Ghost

“Here it comes, a clean slate, picture perfect, no mistakes
How am I to keep from blemishing this masterpiece?
How am I to know?
How am I to know?”

Sixteen years ago, the stars aligned and I got to see Coheed & Cambria play live at the House of Blues in Myrtle Beach, South Carolina.

It was fucking incredible.

There was magic in every word, every chord, and every beat. The energy was perfection, and every single human being in that building was feeling their feels and singing at the top of their lungs. I don’t know what Coheed puts in their songs (if Taylor Swift puts narcotics in hers, then my money is on DMT), but there is no doubt in my mind that we would have followed Claudio right into the Atlantic Ocean that night if he had so much as nodded his head in that direction. I’ll never forget that show. It was utter bliss, a sensory coup, and even now I can’t help myself – “BYEEEE BYEEE BEAUTIFUL, DON’T BOOOTHER TO WRIIIITE”.

You’re welcome.

Ah, the best show I’ve ever “seen”. You see, I’m not a very tall person. And it was a VERY crowded show. They’re kind of a big deal to us grand millennials, and we all showed up and showed out and, well, it was tough taters for me because I missed out on a front row spot. I was about five bodies deep up on the balcony. Every now and then a couple of bent elbows would align and through a tiny triangular hole I would catch a glimpse of The Hair™ living its very best life, but my view was mostly black t-shirts, jeans, and a handful of arms attached to hands gripping beer.

Fucking incredible, it bears repeating. I wasn’t on DMT but I swear I could see every moment of the music with my soul.

There is a point to this…and it’s a point I have to drive home often for myself, because we truly are our own worst critic, aren’t we? Well, aside from our abusers, but let’s be honest – the harm they inflict is a crucifixion dressed in critique’s clothing. If we manage to survive, escape, and count ourselves among the lucky living (*we interrupt this sentence to bring you this message: this is a pre-recorded blog and Aveon Air cannot guarantee that the heart credited with pouring out this message is still beating*), the Femme Fortuna’s who win the daily grand prize of 24 beautiful no-contact hours; sometimes…sometimes we start searching for the fault, the reason, the guilt. We are looking, and we stop seeing.

When we look back for the why, we fail to see these truths:

1.       We did not cause, deserve, or perpetuate their violence

2.       We could not fix, change, or stop their violence or insatiable need to control everything

3.       We gain nothing from hindsight if we are peering back into the past through the lens of rumination

We should all over ourselves. Should have done this. Should not have done that. Should have known. Should not have trusted. Should have run. Should have told.

You’ll should yourself into an early grave. The grand prize will tarnish and you’ll piss away those 24 beautiful hours, anguished over everything you missed as you look and look and look.

Sister, rumination will rob you blind. You are here now. You are alive. You did not cause, deserve, or perpetuate their violence. You could not fix, change, or stop their violence. You gain nothing from torturing yourself for having been tortured.

I too have fallen into that trap. I have should on myself a few times, even today, but for the most part I focus on reality. I came so close to death when my abuser strangled me that I literally shit on myself. He intended to murder me, but I survived that shit, and I cherish my survival. And with each passing day I shift a little more from “survive” to “thrive”. I won today’s grand prize, and it has been beautiful. I spent all of it seeing and not looking.

When I do drift to the land of should, or when I am dragged there by the seemingly endless parade of blamers, shamers, enablers, and destabilers (it rhymes; we are adding this word to the dictionary), I redirect my thoughts and focus on two powerful concepts I have explored post-attack; concepts that reinforce the aforementioned truths and allow me to move toward a more complete embrace of self and away from the search for “why”.

1. The traits that made me a target of their violence were and are the traits of a decent, loyal, valuable person. I can learn from this experience without renouncing the best parts of me. These traits do not make me weak; I was chosen because they are strong. Empathy, generosity, integrity, honesty, compassion, and optimism.

2. Coercive control is sinister, deeply harmful, and quite difficult to detect in real-time, and many studies have been conducted to measure if it is possible to differentiate between genuine humanity and a forgery of humanity. Many more have sought to evaluate how credible the forgeries appear to be. 

There is no why. No justification. No answer. Not inside of you, anyway. And in my case, I don’t want to know what exists in the land of why. I suspect that it holds little more than a grubby mutation where a conscience should be; vacant but for a scrap of rubbish, a callous shrug, and a lazy grunt of “why not?” And the why is none of my business. I am grateful for the inability to comprehend it, and try to show myself grace when I slip into a routine of mental gymnastics. The lingering need to know why shows us who we are, the acceptance that there is no credible why shows us how far we’ve come. If an abuser can be rehabilitated, wonderful. It is my fervent wish that anyone who can be saved has the opportunity to be saved. They can sort that out with the department of corrections and their higher power, in THAT order. I am done looking back.

I’m looking forward, and here’s what I see: I didn’t lose myself. I intentionally put more and more of myself into escrow. His ego was so fragile that I recognized early on that peace required me to become more and more diluted if I chose to stay.

Should I have done this? Don’t should on me. I have should on myself plenty, thank you.

Obviously, NO. No one should ever dilute, diminish, or disappear themselves for a partner. Love wouldn’t ask for that, and a good partner wouldn’t even imply it. And although my intentions may have come from a good place, I have to examine why the fuck I did this. And I have, and am, and will continue to do so.

The merciful, self-aware act of becoming the skeleton in my own closet? It didn’t make him any less fragile. It empowered the darkest, weakest parts of him. And that may be all he is – and perhaps if I had remained at full strength, he would have moved on. Not worth it. Too much work. Because it was never about who I was. It was about his ability to use me.

A weak man cannot be made stronger by a weakened woman, and this man’s perception of his own masculinity is rooted in the ability to dominate and control women. There is NOTHING good that grows from those poisonous roots. He is a parasite. An invasive species. He must be UPROOTED, and never allowed to drain another host. To enact lasting change, we must always address the parasite – we must not blame, or punish, and alter the host. Botanists know this. Geologists know this. Zoologists know this.

Humanity MUST grasp this. We must grasp this.

Next, a quick word on whether one CAN perceive the rot, the deceit, the parasite:

There may have been absolutely no way to detect the danger you were flirting with until it was too late to safely see yourself out. It was a very short window for me. Looking back, I knew in my gut that there was no easy exit within a few weeks, maybe a month or two. Not only did my abuser love-bomb me, take me on a “grand tour” to meet a bunch of friends and family, and press hard to meet my children very early on, we also worked together and shared a supervisor. I was in balls deep before I could read the temperature gauge. I have been shivering ever since.

What does this have to do with Coheed?

Because, at that show, there was no doubt in my mind that I was experiencing Coheed live, and it was real, and it was amazing.

