on the Danger Assessment developed by Jacquelyn Campbell. As I mentioned in my blog “Choking Hazard”, the presence of stepchildren is a crucial detail in any DV investigation and can contribute to the specific harm and the general danger present in an abusive relationship.

If you feel unsure of your partner, or feel unsafe in any way, please review this tool. There are many like it, and they can help you see your situation more clearly.

One such assessment, a less anonymous and more detailed tool, is called a MOSAIC. I completed this assessment on October 19, 2024. I did not know it existed prior to my attack. How I wish I had…

“Based upon the information you have provided, and with a quality level of 180 out of a possible 200, this situation appears most similar to cases that -have- worsened and escalated.

On a scale of 1 to 10 (10 being assigned to the worst situations), this situation is a 9. Some similar cases have escalated to include worsening abuse, substantial violence, and even homicide.

This situation definitely carries a high risk for Rebekah, and steps to enhance safety and wellbeing are called for.”

Day 17: The Dragon

In July 2024 I was hit in the face so hard that I went to the doctor a week later to get an X-ray of my nasal bones. I cried when I found out my nose wasn’t broken, and was too scared to file an EPO in case it wasn’t granted and he found out anyway. I didn’t know exactly how the process worked, but I knew that I was in danger and I wasn’t going to be protected unless I was hurt badly enough to be believed. I would learn a few weeks later that being hurt badly enough to nearly die wouldn’t be enough.

When he began his apology campaign, his last ditch effort to get me back, I resisted. I told him:

“You aren't my hero, I don't need money, and you aren't invited to my healing journey unless you can demonstrate that you're actually addressing how you abused me. You are not the victim or the hero in this story. You are the dragon, and I am still charred and bleeding. The dragon doesn't get to fly me to the hospital.”

He admitted soon after, in writing, to being the abuser:

“Random Thought: I ticked most the boxes as an emotionally abusive partner. I need to say it out loud, like in AA! Hi, I’m [xxxx]. I have been emotionally and physically abusive. I’m an abuser.”

That wasn’t enough. Texts, emails, phone notes. Not enough. When you call for help and more dragons respond, no amount of evidence is enough. All you can hope for is to survive.

If you are lucky enough to get away from the fangs and the flames, the wounds will eventually become scars. And your scars can help others understand and survive their dragons.

A woman on Reddit shared that she misses her abuser, and craves the chemistry they shared. She’s in a new relationship, but recently tried to contact her abuser. While I cannot relate to that, I can comprehend it. Dragons don’t breathe fire all the time. Sometimes they wink, and purr, and shrink back…but the fangs and flames will always come roaring back. This is what I told her:

“New relationships can be healing, but they aren't a hospital. Perhaps you need some more time to recover from and distance yourself from your abuser.

Breaking the trauma bond, at least for me, took intentional effort and it was painful. But I thought of it as a detox. A very necessary and lifesaving detox.

Abusers are like heroin. As the risk increases, so does the addiction to the "reward" - the high, the rush. But heroin isn't safe or sustainable, and neither is a trauma bond. And if you leave and go back, your first "hit" could end your life.

Detox for real. Choose closure. And stop chasing that dragon. Life is so much more than chasing a high and surviving the low. There is SO much to be found in the mundane, mediocre, SAFE in between.”

I hope she looks down at her scars and leaves the dragon in the past.

Day 18: Phonation.

Our eyes were locked, and I was panicking. I was on my back on the couch, and he had violently crossed my arms over my chest and was pinning me down with a vise grip on my wrists.

“I can’t breathe, I can’t breathe!”

It was less cry and more sputter; desperate. Being restrained hurt and left bruises, but being unable to breathe while the person who was supposed to love me sneered and held me down was terrifying.

This week I attended a training hosted by the Training Institute for Strangulation Prevention, and listened as Dr. Bill Smock shared terms like “positional asphyxiation”, “hypoxia”, and “anoxia”.

He said that brain cells have no oxygen reserve, which is why restricting breathing or impacting blood flow to the brain is so dangerous.

