Almost Dead, Still Fabulous

Strangled to unconsciousness. Twice. By the same person.

The statistics say 68% survive the first time. If it happens again, your odds drop to 46%.

I beat both.

This episode is about the violence that should have ended me—hands around my throat, the world going black, waking up on the floor wondering if this time was the practice run or the real thing.

And somehow, somehow, I still have jokes about it.

Because when death keeps showing up and you keep not dying, you start to wonder: what the fuck am I still here for?

Content warnings: This podcast contains discussions of childhood sexual abuse, addiction, violence, death, and trauma. But it also full of profound love, transformation, and hope. Listener discretion advised.

Transcript

The Archaeologist of My Souls: 1 in 8.3 Billion

Episode Seven: Almost Murdered, Still Fabulous

Content warnings: This podcast contains discussions of childhood sexual abuse, addiction, violence, death, and trauma. But it also full of profound love, transformation, and hope. Listener discretion advised.

So... I woke up getting strangled.


Not playful strangled. Not "we discussed this beforehand and have a safe word" strangled. This was full-on "you will be dead in thirty seconds" strangled.

Gary was straddling my chest, hands around my throat, twitching like he was having a seizure. His eyes? So dilated I could practically see my own obituary reflected in them. His knee was grinding into my ribs, his sweat reeked of crystal meth and bottom-shelf gin...

And I'm lying there thinking—Really? This is how I die? In Batman pajamas with morning breath?

First thought: This is absolutely ridiculous. Second thought: Where the fuck is my bottle?
And listen—not to drink. I mean, sure, I was maintaining a professional-level alcohol dependency at this point, but this was about survival.

Lucky for me, I lived like an alcoholic pack rat. Empty bottles everywhere: under the bed, in the closet, behind curtains, basically anywhere except the trash can because that would blow my carefully maintained cover of "I'm totally fine."

So I reached under the bed—clink, clink—there we go. Half-full bottle of Gordon's vodka. Heavy glass. Perfect weight.

I swung it like I was trying to hit a home run.

CRACK. 
Sweetest sound I'd heard in months. Not wedding bells sweet. More like "I can breathe again and also Gary might have a concussion" sweet.

Gary crumpled off me, groaning, hand clutching his head. I scrambled away, gasping, throat on fire. Called 911 with shaking hands while he rolled around on my floor bleeding into my carpet—which was already stained anyway, so really he was just adding character.

Cops showed up. Dragged him away in handcuffs. He was screaming something about betrayal and destiny. The officers looked at me with that specific blend of pity and exhaustion that said they'd seen this exact scene a thousand times before.

"You pressing charges?"

I should have said yes. Obviously, I should have said yes. I said I'd think about it.
[PAUSE] Yeah. 
A few weeks later... I came home from my shift at LuLu's. I'd had only one shift drink—okay, maybe two—and caught up with some coworkers. Came home probably an hour later than usual. Though knowing me during that time, "a few days" could also have been an option.

The house was dark when I walked in.

I didn't even have a chance to turn on the lights before something came at me full force and knocked me to the ground.
Gary.

What the fuck?

He was in a full psychotic meth rage. Pupils blown, breath coming in ragged gasps. Screaming about me sleeping around, accusing me of being out fucking half of San Francisco.

I mean... do you blame him? Whole new crop of West Coast men to sample. I didn't see it then, but there were definitely some behaviors bordering on... well. More on that later.


We pushed each other around, screaming, crashing into furniture. The usual dance of two people who should absolutely not be in the same room together, let alone the same relationship.

But then something shifted.

I'd always been cautious when having sex with Gary. Something just wasn't adding up. I never outright accused him of being HIV positive—I mean, I'm sure I asked once, we all did back then, it was the stupid question you were supposed to ask like it meant something—but I'd been careful. Deliberately careful.

That night, that caution must have shown. Must have been written all over my face. And it triggered something in him I didn't know about.
I was about to find out.

"You think I have AIDS?!" he screamed. [PAUSE]
"Here, let me show you." [LONGER PAUSE]
Okay. What happened next was beyond sanity.

He went into the kitchen. Grabbed a paring knife from the block. And proceeded to cut his wrists.

Not to commit suicide—no, no. This motherfucker was about to pull a Jackson Pollock.

While bleeding, he looked at me, pupils like black holes, and whispered: "Here's your fucking AIDS."
Then he started smearing his blood across all four of our white walls. [PAUSE]
Long, deliberate strokes. Handprints. Streaks. Like he was creating some kind of deranged art installation about rage and disease and the end of the world. Blood dripping down the paint in dark rivulets. The metallic smell filling the room.

I stood there, frozen, watching this man I'd let into my bed paint my walls with his blood while accusing me of thinking he had a death sentence.

Just... fucking insane.

I called 911 again. Because apparently that was becoming my signature move with Gary. Cops came. Same exhausted looks. Locked him up overnight this time.
[BEAT]

That should have been a strong enough warning, right? Your boyfriend—I had no idea what we were, honestly—just gave you a blood mural and a side of potential biohazard exposure.

Normal people would run. Normal people would change their locks, get a restraining order, maybe move to a different state.

But no.
We got back together.

Wow. So fucked up looking back at it.

But that's the thing about addiction and trauma—they don't operate on logic. They operate on whatever broken wiring convinces you that chaos feels like home, that danger feels like love, that nearly dying is just another Tuesday.

I didn't see red flags. I saw passion. Intensity. A connection so raw it felt real—which, technically, it was. You can't fake someone trying to murder you. Twice. That's genuine commitment to the relationship.

Most guys won't even text back. [SLIGHT LAUGH]
Looking back, I realize the bar for "true love" was literally on the floor. Actually, lower than the floor—it was in the blood-smeared drywall. And I still somehow managed to limbo under it while holding a vodka bottle and calling it romance.

But hey, at least the sex was good. And he always showed up. Sure, sometimes he showed up with a knife and a psychotic break, but consistency counts for something, right?

Spoiler alert: We went to Napa next. [OUTRO MUSIC BEGINS]