And in my abusive host/parasite relationship, I became less and less visible, but I was no less there. In the aftermath I am no less me. I am still here now. And when I wonder if I will find myself in another situation like this, I remember what I can control, and what I cannot. “How am I to keep from blemishing this masterpiece?” I am to not worry about that – I am to show up to my own life, with joy, AND BOUNDARIES, and embrace every blemish as warmly as I embrace the whole. And while it would be lovely if women were protected from their abusers as fiercely as botanists protect trees from parasites, the world isn’t there yet. We don’t have a Magic School Bus episode. And if we don that lens of rumination as we peer into the future, we do ourselves a disservice. Shed that dead weight. Stop worrying about what you will get wrong, because that implies you got it wrong last time.

IT WAS NOT YOUR FAULT.

You did NOT cause, deserve, or perpetuate their violence. You could NOT fix, change, or stop their violence. You gain NOTHING from torturing yourself for having been tortured.

You were chosen because you were strong. You are STILL strong.

And if you are reading this, go look in the mirror. Do you see what I see? I see a badass, fully alive Femme Fortuna who won yet another grand prize of 24 beautiful no-contact hours.

She’s fucking incredible. And so are you.

…The "now" is ours but the "then" we can’t get back…

Choking Hazard

Every new parent is haunted by the thought. We research every gadget, examine every toy. We are inundated with foreboding exclamation marks, boldfaced warning statements, product recall alerts, and the voice of Nancy Grace – all culminating in a message so pervasive that it would be downright shocking to encounter a parent, pediatrician, caregiver, or retail employee who could not immediately rattle off the risks, signs, and response protocol. If such a person entered our child’s orbit, we would require that they immediately educate themselves about the very real danger of choking, and anxiously listen for the sound of their voice joining the refrain of the informed majority:

“As new parents, keeping your baby safe from choking hazards is a top priority. By being aware of potential choking risks, baby-proofing your home, and staying vigilant during playtime and feeding, you can create a safer environment for your little one. Familiarizing yourself with the signs of choking and knowing how to respond promptly can make all the difference in critical situations.”

Opting out of this life-saving chorus would paint one with the black mark of negligence, and for good reason. Continued ignorance is chosen, shameful, and cruel. How could anyone fail to do their part in protecting a child from a well-known, detectible, and preventable danger? How could anyone wish such devastating grief on a parent?

I mean, the sheer terror evoked by the mere threat of it; the excruciating possibility of a spare part reaching up and gripping an infant by the throat, applying pressure to the delicate structures of the neck, interrupting the supply of oxygen to their brain, and blocking the flow of blood for even a moment is horrifying.

Oh, you noticed?

Correct. That’s not choking.

That’s STRANGULATION.

We are crystal clear on the definition of choking in the context of a child: “When a person can't speak, cough, or breathe because something is blocking (obstructing) the airway.” Choking is not a violent criminal act. There is no perpetrator. It's an accident. A tragic, preventable accident.

When a person intentionally, knowingly, or recklessly impedes the breathing or circulation of the blood of another person by applying pressure to the throat or neck, by way of suspension (hanging), a garrote (ligature), or their bare hands (manual) - that is strangulation.

An extremely gendered crime, strangulation is known as the last warning shot because it is a powerful predictor of future homicide. Any pressure applied to the neck is dangerous, and there is no safe iteration of this act – not even when it occurs during “consensual” sex. There is no chunk of banana, no stray Lego, no oversized pastel button lodged in an airway. It is a criminal act, with a perpetrator, and it is never an accident. Strangulation is used by the most dangerous criminals, the most violent rapists, and lurks in the criminal history of most cop killers. It is the end of the line. Coercive control in its most extreme form. Next stop, murder.

And yet, we – survivors, law enforcement officers, medical professionals, and advocates – frequently use the wrong term when describing one of the most lethal acts of violence women suffer at the hands of an intimate partner. Substituting “choking” for “strangulation” has chilling repercussions that mirror another persistent phenomenon. When a stranger breaks into a home and assaults, rapes, or murders the inhabitant(s), we are horrified. We expect law enforcement to work tirelessly to solve the case. We demand that justice be served. We condemn this violence. However, when “boyfriend” or “husband” replaces stranger; when “domestic” precedes violence, we allow our perception of these barbaric crimes to be softened. We stop short of expecting much of anything. We make no demands. We turn away from savagery if we detect even a hint of familiarity between victim and criminal, but it is that familiarity, that betrayal of trust and safety, that makes these crimes far MORE barbaric. This phenomenon persists because we allow it.

If we truly want to live in a commonwealth with zero violence; if our mission truly is to end intimate partner abuse in families and the community, we must commit to holding ourselves and others accountable.

We MUST use proper terminology to describe every criminal act of strangulation.

We MUST demand justice for every crime in which the victim and perpetrator know one another.

Our failure to mount a public outcry isn’t a numbers game:

An average of 140 children choke to death every year.

An average of 76 women are shot and killed by an intimate partner...every month.

How many women will die before it’s socially expected for all voices to join this life-saving chorus? Where is the paintbrush for this black mark? Why aren’t ALL first responders making an effort to get this right? Expected to get this right? Why aren’t we demanding it?

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The following account was written by our founder in November 2024 during Strangulation Awareness Month, two months prior to the release of our Bible, and three months prior to the Netflix release of American Murder: Gabby Petito.

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The day my abuser strangled and suffocated me for the first time (outside of the bedroom – please visit our new “Death Play” page to learn more), at least twice and so violently that I lost bowel control, I had no idea how close I had come to death. That I had reached one of the last known indicators that my brain was rapidly expiring. That I may face the risk of subsequent death for months to come, even if the attack left no visible signs. Embarrassed and confused, I threw my underwear away and took my abuser out to dinner for his birthday. I was desperate for peace and had no idea that all I would receive from this man was escalating lethality.

The next day, he strangled and suffocated me five more times. Outweighed by more than 70 pounds, and far outmatched by his rage, premeditation, and malevolence, I still don’t know how I survived. He hit me hard enough to call for help, and help came bearing handcuffs.

Between attack and education, I would interact with nearly a dozen law enforcement officers, several detention center employees, a victim’s advocate, two paramedics, five medical professionals, and multiple triage and clerical employees. I would call an ambulance, sobbing because I was so dizzy I couldn’t walk or drive my kids to school. An emergency room visit, an EPO, and a hospital follow-up with my primary care provider, who sent me directly to a second emergency room visit.

 I sang, but I used the wrong lyrics. “Choked”, “Grabbed my neck”, “Held me down”, “I’m sorry, I can’t breathe very well”, and “He mostly had his hands around my neck and his knee in my chest”. None of them corrected me; none of them uttered a word.

After a week my head was still bobbing and my speech was still halting, but I was becoming less of a “desperate, stunted zombie” – my description of the mental and physical side effects I was suffering. The only diagnosis yet offered was concussion, but my head didn’t hurt at all. I knew something wasn't right, and it left me wondering if I would ever be the same.

