On a frigid February evening in 1983, everything changed for me. As I settled in to watch my favorite show, a knock at the door shattered my comfort. We weren’t expecting anyone, and a wave of anxiety washed over me as I caught a glimpse of my father’s face through the glass, shrouded in the darkness of that night.
At that time, my parents were embroiled in a bitter divorce. My father was battling mental illness, consumed by anger and loneliness, and he had nothing left to lose. I felt relief when he moved out, but that relief was short-lived as his police-issued firearm came with him. It loomed over me like a specter, a source of constant dread. And now, in this moment of terror, I feared it could be the last thing I ever saw.
Responding to what I thought was a sense of duty, I opened the door. Without a moment’s hesitation, he pressed the gun against my temple. There were no affectionate words—only the chilling question, “Do you want to die first?” Those words have reverberated in my mind for decades, casting a long shadow over my life.
In that instant, panic took hold of me. I fled, scrambling out of the room as my father’s drunken shouts echoed behind me, directed at my mother, sisters, and aunt. I was only 13, utterly lost and helpless. My instinct was to run, and I’ve been running ever since.
Barefoot and shivering in the snow, I made my way to a neighbor’s home. Their concern was evident as they noticed my exposed feet. “Do you want any socks?” one asked. I managed to utter, “My dad’s there. He has his gun.” Fortunately, my neighbor was an officer. He walked back to my house, firearm at the ready, while his wife called for help—the good guys. I couldn’t help but wonder why my father wasn’t one of them.
Though I didn’t hear any gunfire that night, uncertainty loomed large. Were my family members safe? I felt paralyzed, detached from reality, and burdened with shame for abandoning them. Even years later, that shame lingers.
Fortunately, my family survived, but the shadows of gun violence are an inescapable part of my existence. Even with my father’s passing nearly a decade ago, his haunting words remain etched in my mind. Surviving gun violence leaves an indelible mark, instilling fear, anxiety, and, for some, post-traumatic stress disorder. It casts a pall over daily life, and while therapy and time may offer some relief, true freedom from that trauma seems elusive. The reminders of gun violence in our society tighten their grip, reminding us that we are not alone in this struggle.
You are the child at Sandy Hook.
You are the moviegoer in Aurora.
You are the member of a Bible study group in Charleston.
You are the college student in Roseburg.
You are at a holiday gathering in San Bernardino.
You belong to an ever-growing community of gun violence survivors.
You are part of humanity.
You understand all too well that a gun is not an instrument of love. Instead, it takes away our loved ones, becoming a tool of death in the wrong hands. It must be regulated for the sake of humanity. A gun does not love; it does not breathe. It is my adversary. My father used to jokingly call me foe, a reference to the nursery rhyme. But the truth is this: “Do you want to die first?” No, Dad. I want to live.
If you’re seeking ways to take action against violence, consider visiting Moms Demand Action for more information. For those interested in understanding more about gun violence and its implications, I encourage you to explore this authoritative resource for further insights. Additionally, for information on pregnancy and home insemination, check out this excellent resource.
Summary:
This article reflects on the profound and lasting impact of gun violence on individuals and families. It shares a personal story of survival, illustrating the fear and trauma that accompany such experiences. It emphasizes the necessity for societal change regarding gun regulation and highlights the ongoing struggles faced by survivors.