We looked at autopsy photos. Forensic exams. A multitude of injuries, both obvious and subtle, lethal and nonlethal.

Then he mentioned phonation. Phonation is making sounds, or speaking. Contrary to what many people believe, phonation is not the same as breathing. Breathing requires diaphragmatic movement.

A normal breath is 400 to 600 cc of air, but if you are being restrained in a way that restricts or prevents normal breathing, the decreased movement of the diaphragm will result in decreasing levels of oxygen and increasing levels of carbon dioxide.

Speaking takes about 50 to 100 cc of air movement.

Dr. Smock was an expert witness for George Floyd, who was tragically murdered five years ago. George cried out for his mother, and said he could not breathe. He was not lying. His cause of death was positional asphyxiation.

When I sputtered “I can’t breathe!” I wasn’t lying.

When he moved his hands from my wrists to my throat, I could not make a sound.

Day 19: Sunshine Massage

Last November I was reading about Lauren Baxley, one of Deshaun Watson’s victims. Then I started reading about the prevalence of illicit “massage” parlors. I didn’t realize that human trafficking could really be hidden in such plain sight, or that Lexington and the surrounding cities are a hotspot for all types of trafficking thanks to the intersection of two major interstates and events like the Kentucky Derby. As I processed what I was seeing, I gasped.

I jumped up, ran to my paperwork crates, and started sifting through the contents. And I found it.

In July 2023 I was given a gift certificate for a massage at a one-off strip mall salon: Sunshine Massage. I never used it, as it was odd for multiple reasons. Thanks to Reddit, I found a website that lists parlors that offer “total relaxation”, “reflexology”, and “total body massage” - the signal words of this industry.

Sure enough, this gift certificate came from a known “happy endings” parlor. The phrase sickens me, as does the number of local parlors.

This “gift” was likely an attempt to get me out of the house and away from my children, but I also think it was a test; a taunt - how satisfying would it be for me to go get the massage, enjoy it, and post a glowing google review?

Giving credibility to a location where my abuser may have been purchasing the ability to harm others would have been a sickening high for him, I’m sure.

He just so happened to spend a great deal of time working at locations that often were so close to these “salons” that they shared a parking lot. Due to the nature of his profession I rarely questioned his late nights, long periods of being unreachable, or his seemingly random and scattered travel.

Eric K. Threlkeld recently posted something that sums up why this matters, captioned “When Law Enforcement Fails to See the Whole Picture”:

“Domestic violence is not a singular event. It's a pattern, a web of control, intimidation, and escalation, often surrounded by other crimes: stalking, strangulation, sexual assault, child abuse, property damage, and witness intimidation.

When law enforcement fails to investigate the patterns and co-occurring crimes within a domestic violence case, we miss the truth of what's happening. We reduce a complex, dangerous situation to "a disturbance," "a couple's argument," or "a simple assault."

That failure doesn't just weaken a case, it endangers lives.”

A web. Fitting, as I began comparing my abuser to a certain sort of spider a few weeks after my attack…and I have discovered since then that I am certainly not the only victim he’s snared. Not even close.

Day 20: Mr. Sensitive

Lundy Bancroft wrote a book in 2002 that has my jaw on the floor in 2025. “Why Does He Do That?” sends chills down my spine, tears to my eyes, and anger to my mind.

Yes, anger. Because it isn’t wrong to be angry. Anger is NOT the same thing as abuse, and I can’t count the times that I was told that I was responsible for his abuse. He called it “anger”, he called it “trauma”, and he called it “being triggered”.

He called me every name under the sun. I wish I had read this book before now. I wish everyone had to read this book.

“The following dynamics are typical of a relationship with Mr. Sensitive and may help explain your feeling that something has gone awry:

1. You seem to be hurting his feelings constantly, though you aren’t sure why, and he expects your attention to be focused endlessly on his emotional injuries. If you are in a bad mood one day and say something unfair or insensitive, it won’t be enough for you to give him a sincere apology and accept responsibility. He’ll go on and on about it, expecting you to grovel as if you had treated him with profound cruelty. (Notice the twist here: This is just what an abuser accuses his partner of doing to him, when all she is really looking for is a heartfelt I’m sorry.)