In the wee hours of the morning one week after my attack, I logged into LinkedIn to search for advocacy pages. As a CPA exclusively serving nonprofits, including two dedicated DV organizations, I felt compelled to connect with a wider network of resources and find ways to use my experience for good. I followed the National Domestic Violence Hotline page, and they had recently shared an infographic that would change my life forever.

The Dangers of Strangulation

• Strangulation can cause traumatic brain injuries, which can affect long-term memory

• Strangulation is a significant predictor for future lethal violence

• If your partner has strangled you in the past, the likelihood of them killing you is 10 times higher

• Strangulation is one of the most lethal forms of domestic violence; unconsciousness occurs within seconds, and death within minutes

• It’s possible to show no outward symptoms of strangulation

The comment thread underneath shook me to my core. I learned that my risk of being murdered by my abuser had just skyrocketed. That strangulation often leaves no visible injury even when it is fatal. 

I learned that a brain deprived of oxygen is harmed much more quickly than any other organ, with millions of brain cells dying every single second. That blocking blood supply not only means no fresh blood flowing into the brain, but also that blood cannot exit, immediately building lethal pressure.

I learned that a firm handshake may exert more force than is needed to end a life.

I learned that strangulation victims may initially present as confused, upset, or uncooperative, but thanks to a host of tools that are readily available and free, first responders can gauge the presence and degree of danger, detect risk factors of future lethality, and determine if any pressure was applied to the neck in any way.

I learned that law enforcement should interview victims over a span of several days, documenting new details as they emerge, due to the known prevalence of memory loss. Strangulation is a medical emergency and warrants immediate medical attention in every case, and first responders should be trained to recognize strangulation victims and ensure they receive a comprehensive exam.

When I called 911, I had no idea what to expect. I just knew that I needed help. I wish I had been able to convey why I needed help, but I was struggling to think, breathe, and speak, and I did a poor job advocating for myself. I hadn’t yet fully arrived at the reality that my “marriage” had just ended and my murder was underway.

I placed the call because I knew that head injuries are serious, and he hit me so hard that it knocked me down and left me feeling dazed. I used my Apple watch, because he had taken my phone. I said I didn’t need an ambulance because I wasn’t bleeding, and bleeding felt like the only justification for an additional resource. Like many survivors before me, I was already minimizing the harm, second-guessing my decision, and feeling increasingly unworthy of help.

There was something else, something that I had noticed but could not put into words until a few days later…

When he landed that final blow, it wasn’t in the midst of a struggle. We were in separate rooms, and I was getting ready to leave. I was changing my shirt, and suddenly he lunged at me. It was meant to be stealthy, and it was meant to harm. He had dropped the mask completely. There would be no more conversation. No more blame, shame, or half-hearted apologies for his violence. He would continue to wear the mask for others, but he was no longer performing for me. He had realized that his act could not silence me, control me, or crush my spirit.

From that moment forward, I knew that he had intended to kill me.

The officers arrived. There was no danger checklist, no lethality assessment, and not a word uttered about strangulation.

“He mostly had hands around my neck and his knee in my chest”, I told them.

Nothing.

There was a bruise on my abuser’s inner bicep from the day before, an ugly bruise he kept mentioning during his birthday dinner, between examining my mottled hands and wrists, sighing at the damage he had done while forcibly restraining me a few hours earlier.

The man who had bellowed “I will put you in the ground!” pointed out this bruise to the officers. He said I was very dysregulated; easily triggered. Out of control. A tale as old as time. While generations before me were locked in towers, beheaded, lobotomized, or drugged into a docile stupor, I was arrested. Charged with the crime of surviving. Documented as “mentally unstable” without so much as a phone call to my medical providers, my family, my employers past or present, or my landlord to authenticate the claims.

My struggle to breathe? They told my abuser I was faking a panic attack.

Well-trained experts and amateur survivors alike would have immediately recognized multiple warning signs present in this interaction. I’ll limit this list to five:

1. A distressed woman who is not articulating well or making a case for herself, and a calm man who knows exactly what to say and has no problem providing details. This screams danger - the woman may have just been strangled, suffocated, or suffered some form of traumatic brain injury. Strangulation is under communicated to law enforcement, but the experience is terrifying. You instinctively know that the stakes are now higher and that your abuser is more dangerous. Unfortunately, this can result in being more subdued or submissive. There is a marked loss of hope when man crosses into that lethal territory, even if you don’t have a name for what he just did to you. Visible injuries on a man paired with no visible injuries on a woman should alert responders that strangulation may have occurred, and they may be assessing a highly dangerous situation. Men who strangle are much more likely to be cop killers, and a woman who has been strangled by an intimate partner is 750% more likely to be murdered by that partner within a year.

2. My abuser mentioned that I “lived there” but “had a townhouse”. The truth was, I had moved out four months prior due to the escalating abuse, and he had just lured me back by admitting in writing that he had abused me from day one, that none of it was my fault, promised he would change, and vowed to keep me safe. He made it sound like I had my own place and had dropped by to be a nuisance. Women who move out/leave an abuser face a risk of escalating violence and lethality – 75% of domestic violence homicides take place immediately after the victim attempts to leave. This risk factor is listed on every version of a danger assessment I have found.

3. I told the officers that I needed to get “my” kids. I was a mess that day – I had been tricked into moving back in and I was exhausted. When I began to see that calling 911 was not providing any obvious solutions, I just wanted away. I wanted to go get my kids. I wanted to figure it out later. The presence of stepchildren in the home is a risk factor listed on every version of a danger assessment that I have found.

4. I said, “I don’t want to press charges.” I had never called 911 before and had no idea Kentucky was a state where one or both parties are arrested during the response to a DV call. Victims often retract statements, drop EPOs, or decline to press charges because they instinctively know that it might mean the difference between living and dying. We can be very poor witnesses, because our goal isn’t to win – it is to survive. My statement indicated that I knew I was in danger, even if I couldn’t articulate how or why. When law enforcement hears such statements, they should proceed with their investigation accordingly: “Treat every scene as a homicide and you will likely prevent one.” – Joe Berner, supervisor, crime scene specialist, San Diego PD

5. I have never owned a gun, but my abuser owned two assault-style weapons that had been gifted to him, and I don't think he would have denied that they belonged to him. To my knowledge he had every right to own them and had not broken any law. A woman is five times more likely to be murdered when her abuser has access to a gun. The presence of a firearm is a risk factor listed on every version of a danger assessment that I have found, including the abbreviated assessments.

I had visible injuries. My body was riddled with bruises, and after being strangled, suffocated, hit, shoved, thrown, and dragged by my hair, my head and neck were so swollen and tender that I spent the 24 hours post-attack huddled on the floor of my jail cell, quietly crying. I was in so much pain and so dizzy that I was unable to eat, drink, or sit up. After I was released, I was able to take a few pictures, and that’s when I saw it. As plain as day, among the many subtle and not-so-subtle signs of my attempted murder – the petechiae and drooping face and gravelly voice - my abuser had left his thumbprint on my throat.

