Soup Kitchens, Bowls, and Hands that Hold

A hardware store employee mistook me for a soup kitchen last weekend. This man made a clumsy attempt to hit on me, and regardless of player, I hate that game. He clearly didn’t listen to a word I said in the store, or when he followed me to my car under the guise of helping me - “help” I had politely declined four times and only made lifting a heavy piece of equipment twice as awkward and dangerous. He made a presumptuous statement that implied my consent to conversing with him, but he didn’t want to share conversation. He wanted conversation from me.

It was clear that I had nothing to do with his pursuit, and it was obvious he had no idea what he was actually pursuing. He wanted what I have. I was glowing. Felt like shit physically but couldn’t help but smile. Touching tools, any tools, makes my mercury rise. I was laughing, joking, my voice was strong and steady. In that moment, old timers would say “son, you couldn’t tell her a thing!” I’ve never refinished wooden floors, and my mother, brother and I were tackling it together; subsidizing our limited time and budget with elbow grease and optimism (yay, we killed did it!). I was on cloud nine, and it couldn’t be fully contained.

The absence of my abuser’s chaos has made an abundance of space for my peace, joy, and passion, and surviving attempted murder injects an added measure of gratitude into each waking moment. I had long known what I loved, and on that gorgeous day I was gnawing my own bone.

And I could see the desperation, the undeniably hungry look in that man’s eyes long before he opened his mouth and removed all doubt.

He saw what I had, and he thought I could feed him.

There is one thing I know to be true in every lifetime, at every age, for every single soul - the only person who can feed you is you.

It’s the opposite concept of the Wayside School Ice Cream story. If he tried to gnaw my bone, it would taste like nothing. Satisfy nothing. And I pity anyone who can’t grasp that each of us contain all of the ingredients required for a feast that never spoils, or that the ingredients are as unique as our DNA, or that they are the only person who can prepare this meal.

Eventually he landed in my inbox with his second presumptuous and  problematic statement, so I took the opportunity to educate this man about the difference in being “nice”, a vacuous pseudo-virtue and word he had chosen to describe me, and being “kind”, a much more corporeal characteristic that I strive to maintain. I made it clear that he had brought his appetite to the wrong person. I am not a soup kitchen, sir. Now if you’ll please excuse me, I am in the middle of my meal. “Bone” appétit!

When I returned the equipment the next day, he was working, and I greeted him brightly - after all, it was a beautiful morning, I had easily lifted the tool out of my car, and my eyes were open and my body above ground. I was blissfully sober on life, a state that no intoxication can mimic or match. He treated me as a vaguely familiar acquaintance, and asked me to confirm my first name. Perhaps he hadn’t even caught that the day before, trapped by his gnawing hunger. Oliver Twist and his empty bowl…

A couple days later I was driving and made a quick stop at a Turnpike travel plaza. Standing in line to place an order, I noticed the front was off of a refrigerated case, and a Veto backpack sat beside a small pile of tools - property of an apparent Milwaukee devotee. The Milwaukee kneepads and hi-viz shirt on the gentleman in front of me caught my eye, and I brightly inquired “How do you like that backpack Veto?” I had just taken a selfie in my car, and was amused that my own Veto bag and a package of baby wipes had photobombed. I thought “I wear a lot of hats…what a blessing.”

The man was slightly confused at first, and then realized I wasn’t speaking a strange language. It was the tongue of his trade, just an unexpected mouth. He brightened back, and enthusiastically gave an honest review - the bag was great, but as he frequently worked on the travel plaza rooftops, he found that clearing the roof hatch could be challenging with the extra backside bulk. Our interaction was brief, and although we were both purchasing a meal, neither of us were hollowed out by hunger. We were breaking our individual bread together; toasting a trade that is fascinating, challenging, and provides endless justification for one more bag and one more tool.

We didn’t exchange names, but I’m sure I’d know him and he would know me if we crossed paths again. When neither pair of hands is gripping a bowl, what is remembered is the person for whom the hands hold.

My friends, that’s the goal.

——

Do what you love. Know your own bone; gnaw at it, bury it, unearth it and gnaw it still.

-Henry David Thoreau.

“Honey, I’m home!”

I was smiling to myself, enjoying the steady stream of thoughts, memories, and ideas that had been flowing since the moment I opened my eyes. I was shifting into the mindset I enjoy most – that life is to be savored, that we should look inward and see and live outward and be, and that every single second that we exist holds something to be gained or gleaned or grateful for. This mindset is both comforting and convicting; it centers awe, and awe is such an accessible experience that I believe we can summon in the majority of situations we move through, save for only the most intense negative experiences that invoke terror. The opposite of awe is not terror, however, and it is not anger, or disgust, or fear. It’s apathy. Disinterest. Incuriosity. This makes me smile more, as I think to myself “How the f*ck could you be alive in this world and not be interested or curious or passionate about something? How??”

