I hate guns. I hate them.
I completely understand owning a hunting rifle for hunting food and I even get own a shotgun if you live in the wilderness. But hand guns? They exist to kill people. And fuck guns that can kill dozens of people in seconds.
I get that we are a gun owning country. I don’t like it, but this where I live.
If you are a regular reader, then you know from my last few posts that life has been kind of shitty lately. It’s been years since I’ve lived with such elevated anxiety without a break.
I needed something, anything, to cut through the scream in my head.
The network dude at work told me that I needed to shoot a gun. He said shooting a gun would be like a release.
But I hate guns.
So, at lunch last Thursday, I went with my two office mates and shot a gun for the first time in my life.
I don’t identify people by name here, well, other than my family. They’re fair game. So I will name my office mates Cookie and Snookie. I am not going to tell them which is which and they will hate those names. Especially, Snookie.
I love my work friends. They have propped me up over the past few weeks and I cherish them. I might be stressed as fuck at work, but I’m still glad I have this job, because I have gotten to know some awesome humans.
There is a shooting range about a five minute drive from where we work and today, instead of frantically fighting the fires which always come after an implementation, we left work behind and shot the shit out of some paper.
Well, Cookie and Snookie did. I am apparently a poor shot.
But honestly, I didn’t give a fuck about hitting the paper. I just wanted to shoot a gun.
We got to the gun place and I became unnerved. So many instruments of death. All in one place. Plus, dead things on the walls.
Sort of like my last job. The owner was a hunter, and the lobby of the building, had 7 or 8 deer heads hanging in it. Fucking creepy.
Then, I saw a stuffed dinosaur hanging from the ceiling. I’m pretty sure no one shot that. Well, they might have shot it, but they didn’t kill it.
We walked up to the counter and the old dude looked at us like we were lost and asked if he could help.
Me: Yes. We want to shoot guns.
Gun dude: Okay, have you shot a gun before?
Me: Nope.
He made that sound you make when you puff your cheeks out and then sound like a motorboat.
Gun Dude: Phbbbbbbbbttttttttttt…..
Gun dude: What gun do you want to shoot?
Me: I don’t want your wussiest gun. I want your second wussiest gun.
He pulled out a super long revolver from under the counter and asked if that one was alright.
Me: Ummm, maybe a little wussier than that.
He suggested a Glock.
Me: Yeah! A Glock. Glock sounds bad ass.
Now I have to combine Cookie and Snookie’s names because if I don’t they’ll figure out who is who by this conversation. So now, they are collectively “Casnookie”.
Casnookie: Yeah, a Glock. Plus it rhymes with cock.
See? What’s not to love?
Other Casnookie: Okay, see how they are? I can’t take them anywhere.
Me: She’s not wrong.
Casnookie: Well, it does rhyme with cock.
Me: She’s not wrong, either.
He pretended to not hear the whole “cock” part of the conversation and suggested a Beretta.
Me: I don’t know. Glock sounds way more bad ass then Beretta.
Gun dude: Well, a Glock is a Ford and a Beretta is a Lincoln.
We decided we didn’t care and settled on a Glock and a revolver.
It took a while for him to show us how to pull the thingy back on the Glock and stuff the bullet holder into the gun.
Well, it took me a while because he kept telling me to push down on a button and I kept pushing in. In my defense, I was
exhausted. I also don’t always follow directions.
He showed us how to use the bullet loader for the bullet holder and I really thought I had it down.
We rented two lanes, bought a few targets and a box of bullets, then put on our goggles and ear muffs and went to lanes 10 and 11.
You guys, I fucking loved shooting that gun. Holy shit did I love shooting that gun.
We took turns and unloaded the first round of bullets and then I attempted to use the bullet loader so we could shoot some more.
I fucked it up.
Casnookie looked at the thingy you shove into the gun and said “The fuck? You put these in backwards.”
I got the first few back out but the rest just dropped down inside all jumbled up. I held it out to the other Casnookie and she shook her head “Nope. You did it. Go take it to the counter.”
Shit balls.
I had to take it back out to the counter and give it to the gun dude.
Me: So, ummm, really sorry, but I did this wrong.
Gun dude, looking into the bullet holder: What the hell?
Me: Are you messing with me? I mean, I’m not the first person to do this, right?
Gun dude: Well, no. I’ve never seen this before.
He handed it to his buddy who also said he didn’t know how I managed to get the bullets in there like that. They had to use something that looked like a chop stick to dig them out.
I went back into the range and totally forgot to put my ear muffs back on.