My ticket punch. Coercive control at the end of the line. Next stop, murder.

When it comes to strangulation, we know better, and we’ve known for quite some time. The Strack study was published in 2001. The Glass study was published in 2008. The Domestic Violence Sourcebook, which I purchased along with Rachel Louise Snyder’s 2019 masterpiece “No Visible Bruises”, was originally published in 1995. I own the third edition, updated as of 2000. On page 80, it specifically addresses strangulation:

“[Strangulation] is peculiarly common in domestic violence cases, far more so than in stranger assaults. What form of control could be more intimate than controlling a person’s ability to breathe? Strangulation is both a serious warning sign that this is an extremely vicious abuser and a potential medical crisis that must be monitored closely. A victim who has been strangled may exhibit only mild injuries at first, then die within thirty-six hours as internal swelling increases.”

This statement has been in print since I was thirteen years old. There are copies of both of these books at my public library.

I should not know more, or care more, or speak more about strangulation than the first responders assigned to my call, but I will be grateful until my dying day that they arrested me. They protected me from a man who spent his next 24 hours lying to my family, attempting to bail me out of jail and into his custody, and bargaining for another opportunity to take my life. The man who had raised his hand and introduced himself as my future killer.

Their handcuffs are the reason my mom knows the truth.

She won’t be one of countless grieving mothers who have unwittingly hugged the chunk of banana, the stray Lego, the oversized pastel button at the funeral.

Because her daughter wasn’t choked. She was strangled.

And my mom will raise her hand, point to the criminal who murdered me, and sing.

We must ALL sing until we label dangerous men with the same fervor that we label teething rings.

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Bypassing Faults

“Bypassing furnace faults, especially safety switches like pressure switches, is generally unsafe and should be avoided as it can lead to overheating, damage, and potential hazards. Instead, address the underlying issue with a qualified HVAC technician.”

Good ol’ Google AI. It ain’t wrong.

Every industry has a version of “turn it off and back on” (yeah, not just you, IT department). In HVACR, it’s a handy dandy bypass.

Aveon Air blog content has been IPV heavy (okay, IPV exclusive) for the past six months by necessity, but I haven’t forgotten its roots. And I haven’t forgotten what I learned working alongside the man who would call me a pussy one minute and slap my ass the next, even if he cost me a few million brain cells. Luckily, he often claimed that most concepts could be understood by “anyone with a single fucking brain cell”, and I do indeed have a minimum of one remaining.

I also have enough basic knowledge, experience, and intelligence to talk the trades, and enough humility to know that I only scratched the surface when it came to HVACR (I will use “HVAC” more frequenly as I rarely, if ever, worked in refrigeration…my last brush with it was narrowly avoiding a trip to the morgue, but I still have many months of increased lethality ahead of me, so time will tell…) My EPA 608 Universal certification was weaponized to shame me, but I am so much more than a laminated license to chill. Lolz. I dove into HVAC a la Revelation 3:16. I did not half ass any of it. I whole assed it, and it stuck.

Most of my ‘prentice hours, which weren’t utterly all for naught, were spent on jobs that involved furnaces. I also helped on installs/changeouts, and enjoyed the electrical work. I was beginning to find a groove in some respects, and developed little idiosyncrasies that served me well – like using my favorite pair of needle nose pliers to strip sheathing of off wire; pinching the end and rolling the tool over and over. Worked like a charm. But I digress…

I remember comdemning at least one unit with a cracked heat chamber, and have had countless conversations, watched dozens of videos, and been party to lessons, debates, and diagrams of this terminal diagnosis. So much attention is directed toward detection, because there is no such thing as a crack small enough to be safely ignored, but unfortunately there is not enough awareness of the underlying conditions: the red flags that lead to the inevitable red tags.

As I began to learn about the danger of strangulation, the first common thread that materialized between advocacy and HVAC, like a silky strand of a spiderweb made visible by a kiss of morning dewdrops, was thermal imaging. Thermal imaging can detect signs of strangulation not evident to the naked eye, and HVAC techs use thermal equipment regularly. While this is important to know and thermal imaging can be a crucial tool utilized to substantiate that a victim has indeed reached the end of the line of coercive control, I have been steadily working backward from this moment. Detection, prevention, incessant mention of the warning signs…like a bloodhound, I’m tracking the real prize. This crime is too lethal to be content with shoring up responses and reactions. We need to train our eyes elsewhere – and we can start with the cabinet door. The equipment will tell on itself over and over again, and we should endeavor to see it and believe it the first time.

The fuck am I rambling on and on about?

Error codes.

When a furnace detects that something is amiss, it tells you. It doesn’t shout or ding or print out a detailed report. But it indicates, by way of blinking lights, that an error of a specific nature has occurred. It is letting you know “I am too hot”, or “I am under far too much pressure”, or “I am not communicating with the thermostat”. So on and so forth.

The correct course of action is to investigate each and every error to the point of true resolution. Any shortcut, dismissal, or repeated misattribution will result in poor system performance, loss of efficiency, and a shortened lifespan. Just as water can carve its way through stone, heat will carve its way through metal. And you may be the best damn tech at finding a crack and slapping on a tag, but that is reactionary. After the fact. Far too late.

Many error codes can be resolved with minor action and minimal effort: changing a filter; tightening a thermostat wire; cleaning a flame sensor.

Other error codes can only be resolved with extensive action and intense effort: replacing undersized ductwork; addressing poorly installed or malfunctioning drains and vents; analyzing and mitigating environmental factors like excessive moisture or unusual airborne contaminants.

The remaining error codes are the red flags indicating that which will only lead to red tags body bags. The steady pulses will return again and again. No amount of action or effort can salvage what nature and nurture conspired to slaughter.

When it is evident that a system is not fit for operation, every HVAC technician should strive to understand why for the sole purpose of avoiding a similar design. An undersized or oversized unit may appear to do all of the things a properly sized and skillfully installed unit can do. Overnight guests may feel plenty warm, but the flames cradling them for such a short time are continuously compounding harm. A morning will come when the guests have departed and the hosts are but ghosts…

An undersized unit is inadequate, and it will attempt to compensate by running continuously, stressing and straining and overheating. It will consume resources with reckless abandon, an inefficient soul suck, and yet the rooms will never quite shake the damp chill of winter. The family will sacrifice all that it has, and it will never be enough.

An oversized unit will rage into action, heat surging from the registers, sweat soon beading on foreheads. Moments later it will dramatically shut down, stymied by ordinary limits, frustrated by barriers it could easily blast apart. Roar and crash. On and off. Start and stop. Hot and cold. Expand and contract. It will steal all of the peace and any hope of predicting where the mercury will rest. The family, exhausted by chaos, will layer up only to strip down again, grappling with an abundance of everything they never wanted and more.

Moral of the story: don’t ignore error codes.