2. When your feelings are hurt, on the other hand, he will insist on brushing over it quickly. He may give you a stream of pop-psychology language (Just let the feelings go through you, don’t hold on to them so much, or It’s all in the attitude you take toward life, or No one can hurt you unless you let them) to substitute for genuine support for your feelings, especially if you are upset about something he did. None of these philosophies applies when you upset him, however.

3. With the passing of time, he increasingly casts the blame on to you for anything he is dissatisfied with in his own life; your burden of guilt keeps growing.

4. He starts to exhibit a mean side that no one else ever sees and may even become threatening or intimidating.

Mr. Sensitive has the potential to turn physically frightening, as any style of abuser can, no matter how much he may preach nonviolence. After an aggressive incident, he will speak of his actions as anger rather than as abuse, as though there were no difference between the two. He blames his assaultive behavior on you or on his emotional issues, saying that his feelings were so deeply wounded that he had no other choice.”

Day 21: ADHD, OCD, Al-Anon, oh my!

Tl;dr: abuse is ALWAYS a choice, NOT a mental health issue.

First it was general “childhood trauma”. He was an empath, a wounded soul, a self-proclaimed “orchid”. Then it morphed into PTSD and cPTSD. Then ADHD entered the arena, and the more sympathy and support I extended, the more frequently it was mentioned. Toward the end, it was OCD, specifically harm OCD but also a general rumination variety. Al-Anon* made a brief appearance, but I suspect performing for a crowd put a damper on that ruse.

I am not in any way disparaging people with these conditions or the need for these supports. I have ADHD, I’m the adult child of an alcoholic, I’ve struggled with depression off and on all of my life, and thanks to this abusive relationship, the attempt on my life, and the failed police and larger systemic response, I have PTSD. I have loved ones with OCD, anxiety, panic disorder, bipolar disorder, and much more.

Mental health conditions, trauma, and the stigma attached to both are absolutely no joke.

They are also absolutely NOT the reason that anyone would exercise coercive control over their partner. These conditions do not cause abuse. They are not an excuse for explosive anger or the silent treatment, for lies or manipulation or triangulation, and they don’t drive an abuser to physically or sexually assault others.

Abuse is a choice.

Abuse is ALWAYS a choice.

If your partner is “doing their best” or “can’t handle conflict” or is “being triggered” yet still harming you in ANY way, please know that this isn’t a safe partner.

Safe partners don’t blame others for their anger, their inability to cope with stress, or their dishonesty. Safe partners speak openly about their struggles, accept feedback, and actually work on themselves.

Safe partners don’t blame you for their substance use, don’t lash out at you for seeking support or advice from third parties, and they don’t threaten, humiliate, or punish you into compliance.

An abusive partner will exploit all of your strength, patience, generosity, discretion, loyalty, and commitment, and devalue and discard you when they’ve reduced you to a shell of yourself. You can’t love them through it or be strong enough for the both of you - because they don’t intend to get better.

They intend to get the better of you, and you better not expose them. If they don’t kill you, they will leave you so broken that you’ll believe you’re better off dead.

(*Al‑Anon is a mutual support program for people whose lives have been affected by someone else’s drinking. I highly recommend this if you have/had a loved one with substance use disorder. Meetings are held both in-person and online)

Day 22: The Circle

Catch-22 is a novel written in 1961, and the title comes from a paradoxical military rule: a pilot is considered insane if he continues to fly combat missions, but if he requests to be grounded, that request proves he is sane and therefore must continue flying.

Catch-22 is similar to the reality of being trapped in an abusive relationship. If a survivor stays, trying to see the marriage through, they are vilified. “You chose to stay.” “If it was that bad, you should have left.” “How could you allow someone like that in your life?”

Yet when a survivor leaves, they are vilified. “He said that you abuse him.” “You allowed him around your children, so you are not a safe mother.” “If it was that bad, you would have left.” “You’re crazy.”

