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It was a night in October of 2004 when everything changed. I still remember the metallic click of my key in the door. It was late, clients had run long, traffic even longer — and all I wanted was to get out of my work clothes and lie down.

Instead, the house felt … wrong. Though my husband’s truck was in the driveway, everything was dark. The porch light wasn’t even on. 

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I called out his name as I stepped into the foyer — once, twice, then louder a third time. No answer. It was too quiet, like someone had pressed mute on a life that usually hummed with stereo music and my husband’s booming voice.

I heard the wind chimes tinkling in the breeze on the deck. There was not even a sign of our cat. “Hello?” I called, more hesitantly. My chest tightened as I walked through the dark house, then spotted a dim light shining under the closed dining room door. I sensed there was something wrong as I pushed the door open. That’s when I saw him. 

He’d positioned a spotlight to shine on his body. He’d always had a flair for the theatrical.

In one breath, my world imploded. My husband of 17 years had hanged himself there, in our shared home, just hours after I’d told him, “I’m done. I want a divorce.”

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I sobbed, I shook, I retched. I had trouble calling 911; it took me three tries to hit the right combination of numbers. By the time the police arrived, I was on my knees out front, screaming in the driveway. I couldn’t believe what was happening; it felt like a part of me hovered above the scene, watching.

And there was irony here. I am a psychotherapist. How could I not have predicted this?

The detectives and the coroner spent hours at my home, questioning me. I made tearful calls to friends who came immediately to sit with me but felt powerless to help.

The guilt crushed me. Look what I’d made him do. I’d told him I wanted a divorce. “I killed him,” I told everyone. I was emotionally and mentally shattered.

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People always ask if I’d noticed warning signs — sadness, substance abuse, talk of wanting to die. But he wasn’t the clichéd portrait of depression. He was an angry man — quick to shout, quick to slam doors and break things and never reticent to physically threaten me. I had asked for a divorce because I was done living with his rage. Still, suicide? Nowhere on my radar.

The following weeks were nightmarish as I struggled to make sense of what had happened and my role in it.

Back then, I was specializing in trauma. I should have had language for what happened. But the term “revenge suicide” wasn’t in my textbooks. Eventually, after conference calls with domestic violence researchers and my own seasoned therapist, the puzzle pieces started to snap into place.

A revenge suicide happens when taking one’s life becomes the final weapon in an abusive relationship. It’s less “I can’t go on” and more “I’ll make sure you can’t go on.” The note — if there is one — rarely says, “Goodbye.” It says, “This is on you.”

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That was the message waiting for me in my dining room — wordless but crystal clear: You will carry this forever.

If you think the scariest time in an abusive relationship is when fists fly, sit with this statistic: Up to 75 % of women killed by an intimate partner die while trying to leave or just after they’ve left. Sometimes it’s a murder-suicide. Sometimes they kill the kids. And sometimes, the man kills themselves in front of her, or stages a scene where she will find their body. 

We see it in the headlines: A man murders his ex, sometimes their kids, sometimes the family dog, and then turns the weapon on himself. Reporters call it a “domestic dispute” or a “tragedy nobody could have predicted.” There is usually a history of inter-partner abuse, though others may not realize it.

The pattern is chillingly predictable when you understand one core truth: Abusive partners crave control. When control slips away, some will burn the whole house down — literally or metaphorically — before letting go.

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Take “Dana,” a client whose angry husband threatened, “If you leave, I’ll shoot myself in the living room so you’ll see what you did.” She knew he wasn’t bluffing. We worked out a safety plan, stashed go-bags at a neighbor’s and coordinated with police. She got out safely, but she still jumps whenever her phone goes off at night.

Or “Marianne,” whose husband posted a suicide note on Facebook blaming her before he did it. In group therapy, she confided, “Half the town thinks I killed him.” That shame can be as lethal as any weapon.

I don’t want this to happen to any other woman. There are some red flags of escalating violence that we can recognize. So, here’s the short list I share with clients, friends, anyone who’ll listen:

“If you leave me, I’ll kill myself.” Threats tied to control are not idle.

Unexplained surveillance. Checking your mileage, tracking your phone, planting Air Tags in your purse.

Sudden access to weapons or talk of “no reason to live.”

Escalating possessiveness or rage — the tidy neighbor who starts kicking holes in drywall.

A history of choking (the strongest predictor of future homicide).

If these sound familiar, loop in a domestic violence hotline or counselor sooner, not later. Safety planning can be difficult — you’ll have to plan a place to go, allies who will help, save funds that you can access — but it may save your life.

I was lucky that he didn’t kill me or any other members of our family. 

None of my friends or his family members blamed me for his death. In fact, they continually reinforced that I was not responsible. Many recognized his volatility and instability, and I had consistent emotional support. Still, it took me months to regain my footing. Not all women are fortunate enough to have the kind of support that I had.

Two decades later, I’m still talking about the issue. I believe it makes a difference. Now I’m remarried to a gentle man who never raises his voice. I’ve written four books, one on this topic. But every October, when Domestic Violence Awareness Month banners pop up, I’m yanked back to that eerily quiet house and the memories of my desperate struggle to call 911.

So, here’s my plea, sprinkled with the hard-earned wisdom of someone who’s walked barefoot through the glass:

Believe women who say they’re afraid. It doesn’t matter if she’s being abused physically; abuse takes many forms, including coercive control.

Stop asking “Why did she stay?” Start asking, “What barriers kept her from leaving safely?”

Teach teens that love is not possession. The earlier we unlearn toxic scripts, the better.

Remember that some suicides are homicides in disguise. Death certificates don’t capture intent; stories do.

And if you’re reading this as someone dangling on the edge — wondering if leaving will push him over it — realize you need support. You deserve a life where you’re not walking on eggshells, a prisoner of an erratic, dangerous partner. Be strategic. Reach out. Tell a wise friend, a therapist, the National Domestic Violence Hotline (800-799-7233). Secrets are the soil where violence grows; speaking is the sunlight that withers it. Your voice is your power.

When people learn my story, they sometimes tilt their heads in pity and say, “I can’t imagine.” But here’s the scary part: It is imaginable, because it happens every day in neighborhoods that look like yours and mine. These things can happen to anyone.

I don’t share these memories to haunt anyone. I share them to offer a flashlight. If even one person spots the warning signs and steps off the path my husband forced me onto, the telling is worth it.

Leaving should be liberating, not lethal. And love — real love — never demands you pay for your freedom with your own or someone else’s life.

Shavaun Scott is a psychotherapist specializing in trauma recovery. Her memoir, “Nightbird,” explores personal and professional journeys through suicide, abuse and healing.

Need help? In the U.S., call 1-800-799-SAFE (7233) for the National Domestic Violence Hotline.

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