Jumper wires are meant for temporary troubleshooting. Stop using them to conceal predators, killers, and cowards.

DO NOT BYPASS FAULTS.

There is no safe amount of CO escaping from a cracked heat exchanger, cracks always progress, and even a small amount of CO can kill within minutes.

There is no safe amount of pressure than can be applied to the neck, violence always escalates, and strangulation can kill within minutes.

An ounce of red flags can prevent a pound of body bags, if we investigate error codes to the point of true resolution.

We can red tag dangerous men long before we toe tag women.

On Six Months of New Keys, Unforgivable Curses, and Undeniable Joy

Aveon Air is celebrating!

We are six months into exploring our new keys, six months into our founder’s survival, and six months 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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Top Fans:

Huntington, WV wears the crown with 73 visits, barely edging out our Perrysburg, OH peeps with 62 visits.

Blog Reach:

“I laughed and sang a new song…” is our most read blog post to date with 106 views, and a great place to start if you’re new around here.

“Synthetic Silk” is our year to date leader with 30 views, and is a testament of our commitment to preventing future harm.

Check back soon for more - we will be adding a recap of highlights and reflections on what six months of survival looks like from the inside.

Almost Omega

Almost…

Almost to safety. Almost to healing. Almost to a much more intact me.

But not quite. Because I didn’t know. My Papaw John Douglas hadn’t taught me about the darkness yet.

I had six weeks until “death do us part”. Almost. I guess you didn’t know either.

You cannot kill me in a way that matters.

A for effort, I suppose? You can pretend it’s A for Alpha. The not-Alpha who couldn’t make it all the way to Omega, but you tried. Tonight I laughed, because I stumbled across a post on Reddit about men who call themselves an “Alpha Male”. And I remember how much it mattered to you that there only be one alpha, and I would be baffled. At some point I had to Google “what is an alpha?” and “what is a simp?” because you weren’t having a conversation with me. You were building your case, and your delusion, and attempting to fortify your fragile ego. I was just trying to build a life. I didn’t know you would eventually try to take mine.

You tried. But you didn’t know.

You don’t get to choose where I begin or where I end. I don’t even get to choose that. We will never know the extent to which we exist or impact others.

But we can choose the manner in which we exist and the manner in which we attempt to impact others. And our choices matter SO much. We both know what you chose.

——————

If you or someone you know is in a situation that is unsafe, or you need clarity on whether it is or will become unsafe, please seek help at The National Domestic Violence Hotline.

Confusion is a red flag you should not ignore.

I didn’t know.

synthetic silk

I hope you know about the other sort of spider. The ones who smell like home, and look like family, and leave corpses and ghosts in their wake. I hope you know about cosmo-nots, fauxtons, and men who strangle.

Love has a funny way of finding its way. After all, even Aragog enjoyed years of companionship with Mosag.

But this isn’t love. And I know - I do know. About the first night. The golden light. The gasps and giggles and great big dreams. The rush, the current, sweeping you off of your feet and downstream, downwind. Downward.

Always downward.

You’ll never see golden light like that again. It’ll glimmer here and there. Just enough to make you think you’re as crazy as he says you are.

You know, when he’s got his forehead pressed so hard into yours it’ll be sore for days. Crushed into a corner, bent backward over a counter, or pinned to the floor or the bed. His vise grip on your wrists, his teeth gritted, taunting you with that menacing snarl.

And then it’s over, and he’s gone. And he’s back. And he’s sorry.

And then he’s not.

And fear hangs thick in the air, robbing you of your peace, your safety, your sanity.

You are sane, but this treacherous dance isn’t.

You are a safe person, but you know in your heart of hearts this won’t end well.

You cherish your peace, but you slowly realize that it was the first fly in the web. The first meal. The first of many corpses.

He stole it right after the damn broke.

They call it “love bombing”, but they don’t tell you that it doesn’t make a sound. Or that you’ll be set ablaze but he’ll blame you for every wisp of smoke that he inhales. Or that the shrapnel will burrow into you - into your skin, into your mind, into your soul - in imperceptibly slow motion, and extricating all of it will be impossible. You’ll forever be riddled with shards and scars and shadows of what never existed - not even on that first night.

You’re beautiful.

Vibrant.

Brave.

Full of life.

And he’s wonderful, isn’t he?

Aren’t you just so proud to be his? Excited to have found “it”? Lucky to share such an incredible bond?

And those twinges in your gut, the disbelief when he’s calling you a selfish asshole for disagreeing with him because he’s too fragile and special to endure it? You keep it to yourself. You sacrifice more and more to the orchid. You fix your face. You keep your big emotions in check. You wake in the night to find him on the couch instead of wrapped around you in bed. You give him his space, his time, his respect.

He gives you nothing.

Absolutely nothing.

He’s that sort of spider.

The sort that will tear down your home, and eat your family, and when there is nothing left but the breath in your lungs and the blood in your veins - he’ll take that too.

I was his light, his always, his queen.

And now I am just another ghost in his wake; an almost corpse.

My saving grace was his inability to follow through. Strong start; weak finish. He gripped my throat and squeezed with every ounce of strength he had, but the con artist just couldn’t compete with the canvas. He wasn’t blotting me out of existence. He was setting me free.

The river that swept you away is the blood of the corpses before you, and the ink of a lifetimes worth of false narratives, and the sweat that dripped from his brow into my eyes as my brain began to die, and the crocodile tears he’s likely already shed as he pleads with you to surrender all.

All to thee, my future killer, I surrender all.

I am the luckiest ghost on the planet, a joyful almost corpse. But he tore down my home and he ate my children.

The golden light is a trap, used by the sort of spider who cannot bear to let you see what lies beneath his web of lies.

A predator. A monster. A murderer.

I hope you see it before he makes his last promise - the only one he ever intends to keep.

“I will put you in the ground!”

You deserve the truth - not a grave.

And the truth is he is already making plans for your wake, because this sort of spider will destroy anyone who finds out why he so desperately protects his “good name”.

Miscarriage. Epilepsy. Stroke. Thyroid Damage. PTSD. Speech Disorders. Amnesia.

From clinical neuropsychologist Kristen Dams-O'Connor, PhD, Director of the Brain Injury Research Center at the Icahn School of Medicine at Mount Sinai:

“Findings suggested both mechanical injury and hypoxic-ischemic—caused by a lack of blood flow and oxygen—injury that can arise from nonfatal strangulation (NFS). There were also higher-than-expected rates of substance abuse, psychiatric conditions, and HIV infection, along with epilepsy, diabetes, and cardiovascular disease.”

Read more HERE.

From New Jersey State Police Victim Services Unit:

“If you have experienced a strangulation and/or smothering incident it is vital that you seek medical attention. Even if you feel fine right now, strangulation can cause internal injuries, brain damage, and delayed health consequences, such as strokes, thyroid issues, miscarriage, or even death. These effects can occur days or weeks after the incident, sometimes without any visible signs of injury.”