And then it hit me. I had forgotten to be scared that day. I had parked outside of a store that my abuser knows I like, had walked inside without a care in the world, and hadn’t performed my usual quick and careful assessment of my surroundings.

For the past 10 weeks, every single public outing has involved nervously scanning vehicles, scanning faces. Locating exits, noticing every movement in my line of sight, and operating with the utmost efficiency so that I could get in, get out, and head back to safety as quickly as humanly possible. As a survivor who did not have a safety plan* prior to the attempt on my life, I found myself scrambling to comprehend and find my place in a system that was working against me. My initial attempts to navigate the available resources left me feeling more alone and more scared than I had ever felt in my entire lifetime. I sought protection and was exposed, and I sought justice and was reminded that I was the one charged with a crime**. In the absence of protection and justice, one must learn to take great care. It never felt natural, but it did become routine – my heart would beat faster, my pace would quicken, and I would willingly engage in sensory overload. Racing the clock, avoiding any nonessential public appearances, and living in the shadow of danger.

When a woman is strangled by an intimate partner, she is 750% more likely to be murdered by that partner than a woman who has never been strangled. 750% more likely to be murdered by that partner within a year. Most likely with a gun.***

Those odds are simply part of my reality now, and no matter how positive my attitude is or how well things are going in other areas, I cannot do anything to influence the likelihood of a future attempt. My power lies in detection, preparation, and hope. If it happens, there will be no fight. My abuser can gain access to rooftops more easily than the average person, and you simply cannot mitigate the immediate damage done by a well-placed bullet. My gumption, grit, and grace will be…gone.

But on this beautiful day, smack dab in the middle of the most nourishing, encouraging, and absorbing expanse of hours I had enjoyed for quite some time, I was so relaxed I didn’t even know what time it was. I pulled out my phone, grinning, thinking “Well shit…” in my best Leslie Jordan voice. It was time to get moving, run one last errand, and get back to my desk to kick off a mentorship series with a colleague who was hungry to learn.

It was a landmark moment in my recovery, because although the danger is in no way diminished, it has been permanently relocated to the place where it belongs: I must have a solid grasp on what I’m facing. I will not allow what I’m facing to have a solid grasp on me.

I paid for my things (another outfit for court, yay!), strolled out to my car, and settled back into the place where I belong: an expanse of breathtaking possibility, sparkling with infinite opportunities for awe.

“Honey,” I thought, again in my Leslie Jordan voice, “I’m home!”

 ______

*I moved to a separate residence earlier this year. While I was fully aware that I was being abused and that the abuse was the primary reason for the move, I was not aware that leaving an abuser is a very dangerous time, or that his gun ownership and my having children from a previous marriage are risk factors known to increase the odds of harm or homicide immediately following the move. For four months, my abuser became increasingly erratic, manipulative, violent, and enraged. I was anticipating peace and was so proud of myself for taking what I thought was a brave step in the direction of a happy marriage. I now know that I was not in a marriage, and that peace was never a possibility. I was viewed as a possession, and the only value I held in my abuser’s eyes was tied to his ability to use me. When he could no longer possess or use me, he tried to permanently dispose of me.

**I called 911 for the first time in my life after my abuser lunged at me from behind and hit me very hard in the head. He had warned me, verbally and in messages, that I should not involve law enforcement. I did not learn about the danger of strangulation until one week later. Although I told one of the responding officers that he had his “hands around my neck” and “knee on my chest”, I experienced what many strangulation survivors face: my lack of visible injuries and trouble communicating, coupled with a bruise on my abuser’s inner arm and his steady stream of dishonest communication, led the officers to believe that I was the primary aggressor. They did not utilize a danger assessment, lethality assessment, or strangulation assessment. They arrested me for assault, and I will be grateful for that until my dying day because for the first 24 hours in four years, my abuser could not contact me or physically gain access to me. He tried to bail me out. I was suffering through a painful medical emergency after being strangled and suffocated at least five times that day and twice the day before, and I should have been in a hospital and not a jail cell, but I survived and have recovered most of my physical and mental faculties.

***One week after I was arrested, I learned about strangulation. I learned about danger assessments. I began to grasp how serious my situation had been prior to moving out, and how much danger I was facing for the foreseeable future. There was so much I wasn’t aware of. My abuser’s violence and coercive control were NOT my fault, and they almost ended my life. If I had known some of the basic statistics and risk factors, I would have planned my escape in secrecy and gone no-contact four months before he tried to kill me. I am so grateful for the clarity of going no-contact, grateful for the ability to tell all of my story to my loved ones in my own words, and grateful that my parents are prepared if they get that dreaded phone call one day. I am committed to sharing what I’ve learned with others, and to identifying every potential prevention and intervention point. I want to Be The Last! The last woman to experience the terror of strangulation.