The difference between a combat pilot and a domestic violence survivor?

The combat pilot faces death at the hands of a known enemy.

A domestic violence survivor faces death from an unknown enemy within the cockpit.

My abuser used to rant and rave about “the circle.” He said if spoke to anyone about what was happening in our relationship, it was betrayal. That if we were going to work, I had to be completely loyal.

He told me again and again that I had to stay inside the circle. Never share his words, never disclose his actions, never seek advice. Eventually the price I paid trying to seek help was no longer worth it. I stopped reaching out. I stopped trying to make sense of it. I minimized the harm in the only way I knew how - compliance. Silence.

The circle was a noose, slowly tightening. The circle was a muzzle, a gag. The cold metal circles clicked around my wrists mere minutes after his hands had encircled my neck.

Abusers demand the right to privately destroy you and dress it up as loyalty, commitment, and protection. A safe partner lovingly extends loyalty, commitment, and protection, and their private behavior does not differ from their public behavior.

Privacy is wonderful, and a safe relationship does thrive with a certain measure of privacy. But privacy is not the same thing as secrecy. Unsafe relationships require secrecy, because abusers know that what they are doing is the definition of betrayal, not love.

Love won’t smother you in the cockpit. Abuse intends to. That is the ultimate mission.

Day 23: Mourning the Death

When I moved out in 2024, my abuser began using the word “mourning”. He was mourning the marriage, mourning the death of his family, and mourning what should have been.

I got so tired of pushing back that I decided to embrace the nonsense and bought a shirt to make light of it.

I had no idea that this sort of language was a huge red flag. I thought moving out was a wise choice. A step toward stability, toward peace.

I could not have been more wrong.

If an abuser begins talking about death in any way - their death, your death, the death of the relationship, the death of their vision of you - take it very seriously.

One can say the same thing through poetry or prose. There isn’t much difference between saying “you and the kids are dead to me” and “I’m mourning the death of my family”. This is not a tortured opine - it’s a threat.

Safe people don’t “mourn” you. They have mature conversations and make logical decisions. Abusers spiral, escalate, muddy the waters - and they kill.

He was mourning my death because he was in the process of planning it.

Day 24: Running out of chances

On September 1, 2024 I got a butt dial voicemail. Mid-attack. From my attacker.

“One more fuckin’ time Bekah…you’re running out of chances…to leave!”

This is the first day I was strangled and suffocated. He had me on the floor, on my back, near our entertainment center. He put his knee in my stomach as he gripped my neck, and it hurt so incredibly bad.

This day is less vivid. It was a terrible attack, and I begged him to stop. To “pick a hike or a restaurant!” I was so tired of fighting, so tired of being hurt, and I just wanted peace.

He finally chose Bella Notte. He had strangled me at least twice, and I had bruises all over me. As I got ready for dinner, I realized at some point I’d had an accident. My underwear were a mess. I was stunned and embarrassed, and I threw them away.

Then I took him out for his birthday. And as we dined, he wanted to compare bruises. He apologized. He held my hand. He remarked on the bruise on my wrist, an ugly bruise. He had one under his arm - the only part of him I could reach as he tried to kill me.

Now I know why that day is less vivid. He had strangled me until I lost bowel control. I was 30 seconds from death.

I didn’t know how dangerous strangulation was. I didn’t know about the long term damage, or the psychological scars it would leave. I called 911 the next day because he hit me so hard I was dazed, and I knew about concussions.

As I ate my pasta and asked him to stop talking about the bruises, I didn’t realize my murder had begun. I didn’t realize he would attack again the next day, and try to make good on his promise.

“I will put you in the ground!!!”

Statistically, he is still highly likely to do that. Because men who strangle are men who kill.

Day 25: The other sort of spider

On September 22, 2024, I wrote an instagram caption.

"If you're going to move into someone's house and eat their children, it pays to be discrete. Predators that live in ant colonies, called myrmecophiles, get away with this because they smell, look, and behave just like ants. A new study shows how an Australian spider has reached new levels in this con game. Cosmophasis bitaeniata doesn't just smell like ant - it smells like home."