Read more HERE.

From We Can’t Consent to This: The Horrifying Harms of Choking:

“Strangulation is more dangerous than waterboarding: this is because it doesn’t just block the airway, but also the brain’s blood supply. Waterboarding is now considered inhumane, even when its stated aim is to prevent mass terrorism. But there is something morally wrong about a society which still turns a blind eye to the intimate terrorism of thousands of women each week in the UK.”

Read more HERE.

Attorney General Coleman Releases Kentucky’s First-Ever Toolkit to Protect from Strangulation

Maybe Santa is real, because I can’t think of a better gift - Kentucky just rolled out “Responding to Strangulation in Kentucky: Guidelines for Prosecutors, Law Enforcement, Health Care Providers and Victim Advocates”, a toolkit to combat the horrific crime of strangulation.

While our great commonwealth was one of the last states to make strangulation a felony, this manual is one of the first of its kind across the country.

To celebrate, Aveon Air added a dedicated page to house the press release and a link to the manual. Check it out HERE.

Awareness is spreading, but we have so much work ahead of us to ensure that every strangulation victim in Kentucky receives the medical care, safety, and justice they deserve. Part of the work is building bridges between worlds that tend to collide more than they collaborate: the traditional patriarchy of law enforcement and the dedicated matriarchy of advocacy.

I raise this point every time I speak about strangulation, but it bears repeating: men who strangle are far more likely to kill not only their partners, but many others including law enforcement officers. The people who serve and protect our communities are well aware that each day may bring their end of watch, but when strangulation is detected and prosecuted, the risk of homicide is lowered for everyone.

A few weeks ago I met a female officer who works in a nearby city, and she shared that one case in particular haunts her. She has spent countless unpaid hours working to support the prosecution of a violent, sadistic, dangerous man who strangled his partner. I am touched by her dedication, and I also hope that this toolkit means that she and people like her won’t feel so isolated and burdened.

Experiencing the terror of strangulation at the hands of a partner is to be shattered from the inside out. Grasping that your partner is a killer who raised his hand in sickening secrecy; to be buried alive by the system for daring to survive…my pain and hope and rage and vision and strength all point toward one goal: I want to BE THE LAST.

Thank you, Kentucky, for this toolkit. Thank you for choosing to unmask the murderers among us. Thank you for teaching all of us how to recognize the ghosts of the raised hands. If we know where to look, we can’t help but to see.

Where there is smoke, there are dangerous men hellbent on lighting candles for senseless, preventable vigils.

It’s time that they were lashed to the pyre in town square and reduced to nothing more than a pile of ashes.

January is National Slavery and Human Trafficking Prevention Month

From the Office of the Administration for Children & Families:

“The theme for Human Trafficking Prevention Month 2025 highlights the importance of a holistic approach to preventing human trafficking, recognizing its intersection with other forms of violence and social issues.  

Connecting the dots between human trafficking, online harassment and abuse, interpersonal violence, and other forms of violence can disrupt multiple forms of exploitation.”

Read more here.

Aveon Air is committed to exposing and eradicating all forms of harm, especially the heinous crime of human trafficking. If you think your community is the exception, think again. You may even regularly visit a business that acts as a front for trafficking - your favorite bar, spa, or hotel could be perpetuating the enslavement and abuse of extremely vulnerable and unprotected persons. Educate yourself about how prevalent and pervasive this is in our commonwealth and across the world. Learn how you can work to hold perpetrators accountable without compounding victimization. And if your abuser is pushing you to grab a drink or get a massage at a certain business and won’t drop the issue, do your homework. The last thing you want is to add legitimacy to a front for trafficking with your presence or your glowing review. Coercive control loves to “pull one over” on their victims, and can’t help but drop clues about how clever or sneaky they are…but those clues are evidence, and the key to the freedom for another.

Fragile egos leave a trail, and at the end you’ll find the truth. No treasure, no pot of gold…just another festering pocket of infection from the disease of violence.

May 2025 be the year that we see them all lanced.

I laughed and sang a new song…

The Office on Violence Against Women defines domestic abuse as a pattern of abusive behavior in any relationship that is used by one partner to gain or maintain power and control over another intimate partner.

Domestic violence can be physical, sexual, emotional, economic, psychological, or technological actions or threats of actions or other patterns of coercive behavior that influence another person within an intimate partner relationship.

This includes any behaviors that intimidate, manipulate, humiliate, isolate, frighten, terrorize, coerce, threaten, blame, hurt, injure, or wound someone.

+ + +

My mental health provider lamented today, “You know, we have laws that address physical abuse, but not mental or emotional.” I shook my head. “Not in this country, no. Other countries do. They know the emotional can be more damaging than the physical.”

One of the many things I’ve learned during the last three months is that the most dangerous abusers are the ones who are careful to not leave marks. The ones who lie to you and about you. The ones who never take accountability for anything. These are the abusers who will kill you to protect their optics, because that’s all they are. Most of us contain a measure of substance, and conscience, and virtue, but the men lurking behind these masks contain absolutely nothing but an abyss of inadequacy.

Three months ago, my abuser dropped the mask, and I witnessed the wretch that crawled out. While my heart breaks with the knowledge that I cannot Be The Last - many women have been murdered since September - I can still be a light, and I can be a voice, and I can and will spend the rest of my living days combatting depravity in disguise. His brutality is no match for me; I’ll spend my life digging beauty from the bottom of my grave.

+ + +

The following was written approximately one month post-attack as I worked toward safety. There has been no safety, but some of the darkness has shifted into peace, clarity, and the next right steps: toward safety for others. I may not leave Harlan alive, but I will keep sending the money back to Granny. I’m filling my cup with something better, not bitter.

+ + +

I am a victim warrior working to survive domestic abuse and domestic violence intimate partner terrorism, and the trajectory of my relationship tracks so closely with the typical abusive relationship that it could be summed up in one word: “textbook”. I do not want to be trapped in this textbook any longer, and I do not want to join yet another statistical cohort of abused women, because in my case the only cohort that remains is homicide.

Although subtle at the onset, the tactics that my abuser employed grew louder with time, culminating in a phrase that he repeatedly roared at me three months ago: “I will put you in the ground!”

From early in the relationship, he began to rob me of emotional and physical safety, and cruelly stripped away or prohibited any protection I might seek. I hung on for dear life and was shattered over and over again by “the cycle” - a neatly condensed, colorful infographic in every “textbook”; a wheel of misfortune illustrating the phases of abuse.

