Domestic violence victims

by

The Men Are Dead

I am a reader of many types of literature—mysteries, romance, literary fiction, narrative non-fiction, poetry. For the past year, however, I have found myself reading less of the “serious” or “dark” fiction, and more of what seems to be light but not cozy mysteries. (I define a cozy mystery with a murder to solve, but very little violence is depicted. It can feature a knitting circle, a librarian or a bakery. And a cat, of course.) But the mysteries I’m recently drawn to typically include a murder of a man—often a sexual predator, a sleezy yet powerful man that has physically abused a younger woman. A man that has promised a relationship then dump the woman, ruin them socially or economically, then move on to another woman and repeat. And very often, the man was killed by a woman.

If you look at the book covers pictured here, you’ll see why I was drawn to them. They look “harmless” and promise humor. They each had a good dose of humor throughout, but that’s not what kept me reading or listening. It was the hope, that the women who killed the men, sometimes unintentionally, would get away with murder.

This is why we read fiction sometimes, isn’t it? We can root for the murderers and not be seen as monsters ourselves. We can exact revenge on all of the rapists, killers and wife beaters through the words of novelists. It gives us hope that if the justice system fails us once again, a different kind of justice will win in the end.

Misogyny is thriving in this current bizarro world we live in, so is it any wonder when a scene from “A Handmaid’s Tale” of women literally tearing a man apart with their bare hands is shown, it makes us jump up and cheer?

I remember watching “The Burning Bed” on television when I was 11 years old. I was in awe of Francine Hughes’ (played by Farrah Fawcett) bravery as she poured gasoline over her sleeping husband and set him and the house on fire. She had been abused by him for nearly a decade and she was finally getting away. At 11, I had already witnessed plenty of physical abuse in my home, but the abuse had ended by then. I remember feeling a little spooked by the movie, that could have happened in my family yet we were fortunate that it ended on a better note. But I couldn’t help but feel HAPPY that Francine got out. No matter what it took. Even at a young age I was happy that man was dead. He couldn’t hurt Francine ever again. (If you’re not aware, “The Burning Bed” was based on the real Francine Hughes. She won the court case against her with a plea of temporary insanity.)

After Luigi Mangione supposedly killed the CEO of United Healthcare, many people took to social media to praise Luigi’s actions. They too were sick of being fucked over by the insurance companies, of not having medical tests done because the insurance companies wouldn’t allow it (not the doctors, mind you, the insurance companies). People were dying because they were denied the medical care they needed. These people wanted to do exactly what Luigi had supposedly done. They wanted the CEO and his family to hurt as much as they had. But those that cheered Luigi on were also called “horrible” people because “there is never an excuse for murder.”

Is there?

After our family friend, Virginia Cookson, age 39, was murdered by her ex-boyfriend in September of 2024, I know there isn’t an excuse for her murder. None.

I can’t say the same for others.

Since the day Virginia was killed, I see victims of domestic abuse everywhere. Women in particular are being abused and killed by men that supposedly love them.

I want to tell you something, and I want you to listen to me. Being constantly watched and monitored is not love. Being strangled* is not being loved. Being hit, kicked or pushed is not being loved. Being humiliated or constantly made to feel guilt is also not being loved.

*Let’s get this straight–”choked” is when something that occurs internally, something is lodged in your throat. “Strangled” is caused externally, when someone is putting pressure on your throat that stops your breathing. THE MEDIA NEEDS TO CORRECT THEIR LANGUAGE.

Is it any wonder that I’m reading books with dead men in them and cheering on those that killed them? Is it any wonder I’m filled with rage when abusers of women are allowed to govern the country I live in, that the representatives we vote for allow more and more abusers and misogynists to help him take more of our rights away, and our children’s rights away?

Is it any wonder that sometimes I wish all the men were dead?

Friends, if anything I listed here is happening to you, there IS help. 1-800-799-7233 is the National Domestic Violence Hotline, or text BEGIN to 88788.

by

Frozen

It’s been a few months since I’ve posted anything here. So much has happened in my life in the past two months–some of it good, much of it horrible.

Our family friend, Virginia Cookson–my niece’s best friend for over 25 years–was murdered by her ex-boyfriend at the end of September. I’m not ready to write about what happened, and may never. It has changed all of our lives in ways I’m not sure we can define yet.

My niece has been speaking about Virginia in public presentations, and I’m tremendously proud of her. I know how hard public speaking is for her, yet talking so openly about Virginia may be cathartic at times. But fuck…it’s also like having to speak at her funeral over and over. My niece is so damn strong, even though she’s not always aware of it. I also know that strength, or people expecting you to be strong, is exhausting. But she knows our family and some of her lovely friends will support her and prop her up when she just can’t stand anymore.

Since Virginia’s murder, my sister has become an advocate for domestic violence victims and I can see that this will end up being part of her life’s work. Virginia was her “other daughter” and her horrible death has propelled my sister to fight for others, to speak for those who can’t, in the hopes of saving at least one person from domestic violence. My sister is a survivor, too, and I’m so damn proud of her for volunteering, getting the word out, trying to make a difference.

