"He put his hands around my neck in anger in a chokehold." Justice Ann Walsh Bradley's statement could have been written by me, nine years ago. The circumstances were a little different - my assailant was my ex-husband, not a coworker - but the act was the same.
By domestic violence standards, my assault wasn't that bad. My ex was an attorney, a certified appellate specialist, a law review editor, a well respected person. Visible bruises lingered for several weeks. I pressed charges, he spent 48 hours in jail, he pled nolo contendere, life continued on. Violence is like solar storms: unpredictable hot flares. A person that I once cared about was trying to stop me from breathing.
The memory returns every time my neck is touched. I don't wear turtlenecks. Choker necklaces are chokers. And now, as I read a story halfway across the country, I cannot get enough air into my trachea. Moments terrify me.
Justice Bradley needs to press charges. Even if the matter sinks into the swamp of "he-said-she-said" where stories of violence against women go.