"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)

"I could beat your ass with a glass of ice tea and not spill a drop." (April 29, 2024)

“If I was weak, I’d beat your ass all those times you acted like a disrespectful cunt.” (May 27, 2024)

“Whatever I say, and whatever I decide will fucking happen.” (June 20, 2024)

“I will put you in the ground!” (September 1, 2024)

I moved myself and my children to a separate residence in May 2024, after the abuse reached an intolerable level. I will forever be grateful that I had the foresight and the courage to make that move, but I did not fully understand the danger of leaving without a pre-established safety plan. Studies show that abusers do not react well when they lose control over their victims. Now I know that the most dangerous time for a survivor is when they leave the abusive partner; 75% of domestic violence related homicides occur upon separation and there is a 75% increase of violence upon separation for at least two years.

Between May and September 2024, I experienced a marked escalation of emotional, verbal, sexual, digital, and physical abuse. As I coordinated after school care for my children, adopted a personal budget that I faithfully honored, read more books, visited more family, and enjoyed more peace, my abuser spun out of control. Our marital home became littered with garbage, expired and rotting food, dirty laundry, and alcohol. He created and actively used a dating profile (and created two more in the days following the attempt on my life), complete with pictures I had taken of him. He told me that he was “mourning the death” of his family, and the abuse was temporarily interrupted by periods of emotional and physical absence. Until it wasn’t.

I first considered filing an EPO in July 2024, after he inflicted a painful facial injury followed by 48 hours of intense devaluation and threats via text and email. In the days that followed I began, for the first time in my life, to exhibit symptoms of PTSD. As he shifted phases and the vile onslaught fermented into sickening-sweet attempts to reel me back in, I began having night terrors. As he sent unwanted motivational quotes and cruel attempts at humor, I sobbed in an exam room when an X-ray of my face showed no broken bones. I was grasping the importance of evidence, sagging under the burden of proof. I needed to be hurt badly enough to be believed.

As I grappled with confusion and fear, the abuse that felt ugly and unfair and at times even unconscionable was evolving. I watched in horror as the man I once believed was the love of my life entered his most lethal era.

What happened next was “textbook”.

He profusely apologized. He promised that he had seen the light, was going to change, and that he would do everything in his power to keep me safe. He admitted in writing and in person that he had abused me from the very beginning, assured me that he didn’t blame me at all for what he could now see was reasonable behavior from a woman who did not feel safe in her own home, and bombarded me with all manner of neatly wrapped and deadly traps.

In August 2024, he convinced me to move back in.

In September 2024, he strangled me.

I did not know, even as he gripped my throat and gritted his teeth, squeezing until my face contorted into a gutted panic, exactly what that meant.

Between September 1st and September 2nd 2024, he forcefully and intentionally strangled me no fewer than seven times, while simultaneously suffocating me by way of his knee on my stomach or chest. I am 5’2, and before the attack I was 135 pounds, eight heavier than I am now. He is 5’9 and weighs more than 200 pounds.

Like many women, I unintentionally minimized it into a detail, a footnote. I called it choking, and emphasized the other violent methods he employed: kneeling on my chest, dragging me by my hair, and landing a final open-handed blow to my head and face that left me dazed on the floor. It was the reason I called 911 from my watch. I assumed it was the reason I struggled to breathe and think and speak when the officers arrived. The reason they misread the situation, failed to recognize his wounds as defensive, and my lack of visible wounds as a chilling warning sign that I should be rushed to the hospital immediately. There was no lethality assessment, no thermal imaging, and no ambulance called; only handcuffs.

As I lay in a jail cell for 24 hours, crying because the heavy, rough smock cut into my swollen neck, and the not-a-bed jail bed hurt my bruised head, and the ceiling spun and my ears throbbed and my nausea swelled, and I consumed no food or water for nearly a day, I contributed my symptoms to a different traumatic brain injury: a concussion stemming from blunt force trauma.

For the next several days, I was dizzy. So dizzy I could feel my entire body being tugged at by an invisible force. So nauseated that I didn’t eat a real meal until midday on September 5th. So unsteady and sluggish, my thinking and speaking halting, thick, clumsy. A desperate, stunted zombie, at times sobbing and at times staring into space, my body twitching and my head floating strangely, as if my neck couldn’t balance it without bobbling about. My neck that bore a bruise of his thumbprint.

An ambulance ride to the ER.

A primary care follow-up.

A second ER visit.

No headache.

“What a strange concussion”, I thought.

On September 9th, in the wee hours of the morning, I learned why.

I realized that I wasn’t choked. Although a prevalent term that is widely recognized and evokes images of hands gripping throats, it is not the correct term.

I am a survivor of strangulation.

Repeated, forceful strangulation.

I may well have had a concussion, because I certainly sustained some heavy blows to the head, but my symptoms indicate post-strangulation brain injury due to brain cell death, a result of having my airway and blood supply so violently interrupted.

Strangulation is one of the most dangerous and deadly acts of violence that an abuser can use, and it is a powerful indicator that the abuser will go on to kill. The following is an excerpt from the article “A Dangerous Link: From Stranglers to Cop Killers”:

“The most dangerous domestic violence offenders strangle their victims. The most violent rapists strangle their victims. It used to be thought that all abusers were equal.

They are not.

Research has now made clear that when a man puts his hands around a woman’s neck, he has just raised his hand and said, “I’m a killer.” He is more likely to kill police officers, to kill children, and to later kill his partner. So, when you hear “He choked me,” now you know...you are at the edge of a homicide.”

The moment I moved out of the marital home and into a townhouse, I was in danger based on statistics alone, and four months later my abuser of four years put his hands around my neck and reintroduced himself as my future killer.  

+ + +

Universal Declaration of Human Rights (UDHR)

December is Universal Human Rights Month

Preamble

Whereas recognition of the inherent dignity and of the equal and inalienable rights of all members of the human family is the foundation of freedom, justice and peace in the world,

Whereas disregard and contempt for human rights have resulted in barbarous acts which have outraged the conscience of mankind, and the advent of a world in which human beings shall enjoy freedom of speech and belief and freedom from fear and want has been proclaimed as the highest aspiration of the common people,

Whereas it is essential, if man is not to be compelled to have recourse, as a last resort, to rebellion against tyranny and oppression, that human rights should be protected by the rule of law,

Whereas it is essential to promote the development of friendly relations between nations,

Whereas the peoples of the United Nations have in the Charter reaffirmed their faith in fundamental human rights, in the dignity and worth of the human person and in the equal rights of men and women and have determined to promote social progress and better standards of life in larger freedom,

Whereas Member States have pledged themselves to achieve, in co-operation with the United Nations, the promotion of universal respect for and observance of human rights and fundamental freedoms,

Whereas a common understanding of these rights and freedoms is of the greatest importance for the full realization of this pledge,

Now, therefore,

The General Assembly,

Proclaims this Universal Declaration of Human Rights as a common standard of achievement for all peoples and all nations, to the end that every individual and every organ of society, keeping this Declaration constantly in mind, shall strive by teaching and education to promote respect for these rights and freedoms and by progressive measures, national and international, to secure their universal and effective recognition and observance, both among the peoples of Member States themselves and among the peoples of territories under their jurisdiction. 

