“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.