I wrote the blog, “synthetic silk”, a few months later.

That’s all I have the energy to share today.

Day 26: Vis

The word violence comes from the Latin root “vis”, which means strength, force, and power. Violate, a similar word also with Latin roots, means to break or defile.

Abusers feel entitled to break or defile whatever they like. They want to be strong, to use brute force, and to ultimately hold all the power.

It’s so strange to associate a person who displays weakness of character and absence of conscience with strength, force, or power. Threatening the person you love isn’t strength. Throwing glass and furniture doesn’t make you a man. Breaking and defiling your partner’s body isn’t power.

My abuser used to demand respect. I told him he should be respectable. He used to demand the final word in all matters. I told him that you can’t hold authority if you aren’t willing to take any responsibility. He used to call me a pathetic piece of shit. Charge at me from across the room. Pick me up and throw me. I told him that made him weak, not strong.

But I didn’t realize how much danger I was in. I didn’t know he wasn’t special. I didn’t grasp how weak and small and despicable he was. I thought believing the best would draw out something good.

Now I know that it never, ever will.

If you are believing the best, waiting it out, being strong enough for two, or hiding what’s really happenings in your relationship, you are not safe, and this person does not love you. Vis has another meaning - “to see”. I hope you can see that you did not cause, perpetuate, or deserve any violence hurled your way, and that seeking safety could save your life.

Day 27: Alone, together

I have never felt as alone as I did during my marriage to my abuser, especially toward the end. There were so many special occasions, holidays, celebrations, and milestones that were sabotaged.

It never failed. There was always a “fight”, followed by a tirade and a disappearance. I pleaded with him to calm down, to please come with us, to act like he had a family. Sometimes I yelled back. Sometimes I followed him to whatever parking lot he was skulking in. It never worked. I was on my own.

He threatened to call off the wedding, skip our fall break trip to the beach, and ruined my birthday and Mother’s Day. In the four years we were together he never found the time to visit my parents with me. Not once.

Now, I’m grateful. It’s that many fewer memories with the monster who was preying on my children behind my back. So many of our memories are tainted beyond repair, but some are untouched. It was just the three of us at the Kentucky horse park looking at Christmas lights, at the neon dance, at the aviation museum, and at the color run…and so many more.

If you and your partner always seem to “fight” before or during events, stop and think about who is inviting conflict. How many times have you found yourself becoming smaller, quieter, more apologetic? How many times have you caught them lying to others about why they didn’t show? How many times have you begged for just one good day?

That isn’t normal. It’s a cruel tactic deployed as part of a larger pattern of control, and it’s always twisted to blame you, shame you, and name you as the problem.

It’s amazing how peaceful and happy the ordinary days are now, let alone holidays and special occasions. The kids and I communicate with kindness, make plans that honor everyone, and try our best to stay present and enjoy the moment instead of being haunted by the memory of his impossible demands and the violence we could never outrun.

Day 28: He-said-she-dead

I kept it in my back pocket. Worst case scenario, insurance policy, hope I never have to but trust that if I do, it’ll bring safety: calling 911.

He warned me.

"And you can call the cops if you like. That's your right. But it won't make things easier or better for you. Believe me, I know. I've seen it before." (April 11, 2024)

It certainly did not make things easier for me.

But anything, even death, is better than living with him.

Being arrested saved my life. But it also tore it apart.

When I went to the doctor in July 2024 for an X-ray of my nose, they had a responsibility to give me information about domestic violence resources. They did not do that. They were in violation of KRS 209A.130. I know that because the clinic manager met with me for an hour on October 4, 2024 and personally apologized.

I’ll never know what could have been. What decisions I would have made if I had facts and statistics. I’ll never know if I could have avoided being permanently injured a few weeks later.

But I do know this: 911 may not bring help. Law enforcement may not bring help. A protective order guarantees nothing. Being take by ambulance to the ER two days post-attack may not help.

Recognizing the danger you are in, making a safety plan, and taking steps toward freedom - that can help. I came so close to seeing it on my own, but his last act was compelling and I was so tired, so heartbroken.