Six Weeks Asunder

…six weeks asunder from the promise of six feet under, and still I rise…

x x x

I began October with the privilege of being present in the capitol rotunda for the Kentucky Domestic Violence Awareness Month proclamation signing and press conference hosted by ZeroV. I was encouraged by the compassion and momentum that filled the room, and sobered to silent tears as names were spoken and candles were lit. One for each known, reported, and recognized life lost to intimate partner terrorism. Knowing that there were and are multitudes more. I came away from that experience with more knowledge, more hope, and more perspective. I learned things I didn’t want to be true, and realized things that will never be false. One of the takeaways for me was finding a way to begin sharing the gifts I have been given. I began posting daily on Facebook, using the #DVAM hashtag. It’s been scary. It’s been cathartic. It’s been daunting. It’s been freeing. Today, I want to share my post from #DVAM Day 16; a day I will never forget.

x x x

#DVAM Day 16: Amplifying Individual Stories + Harnessing Collective Power = Lasting Change

Today held so much JOY! Yes, joy! I’m six weeks out from surviving an attack that involved repeated, violent strangulation and brutal blows to the head, being handcuffed for the crime of surviving, and enduring weeks of pain, fear, loss, limitation, and perpetual depletion of any remaining resources.

But I’m also six weeks into my new life, my new beginning, and my newfound calling: advocacy. I want to transform what has been taken from me into gifts that I can share with others. I want to reach me, but six weeks ago. Six months ago. Six years ago, before I met my abuser. I am reclaiming everything about this reprehensible use of me and my children as prey and protection from prying eyes and using it to starve those who consume and cower in the shadows, wicked and weak.

Tonight, I connected with more of MY kind of people. I joined 100 Women Lexington, and as they embark on a new chapter of their story and work toward enhancing their reach you’ll (hopefully!) see them in your news feed frequently. I fell in love with the people, the purpose, and the procedure: members make an annual contribution, and funds are then equitably disbursed to their partner organizations - local, vetted, impactful organizations who collectively respond to women and children in crisis, and work tirelessly to lift them out of poverty, abuse, addiction, trauma, and slavery. Organizations who have helped and are still helping me. The most appealing aspect to me, as a CPA devoted to exclusively serving nonprofits, is that contributing to 100 Women results in these organizations receiving an annual, estimable, and reliable amount of funding that enables them to plan for the long term.

Any dollar directed toward helping others in need is a blessing, but in terms of sustainability and efficiency, it’s an enhanced blessing when those dollars are bundled into an unrestricted, recurring source of funds. A foundation that can be built upon.

Today held many moments that were difficult. In some ways, it was one of the hardest days I’ve had in a long time. But what makes me different from my abuser is that I will sit with that pain, learn from it, and then release it in the form of progress. Helping my kids heal, picking up the pieces of a shattered life, showing up for my clients who are changing their pockets of the world in big ways, and seeking to share these gifts I’ve been given in as many ways as I can.

I am a survivor, but I’ll never settle for survival. I will thrive, I will triumph, and someday I will leave behind a legacy of love.

💜🕯️

“I will put you in the ground!”

I would have put you in the ground where the first sunbeam hits in the morning; telling you hello each day from my spot up on the porch

I would have longed for the sound of your voice as I sip my coffee, my hands all blue and knotty, missing the warmth of yours

But you chose a different path, and you took all that I had, and more and more and more and more and more

Until the day you dug my grave with that gutting roar, and the plot I’d saved for you opened up beneath me in the floor

I would have put you in the ground with silent tears a-streaming, my heart just barely beating, my last act cueing up

But my loss in you was found as your rage was raw and seething, knuckles white to cease my breathing, a bare hand butcher’s grudge

We came together with two dreams and two graves; two sacred and two depraved

And you won’t stop until your name is saved, you’ll lie until your upright days are razed

But the truth don’t care and it cannot be erased, and it’s louder than your weak man’s hidden spade

It’s the trump card that’ll carry me away from earth someday, and save the plot I chose for you from your hatred and decay

You don’t get to put me down, or in, or under

Your sick’ning sweet deceptive days are numbered

No sir, you aren’t the princess or the brave knight in this film

You’re the dragon who has met his match, and you’ll fire your own kiln

I would have put you in the ground where the first sunbeam hits in the morning; telling you hello each day from my spot up on the porch

I would have longed for the sound of your voice as I sip my coffee, my hands all blue and knotty, missing the warmth of yours

But I’ll trade the faux embrace and empty years

I’ll soothe my aching heart and dry my tears

I’ll fuel my fire with the ghost of you as your legacy turns to ash

And I’ll rise again, a phoenix from a smoldering pile of trash

We came together with two dreams and two graves…two sacred and two depraved.