As for me? I will support my family and Virginia’s daughter in any way I can. I will advocate for domestic violence victims and I will do what I can to make sure Virginia’s murderer goes to jail for life.

But I think that’s all I can do.

I’ve felt this wide range of stressors pressing me down to the ground since Virginia was murdered. One day last week, I was unable to get out of my car for what I think was a few minutes but felt like longer. I started to think about the variety of “things” I had on my plate–my responsibilities both at work and at home and every single thing I’m worried about. Typically when this happens, I have an anxiety attack and have trouble breathing. But this time I just couldn’t move. Everything was just too fucking much.

A week after Virginia’s murder, I took my husband to the emergency room because he couldn’t breathe and his heart rate was in the 130s. While we were there, his blood pressure rose to 224/146 and a heart rate of 141. He became delirious and told me he loved me and that he would miss me. I remember staring at him as he said it then standing up and petting his head, kissing him on the forehead. Was this it? Was this the day? This was October 4th–five years to the day that my mother died. I started talking to Mom in my head. “Mom, this is your day, right? I’m thinking Wal shouldn’t share that day with you. He can die another day, don’t you think?”

He was eventually stabilized, diagnosed with pneumonia, but didn’t come home for 5 days. And when he did come home? He came home with oxygen. He used it for a few days, but not enough in my opinion. He now uses it occasionally when he has rough days or nights. Will it be forever? I’m not sure. It feels like the next stage in congestive heart failure to me. But I honestly don’t know.

Then this week? We’re fighting with CMD Powersystems who caused a propane leak at our house and could have blown up our home and killed my family. I asked to have a bill paid to another company that had to fix said leak and to fill our propane tank. That’s it. Since that’s not happening, I’m going to take them to court. I refuse to let this company to take advantage of us. If they think not taking responsibility for this huge mistake is ok, they are sorely wrong. I’m done being a fucking doormat.

On Wednesday, I was verbally assaulted by a patron–this is not something I say lightly. I’ve been yelled at by patrons before, most people that have worked with the public experience it one time or another. This time though the guy called me some particularly nasty things, but what was scary was how his face changed. As I was explaining a particular policy, it’s like a mask fell from his face to show me what a cruel bastard he really was. The nastiness started shortly after. I had planned to take the next day off, and although I had a meeting via Zoom I was going to attend, I bowed out of it and took care of myself instead. I ended up having a pretty great day with my husband and son and put everything work related aside. It felt like a huge deep breath.

And then the next morning, we found out our beautiful doctor, Adam Lauer, died from pancreatic cancer. It was such a friggin’ kick to the chest. I often talk about Adam and did so a few years ago in my post about having part of my pancreas removed. We knew Adam had cancer and would die much earlier than we would, but he had such hope that he’d get into clinical trials. He did everything he absolutely could to be there for his children, but fucking cancer took him anyways. Adam made such a difference in hundreds of lives in this area. I honestly feel like he saved my son’s life by working through some of his depression through medication and therapy.

Today I went to the visiting hours for Adam. I canceled my appointment with my hospice folks that I visit each Sunday, and went to pay my condolences to Adam’s family.

It was awful. There were many people in old house that has been converted to a funeral home, and there was a line to shake the hands of some of the family members and to see Adam’s body. I was ok at first, but the longer I stood there I knew that I wouldn’t be able to tamp down my emotions. As I said “hello” to Adam’s dad, I choked out how his son had been my doctor and my family’s and how much we cared about him. His father, also a doctor, told me how when he was a young adult, his doctor died. His doctor was a lot like Adam, he said, and he was devastated and thought he’d never find another such a great doctor again. And then Adam, his son, became his doctor. “There’ll be another good doctor for you,” he said. Here was this man, having lost his son, trying to comfort me. I thanked him, told him how tremendously sorry I was, and moved on. I could not tell him how much more Adam meant to our family then just our doctor. We cared about him and he cared about us. He swore like a fucking sailor and he made us feel so comfortable with anything and everything. He never put a time limit on our appointments and he always explained everything in a way we could actually understand. He created personal connections with many of his patients. He never felt like “just” our doctor. There was no one like him.

I miss him. We all miss him. Adam Lauer made a difference in our community. One can only hope to affect the world like he did.

And now…I need to put all of those events in little boxes and file them away. I need to finish washing the dishes, fold laundry and prepare for the work week ahead. Just like we all do, right? I will go to bed tonight, breathe through my range of hot flashes, listen to make sure my husband is still breathing, and hope I can sleep through most of the night and not wake up at 3:30 with my mind swirling in every bad direction it could possibly go. Then I’ll wake in the morning, drink a cup of coffee, get the kid up, and do my best to make it a decent day.

I’m not sure there’s much else we can do, is there?

Please try to be good to yourself this week. It’s gonna be a rough one. ❤