He said he loved me, and he’d never hurt me again. Then his mother said I needed to die, and he tried to kill me. Between his attack and the systemic response, I still can’t believe I’m not dead. Because it’s a he-said-she-dead world, and the cops will laugh with your murderer as you gasp for air.

Day 29: Flat top, won’t stop

He’ll cook your favorite foods. He’ll bring home flowers. He’ll buy sun catchers and shelf sitters and star charts and cheesy mass produced jewelry. He will fill your home and life and head with things you never asked for and don’t need.

He’ll plan trips and hikes. Try new restaurants, explore fun cities, and get lost in nature. Take you on the grand tour to meet his friends and family. Show you off. Share how happy he is.

The good times are SO good. And everyone outside looking in is SO happy for you.

But soon his happiness is gone, and he blames you. You begin to believe that maybe it really is you. Maybe he’s doing everything right and you’ve got it all wrong.

He says he’s giving it all he has. Trying his best. That the pain in his past and your expectations for the present are too much. Something has to give.

So you give. And you give. And you give.

And he doesn’t get better. He doesn’t heal, or grow, or soften.

He eats in parking lots and tells you he dreads coming home. He says that you should be greeting him at the door like a dog, wagging your tail.

He tells you that you’re selfish. That anyone with a single brain cell would see that it’s all you. That this is 100% your fault, because there can only be one alpha, and he won’t be a simp.

You google alpha and simp because you aren’t even sure what these things mean.

They mean that this man will kill you.

But first, he will enjoy every second he spends destroying you. It’s all lies. It’s all ashes.

He’ll start by putting a flat top grill on the back porch and making a god awful mess “for you”, and before you know it he’ll use a picture you took of him cooking on his dating profile. He won’t stop, and he won’t change, and when you finally see the truth, he’ll try to close your eyes for good.

Day 30: Build a timeline

I began journaling in a series of iPhone notes I labeled “You Never Know” circa 2021. A few people in my extended orbit died that year, and I had some things I wanted to say just in case.

The notes are both positive and negative, and capture some of the intensity, uncertainty, and volatility of the relationship that almost killed me.

I didn’t realize what I was up against, and I deleted pictures, videos, texts, emails, and voice recordings at various points in a show of loyalty - or out of fear. If I shared what he was saying or doing, there was hell to pay.

If you are in a relationship that feels confusing, hurtful, unfair, unequal, or is outright harmful, please try to collect and preserve evidence. But take it one step further - build a timeline.

Abuse always escalates, but it can be so subtle and so random that without tracking it, the pattern is hidden in the chaos. Identifying this escalation can be lifesaving. I can look back and see that the physical abuse increased dramatically after we moved to a new city, and that all forms of abuse increased dramatically after I moved into my own place last year. But I couldn’t see it clearly at the time. I was surviving day by day.

I was being hurt in a regular basis in 2022 - 2024, but the first time I sought medical care for my injuries was July 2024. Then I was violently strangled, suffocated, hit, thrown, shoved, and pushed in early September 2024.

Between these two attacks, there was a massive effort to convince me to return. He apologized, admitted he was an abuser, and promised he would never hurt me again. I very stupidly believed him. And it nearly cost my my life. It certainly cost me everything else.

Tracking incidents, good and bad, in chronological order could be your key to freedom - and I hope that you make it to freedom and safety without a brain injury that will never heal.

The September attack changed how I talk, how I move, how I think, my memory, my ability to eat, drink, and swallow, how I sleep, and the way my brain uses my eyes and ears.

The other abuse, much of which happened in my sleep, has led to appointments with specialists, an MRI of my pelvis, a colonoscopy, and eventually I will have to have surgery. I lost my job during our fourth month in the shelter, so I don’t have insurance and have to delay medical care for these issues for now. Some of the symptoms I was experiencing during the relationship disappeared immediately after going no contact, which is both a relief and a horrifying realization to contend with. Many symptoms remain and I do my best to manage them. I don’t wish this on anyone.