Future Faking

“Future Faking” was a gut punch that didn’t land until the summer of 2024. It’s a particularly cruel tactic, and over time it begins to feel like being whipped with an emotional cat o’ nine tails that lands like a warm embrace and rips away like shards of glass through the flesh.

Aveon was perhaps the most formal of the fakes (if you don’t count the marriage or the wedding - just bits of paperwork and pomp, right?), with a logo and a website and a google business account and a trip to AHR and an almost LLC and countless starry eyed conversations with my cosmo-not partner about my cosmo-not gonna happen dream.

I don’t know what the opposite of future faking is, but this tactic is antithetical to me. I’ve never liked the phrase “fake it ‘til you make it”, and after X, I never will - even if it’s well meant.

I prefer “manifest it ‘til you make it” or “build it and they will come”. It’s amazing how much progress you can make toward a dream via mindset alone.

My original vision for Aveon Air will never come to fruition, and thank goodness and badness and all the neutral that lies between.

The god of the jail cell ceiling didn’t directly give me the gift of reclaiming Aveon, but it began to form in my mind soon after - before I could write my phone number correctly; before I was harassed and stalked by my abuser and muzzled by so many who could have provided safety - but after my abuser, the monster in HVAC technician’s clothing who cruelly called me a pussy for not being tougher on jobs, who belittled my ability to pass the EPA608 Universal as mere luck, who has left a stain on the industry that won’t scrub off for generations, put his hands around my throat and strangled me.

Repeatedly. Violently.

His teeth were gritted with the effort.

His 200 pounds hulking over me, knee on my chest; my stomach.

Seven instances that I can recall. I’ll never know if there were more. I cradled my tender, aching neck and cried for 24 hours on the floor of a jail cell, as the god of the ceiling looked on.

I was leaning against a KUV when I told the officers I was having trouble breathing. That I couldn’t think clearly. That it felt like my brain couldn’t get enough oxygen. When I asked them for water. When I told them I felt like I was going to pass out.

They brought me water but never let me touch the cup to my lips. It sat on the bumper as they drew out handcuffs and arrested me for surviving.

The only hope of help I had in that moment should have been in their hands. The irony that it might have been inside of the very vehicle that witnessed the predator go free has yet to fade. It might have been inches away from my shaking hands, as I, the prey (and mother of the prey) was detained and forced to suffer through a life threatening medical emergency all alone.

Near infrared photography saves lives.

It would have seen my monster captured that day (but I’m so glad it didn’t, as I will explain in time), it would have seen two weeks of healing and peace instead of a slow motion night-marathon of horror and terror and loss, and it would have seen several officers alerted to the very real danger that lay before them.

Instead, it was never mentioned, offered, or explained - not in my front yard, not in the detention center, not in the first ER, not in the second ER, not in the victims advocate office, and not in the county attorney’s office.

I was called a criminal, in the midst of criminal medical neglect, criminal miscarriage of justice, and criminal prevention of proof.

My experience led me to make a promise, a pact, a powerful commitment:

I want to Be The Last.

The last strangulation victim my cosmo-not abuser EVER has, and the last victim of domestic violence and strangulation who will be forced to pay the survival tax.

Aveon Air is committed to placing a near infrared photography device in every first responder vehicle, every detention center, and every emergency room across the world, and working with law enforcement, elected officials, medical professionals, and DV advocates to implement policies and procedures that increase awareness of the danger of strangulation for all, require timely and adequate photographic documentation for emergency DV calls, and support anyone healing from the psychological trauma and physical injury of this deadly type of attack.

Aveon Air is also committed to the HVAC industry through supporting recruitment and retention in the skilled trades, educating homeowners about safety and quality, championing innovation and improvement through research and technological advances, and to fostering a volunteer-supported resource in every community to obtain timely near infrared photography in a safe and dignified manner.

My attack leaves me at risk of subsequent death for months, but I plan to survive, to thrive, and to revive the infrastructure of my faked future.

I plan to attend AHR in Orlando, with the goal of reaching every single attendee and inviting them to take the Aveon Pledge and help me Be The Last.

+ + +

Cosmo-Not: “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.”

Cosmo. Why?

My cat is named Carl Sagan.

It mimicked decency and curiosity and scholarship…not very well; it was obvious my abuser was trying really hard. Too hard. But I thought of it as just a bit pathetic, not vile and wretched and evil.

A cosmo. Not a partner.

My cosmo-not not-love story.

But my thoughts aren’t with the darkness and the lies. Today, I’m looking ahead and leaning into the light - being the light - and am so fucking grateful for words.

They’re spilling out of me in lieu of the blood that strangulation does not spill in the moment.

I didn’t know if they’d come back.

I was stuttering, stunted…but truth and freedom and choosing justice rather than waiting to receive it - somehow they have acted as a salve to my psyche. A poultice to my pummeled body.

Cut me open. I’m still wick.

And you’re wicked.