Updated: June 6, 2017
Originally Published: June 6, 2017
On a frigid evening in February 1983, my world shifted irrevocably. As I settled in to watch a dramatic showdown between characters on a popular television show, an unexpected knock echoed through the silence. A wave of fear washed over me as I glimpsed my father’s face through the door’s window, framed by the oppressive darkness of night.
At that time, my parents were embroiled in a bitter divorce. My father, battling mental illness, was filled with anger, loneliness, and a reckless abandon for consequences. I had felt relief when he moved out, and even more so when his police-issued firearm was no longer in the house. That gun had been a constant threat, a tormentor in my life. On this ominous night, however, it loomed as a potential harbinger of doom.
Against my better judgment, I opened the door, driven by an instinctive sense of obligation. Without any warmth or affection, he pressed the gun against my temple and asked, “Do you want to die first?” Those chilling words have reverberated in my mind for decades, a haunting refrain that disrupts my peace even today.
Panic surged through me. I fled the room, attempting to escape the unimaginable reality unfolding around me. My father’s voice, slurred and angry, rang out, targeting not just me but my entire family as well. At just 13 years old, I felt utterly powerless, so I ran. I haven’t stopped running since.
Barefoot and vulnerable, I dashed through the snow to my neighbor’s home. My silhouette contrasted starkly against the white ground. “Do you want any socks?” they asked, noticing my chilled feet. I managed to whisper, “My dad’s there. He has his gun.”
Fortunately, my neighbor was a police officer. He approached our home, armed and ready, while his wife alerted the authorities—the real heroes. In that moment, I couldn’t help but wonder why my father wasn’t among those who protect and serve.
Though the night passed without gunfire, I was left in a state of uncertainty regarding my family’s fate. Ashamed of my instinct to flee, I grappled with feelings of guilt that linger to this day. While my family survived that night, the specter of gun violence endures, a constant shadow in my life. Even a decade after my father’s death, his haunting words continue to echo within me.
Surviving gun violence leaves an indelible mark that affects every facet of life. The aftermath often manifests as fear, anxiety, shame, and post-traumatic stress disorder. It casts a long shadow over daily activities, and while therapy or time can provide some relief, the scars remain. We are prisoners of our experiences, with the reminders of rampant gun violence tightening their grip on our lives.
In this shared experience, we are connected. You are the child at Sandy Hook, the moviegoer in Aurora, the member of a Bible study in Charleston, the college student in Roseburg, and the attendee at a holiday party in San Bernardino. You belong to an ever-growing community of gun violence survivors, part of the broader human experience.
We all understand that a gun is not a symbol of love; it has taken many loved ones away from us. It is an instrument of death, particularly in the wrong hands. It must be regulated to safeguard humanity, as it does not embody love or life. It is an adversary, a foe I was once jokingly called by my father, reminiscent of “Fee-fi-fo-fum.”
“Do you want to die first?” No, Daddy. I choose to live.
For more information on how to take action against violence, visit Moms Demand Action.
Summary:
This piece reflects on the lasting impact of gun violence through the lens of a survivor’s harrowing experience with a parent in crisis. It emphasizes the emotional scars left by such encounters and connects the individual story to the broader societal issue of gun violence in America. The narrative underscores the importance of regulation and community support in combating this pervasive threat.
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