Intensity isn’t love. Uncertainty isn’t love. Volatility isn’t love.

Build the timeline. Save the evidence. And know that I am rooting for you to survive.

Day 31: “That’s never an accident.”

A coworker asked if the attack came out of the blue. I told her his mother had been texting for a week, telling him I needed to never be heard from again. Demanding I publicly apologize for calling him a “pedophile” and “incestuous”. I had never called him either, but she insisted I held the key to his arrest in my hands and he must “act on that fact alone.” She copied, pasted, and sent these to him, me, my mom, my brother, and others.

I had seen him, post-shower, sit down right beside his mother on the couch wearing nothing but a towel. I had seen him holding her hand, her fingers stroking his like a lover. He told me about how his sister wanted him to adopt his niece and act as a surrogate husband.

I had seen him seek out children, buy them gifts, get them alone under the guise of “babysitting”, and message his pre-teen niece in the wee hours of the morning. Heard him talk about how pure and innocent children are. I didn’t realize that evil hides in plain sight - that this wasn’t lovable “uncle to all” behavior.

I had found a caption in his internet history in 2023 that horrified me, but I wasn’t alone - we were sitting together, looking for a link he needed for work and he feigned shock and lied, saying he had no idea what the video titles were - that they were random, and he would never. He was just trying to see if everything “still worked” after a debilitating kidney infection. It was an “accident”.

My coworker stopped smiling. She paused for a moment.

“Oh, no Bekah, that’s never an accident.”

My world shattered. It wasn’t an accident?

NCMEC agreed. It wasn’t an accident.

Then I asked a question, and received an answer, little eyes brimming with tears and wide with fear.

It. Wasn’t. An. Accident.

I was chosen by this predator on purpose.

His mother’s panic and anger weren’t random. His weaponization of my discovery wasn’t random. He didn’t have a line he wouldn’t cross when it came to children - his domain is the other side of the line. The dark underbelly we all claim to abhor.

One police department in one city can collude and cover up some sins for a certain amount of time, but this sin can’t be washed away. Some fingerprints can’t be wiped off. He left a bruise on my neck in the shape of his thumb, but I wasn’t the only thing he hoped would die that day. He was also trying to crush the life out of his despicable secret.

That’s never an accident.

And it’s not a secret anymore.

From the Vault: July 21, 2024

July 21st

Five days until our anniversary.

One day since you said I was mud on your boots.

My logical brain and my hopeless heart are at war inside my body, half of me thankful that you made it so easy, half of me helpless as I struggle against missing you terribly as I try to enjoy a family evening at Fritz Farm.

I don’t want to do this alone, but I didn’t choose you for companionship.

I don’t want to do this the way you demand it, and you are getting much worse.

You have put so much effort into hurting me, breaking me down, and devaluing me.

I can’t relate.

I have outbursts, raw pain, uninhibited rants. But this is sustained, calculated, and cruel.

Your insecurity and weakness are on full display, woven into a massive red flag that blocks out the sun.

And here I sit, searching for stars in the dark, wondering when the moon will rise…

“You’re MY bitch”

No, I’m not.

I’m your wife, at least for now.

But I am no man’s bitch.

I hold my head high, even as tears stream down my cheeks.

You didn’t make us a family, and you can’t break our family.

You can slink away, kicking dust as you go.

You can surrender to your darkness and your wounds. You can be this sick, desperate, disgusting version of yourself.