Article 1

All human beings are born free and equal in dignity and rights. They are endowed with reason and conscience and should act towards one another in a spirit of brotherhood.

Article 2

Everyone is entitled to all the rights and freedoms set forth in this Declaration, without distinction of any kind, such as race, colour, sex, language, religion, political or other opinion, national or social origin, property, birth or other status. Furthermore, no distinction shall be made on the basis of the political, jurisdictional or international status of the country or territory to which a person belongs, whether it be independent, trust, non-self-governing or under any other limitation of sovereignty.

Article 3

Everyone has the right to life, liberty and security of person.

Article 4

No one shall be held in slavery or servitude; slavery and the slave trade shall be prohibited in all their forms.

Article 5

No one shall be subjected to torture or to cruel, inhuman or degrading treatment or punishment.

Article 6

Everyone has the right to recognition everywhere as a person before the law.

Article 7

All are equal before the law and are entitled without any discrimination to equal protection of the law. All are entitled to equal protection against any discrimination in violation of this Declaration and against any incitement to such discrimination.

Article 8

Everyone has the right to an effective remedy by the competent national tribunals for acts violating the fundamental rights granted him by the constitution or by law.

Article 9

No one shall be subjected to arbitrary arrest, detention or exile.

Article 10

Everyone is entitled in full equality to a fair and public hearing by an independent and impartial tribunal, in the determination of his rights and obligations and of any criminal charge against him.

Article 11

1. Everyone charged with a penal offence has the right to be presumed innocent until proved guilty according to law in a public trial at which he has had all the guarantees necessary for his defence.

2. No one shall be held guilty of any penal offence on account of any act or omission which did not constitute a penal offence, under national or international law, at the time when it was committed. Nor shall a heavier penalty be imposed than the one that was applicable at the time the penal offence was committed.

Article 12

No one shall be subjected to arbitrary interference with his privacy, family, home or correspondence, nor to attacks upon his honour and reputation. Everyone has the right to the protection of the law against such interference or attacks.

Article 13

1. Everyone has the right to freedom of movement and residence within the borders of each state.

2. Everyone has the right to leave any country, including his own, and to return to his country.

Article 14

1. Everyone has the right to seek and to enjoy in other countries asylum from persecution.

2. This right may not be invoked in the case of prosecutions genuinely arising from non-political crimes or from acts contrary to the purposes and principles of the United Nations.

Article 15

1. Everyone has the right to a nationality.

2. No one shall be arbitrarily deprived of his nationality nor denied the right to change his nationality.

Article 16

1. Men and women of full age, without any limitation due to race, nationality or religion, have the right to marry and to found a family. They are entitled to equal rights as to marriage, during marriage and at its dissolution.

2. Marriage shall be entered into only with the free and full consent of the intending spouses.

3. The family is the natural and fundamental group unit of society and is entitled to protection by society and the State.

Article 17

1. Everyone has the right to own property alone as well as in association with others.

2. No one shall be arbitrarily deprived of his property.

Article 18

Everyone has the right to freedom of thought, conscience and religion; this right includes freedom to change his religion or belief, and freedom, either alone or in community with others and in public or private, to manifest his religion or belief in teaching, practice, worship and observance.

Article 19

Everyone has the right to freedom of opinion and expression; this right includes freedom to hold opinions without interference and to seek, receive and impart information and ideas through any media and regardless of frontiers.

Article 20

1. Everyone has the right to freedom of peaceful assembly and association.

2. No one may be compelled to belong to an association.

Article 21

1. Everyone has the right to take part in the government of his country, directly or through freely chosen representatives.

2. Everyone has the right of equal access to public service in his country.

3. The will of the people shall be the basis of the authority of government; this will shall be expressed in periodic and genuine elections which shall be by universal and equal suffrage and shall be held by secret vote or by equivalent free voting procedures.

Article 22

Everyone, as a member of society, has the right to social security and is entitled to realization, through national effort and international co-operation and in accordance with the organization and resources of each State, of the economic, social and cultural rights indispensable for his dignity and the free development of his personality.

Article 23

1. Everyone has the right to work, to free choice of employment, to just and favourable conditions of work and to protection against unemployment.

2. Everyone, without any discrimination, has the right to equal pay for equal work.

3. Everyone who works has the right to just and favourable remuneration ensuring for himself and his family an existence worthy of human dignity, and supplemented, if necessary, by other means of social protection.

4. Everyone has the right to form and to join trade unions for the protection of his interests.

Article 24

Everyone has the right to rest and leisure, including reasonable limitation of working hours and periodic holidays with pay.

Article 25

1. Everyone has the right to a standard of living adequate for the health and well-being of himself and of his family, including food, clothing, housing and medical care and necessary social services, and the right to security in the event of unemployment, sickness, disability, widowhood, old age or other lack of livelihood in circumstances beyond his control.

2. Motherhood and childhood are entitled to special care and assistance. All children, whether born in or out of wedlock, shall enjoy the same social protection.

Article 26

1. Everyone has the right to education. Education shall be free, at least in the elementary and fundamental stages. Elementary education shall be compulsory. Technical and professional education shall be made generally available and higher education shall be equally accessible to all on the basis of merit.

2. Education shall be directed to the full development of the human personality and to the strengthening of respect for human rights and fundamental freedoms. It shall promote understanding, tolerance and friendship among all nations, racial or religious groups, and shall further the activities of the United Nations for the maintenance of peace.

3. Parents have a prior right to choose the kind of education that shall be given to their children.

Article 27

1. Everyone has the right freely to participate in the cultural life of the community, to enjoy the arts and to share in scientific advancement and its benefits.

2. Everyone has the right to the protection of the moral and material interests resulting from any scientific, literary or artistic production of which he is the author.

Article 28

Everyone is entitled to a social and international order in which the rights and freedoms set forth in this Declaration can be fully realized.

Article 29

1. Everyone has duties to the community in which alone the free and full development of his personality is possible.

2. In the exercise of his rights and freedoms, everyone shall be subject only to such limitations as are determined by law solely for the purpose of securing due recognition and respect for the rights and freedoms of others and of meeting the just requirements of morality, public order and the general welfare in a democratic society.

3. These rights and freedoms may in no case be exercised contrary to the purposes and principles of the United Nations.

Article 30

Nothing in this Declaration may be interpreted as implying for any State, group or person any right to engage in any activity or to perform any act aimed at the destruction of any of the rights and freedoms set forth herein.

Read more at  UN.org

Big Banana | small banana

🍌Big Banana, small banana🍌

Choking refers to airway obstruction.

Think “Big Banana”.

Strangulation refers to pressure applied to the neck that blocks the flow of blood and oxygen. Often used by men against female intimate partners, controlling whether you take another breath is worth the risk that you might die right then and there.

Think “small banana”.

A miserable, inadequate, and dangerous small banana who is 750% more likely to murder the partners they strangle.

🍌Know Your Banana🍌

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.