The Golden Month

It is the in-between. The loons are gone; the seagulls are not.

We’ve just passed the first week of October. Skeletons haunt the city. Pumpkins adorn most doorsteps. The stores are full of candy. In the woods, all has turned to gold and crimson. The warmth of September lingers, to the surprise of everyone here up north, but the nights are growing cold.

And it’s domestic violence awareness month.

Every year in the United States, over a thousand women are killed by their male intimate partners. In 2021, that number was more than 1,600. That  means that 34% of female homicides in the US were committed by male intimate partners.

“Not all men.” Yes. But of all the male homicides in that same year, only 6% were committed by their female intimate partners.

Globally, as of 2024, a female is killed every ten minutes by a family member or intimate partner. 60% of female murder victims were killed by the men closest to them. SIXTY. PERCENT.

In the US specifically, more than three women are killed every day by their male intimate partner. The percentage of women killed by their intimate partner is FIVE TIMES higher than for men.

We aren’t even free to love without fear of violence.

October has always been my favorite month. I love autumn. And October is the highlight, sandwiched between the lingering summer of September and the coming chill of winter. I love the colors of the leaves, the underfoot crunch of them, the way the sun filters through the yellow trees to turn everything gold.

But October reminds me of what was.

I was in an abusive marriage for fifteen years. The abuse was emotional, mental, financial, spiritual, and yes - physical. Very physical.

I worked from home. He took this as the opportunity to mark me up as he saw fit. Sometimes I couldn’t leave the house for weeks at a time unless I wanted to explain black eyes or a bruised chin or open wounds. I learned to lie to doctors and police. I covered for him because I thought I had to. He convinced me that I’d lose the children if I came clean - clean about his abuse and also his meth addiction.

Life was hell and no one will ever understand what went on in that house.

I’ve been free for four and a half years. Since then, I’ve learned all the things I wish I’d known when I met him. I’ve learned about narcissistic personalities. I’ve learned about love bombing and future faking and the reverse discard and all the things that have clever little terms now so they can be boxed up and labeled.

I didn’t have the words for what I was surviving. I just lived it.

And so did my children. But that’s their story to tell - if they ever want to tell it.

I’m a statistic. We are statistics. In the US, about 3 out of every 10 women (and 1 out of every 10 men) will report domestic violence. From 1994 to 2010, about 4 of every 5 victims of intimate partner violence were women.

Yes, men can be victims. But - sorry, the facts don’t lie - it’s less likely. I don’t hate men. All my best friends are men. My father was an incredible man; my brother is my rock (along with his amazing wife). I am not a misandrist.

But the numbers reflect my personal experience.

It’s not all men.

But it’s almost always a man.

I’m back to loving October, yes. But I won’t forget. I can’t. It’s imprinted on my nightmares to this day. And I consider it my mission in life to teach my sons to break the cycle of abuse - to be the type of men who will defy statistics and protect the women in their lives. I owe it to my future daughters-in-law, my future grandchildren, to help my boys avoid the mistakes I mad … so that they don’t pay for the sins of their father.

Help is there for those still trapped in abuse.

1-800-799-SAFE (7233) 📱 Text “START” to 88788

https://www.thehotline.org/ 

Pictures by T.H. Figg © 2025