I’m not walking this path with you, existing at your mercy.

~~~~~~~

One thought haunts me, and will until I die…

Who are you?

Who are you, really?

Do you get to choose? Is this chosen?

Are you trapped, helpless?

I don’t think you are. I think you choose.

But I also think you are compelled to certain choices.

I have no idea why I have such empathy for you. Why I ache for you. Perhaps because it’s hard to believe anyone would freely choose this.

Maybe I’ll be better off if I believe you can’t help it AND I can’t be part of it.

If I felt you had a choice, I’d want to influence you to be better; stronger. That’s not a healthy or productive endeavor. This cannot continue. You haven’t been better. You’ve gotten worse. More erratic. More cutting.

I have too. I’m beyond the end of my rope. I feel wild, tortured…I lash out and break down much easier. But I don’t want to cause you pain. I’m always trying to explain to you how you are causing me pain and why you need to stop.

You never stop.

You’re awful.

The way you hurt my hand in Berea.

Blaming me for everything.

Your outright lies.

Bringing up your sister and mother and my mother and…Gina?

It’s gross. It’s sick. It’s all meant to harm me but it just makes you look like a monster.

I am strong, and beautiful, and smart, and kind, and tough, and sweet, and hardworking, and unselfish, and loving.

I am not beneath you, and I would never say you are beneath me, even now. Your behavior is - but a person’s worth is not determined by the way another views them.

You will never determine my worth, or my place, or my value, or my quality.

I am amazing.

I am incredible.

I never deserved this.

I don’t believe you intended to be this horrible.

I’m not sure I believe you will ever change…

I have to make peace with the past, which was not pretty.

The present, which is not easy.

And the future, which is not possible and likely never probable.

I believed you, and maybe you believed you too.

But I don’t anymore.

It’s a tool to get me back, and I will be merciful enough to not allow you to be this monster toward me again.

My grace is stronger than your chains.

I will not repeat this cycle. I will set you free from your own dizzying dance.

You’ll find someone else to prey on, perhaps.

But I’ll give you the chance to say “enough”.

It’s the only thing about you I have power over. The only power I remotely consider pursuing.

I will be merciful, and strong, and gracious.

I will not return.

It is finished.

(It takes survivors several attempts to leave for good. This was written just weeks before an attack intended to be lethal.)

Annus Horribilis & Annus Mirabilis

We are one year into exploring our new keys, one year into our founder’s survival, and one year into a lifelong commitment to Be The Last! Thank you for being part of our new journey, and partner with us as we continue this important work. We are just getting started!

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From Our Founder:

I have survived what I hope has been the most dangerous year of my life. It has also been the most important and miraculous year of my life. Women who have been strangled by an intimate partner are 750% more likely to be murdered by that person within the next year than a person who has never been strangled by an intimate partner. In my situation, the stakes are even higher…

I spent the first six months post-attack trying to hold my life together as I was stalked, threatened, and systemically broken. I have never been so scared, so alone, or so silenced. I had to make a choice - end my life, or tell my story. I chose to live. I chose to ask for even more help. I chose to return to court, represent myself, and listen as perjury was committed over and over again. When I lost the last facade of protection, an EPO that the local police refused to enforce again and again, my children and I entered a shelter.

Domestic violence is the only crime that requires the victim(s) to relocate. While a dangerous man walks free, we stepped into a cage. We spent four months behind double locked doors, on camera, sleeping on plastic mattresses in a room smaller than my college dorms, and sharing showers and toilets with many other families. It was wonderful in ways and it was one of the hardest things I’ve ever done.

But I can, and I will, do hard things. I will continue to choose life. I have been given a gift that I do not take lightly, even when the darkness creeps in. I have flashbacks from my attack every single day. I can see myself stumbling into the police department, the prosecutor’s office, and emergency rooms. I can remember the way my brain would form the words but my mouth couldn’t. I can remember the night I learned why they really wanted me to die. I can remember sleeping with a baseball bat and praying that if he broke in, the end would be quick.

I can remember believing that it was love, and that I should stay, and that he was different. I can remember staring at my feet, uncrossing my arms, making myself as small and quiet and non-threatening as I could while his rage swelled and his voice roared. I can remember every dead-end excuse, every farce of a solution, every weaponized event and person and phrase.

I can remember, but I try not to dwell. I try to look up. To feel the sun on my skin. To take steps forward without staring at my feet. To take up space in my own life. To say yes when I want and no when I want. My life is sliced in half - before the attack, and after. I have lost so much, suffered so much, and changed so much. So have my children. More than you can fathom. More than I am willing to share. But we are alive, and while we may still be in danger, we are not in captivity.

If I die now, I die free - even if they bash my skull in behind closed doors.