My hearing was muffled for the rest of the afternoon. Casnookie and I started loading it up and I immediately tried to put them in backwards again. She gently pointed it out by saying “Michelle, you are doing it again. Look at the picture.”
We persevered and got loaded up again.
I made the other Casnookie nervous when I turned to say something to her. I mean, it’s not like I was waving my Glock around like a crazy person, but it was still in my hand.
Other Casnookie: Yeah, why don’t you set that down and take your hand off of it and then talk to me?
“Other Casnookie” is often my voice of reason during working hours. A Jiminy Cricket, if you will. Except she’s not a bug and she doesn’t wear a top hat. That I know of. I don’t know what she does at home at night. Top hats might be involved. I don’t ask about that because it’s not my business.
I don’t think I hit the paper once my last five shots. I did not give a fuck. I just shot one after the other and it felt so goddamn good.
Since we spent most of our time learning how to operate the gun, we didn’t have a lot of time to shoot. But that’s okay. I was happy. For the first time in weeks, my chest didn’t feel constricted and I could breathe.
Because of a goddamn gun.
We collected our targets and turned our guns in. Except for the bullets. We had left over bullets.
Gun dude: Now, you have to go wash your hands really good before you leave. You have to get the residue off your hands. And you have to use cold water. No hot water. You don’t want to open your pores.
Me: Okay.
Gun dude: If you use hot water, you will die.
Me: HAHAHAAHAHAHAHA
We washed our hands with cold water and strutted out of there like we were Charlie’s Angels except for older and way more bad ass. We were all slightly giddy. Possibly more than slightly.
When I got back to work, I actually felt calm and light.
Then I crashed super hard and thought I was going to fall asleep at my desk.
I only worked 7 1/2 hours Thursday after days and days of 10 and 12 hour days. I went home and took a 2 hour nap.
I am not a napper. I can’t remember the last nap I’ve taken. The nap made me groggy, but when I woke up, I could breathe again.
We’re going back to the gun place this week.
Women get $5 lane rentals and free gun rental on Thursdays. Fuck the patriarchy, but I’ll still take that ladies day at the gun range discount.
I mean, I have this half full box of bullets. It’s silly to let them go to waste.
I have to say “only in America” for this one! I loved that using a weapon of mass destruction eased your anxiety and prepared you for a lovely long afternoon nap – but holy cow! that would never happen here in Australia. I’m not even sure we have a gun range in our State – let alone down the street from work! It’s a different world over there! Still, nice to know it helped and that you’ve found a new hobby as an alternative to macrame or crochet 🙂
I am still working out reconciling how much I hate guns with how much I LOVED shooting a gun. It’s bizarre.
I have bullets.
Tim took my gun, tho.
I don’t think I will ever own a gun…but I never thought I would shoot one, either.
It’s the blast of power… like driving a semi truck up a mountain… there’s a gear you find that makes the truck feels like it is ‘walking.’ The power of the truck in a working pull can be felt in your butt from each tire and you can’t help but match your heartbeat and breathing to the pulse of the engine.
It is an amazing feeling and I think you oughta try that next 😉
Haha..Next up? SKY DIVING!!
no.
This was awesome fun to read!
I wish I could have been the ‘fly on the wall’ when you took that gun back to the ‘gun dude’ so he could fix your bullets.
You know you made his day, as well?
His dinner conversation had to be punctuated by guffaws and snorts 🙂
The Casnookies are now my favorite people. Anybody who could make you smile and breathe for more than 5 minutes last week is destined for Sainthood and Unicorns.
And, yeah. Blasting a few paper or tin can holes is amazingly giddy and refreshing and the only thing I can think of that would perfectly end that kind of day is the 2 hour nap.
Or the $50 bath…
I wish I had recorded the whole thing because I forgot a LOT of the funniness of the conversation. The gun dude was hilarious.
I’m sure you opened the hilarity door real wide, Luv 🙂 😀
I always enjoy reading your posts. This one was different. I enjoyed it as always, but I actually feel like I learned something from it as well. It was incredibly helpful to hear from someone who I know feels the same way about guns as I do. Help bridge the huge chasm between two wildly different points of view. I appreciate how your feelings towards guns haven’t changed at all but you were honest about how you liked shooting the gun. Makes it easier to understand how someone who has grown up around guns and always had them can feel so strongly about giving them up. Things are never as binary as they sometimes seem. I’m glad you were able to get some relief from your heightened anxiety.
Most things are not black and white. I am NOT pro gun. I can’t imagine ever being pro gun. It was a learning experience and I did enjoy shooting the gun, but my basic aversion hasn’t changed. It’s a weird thing to try to work through.
I am flying out once again to deal with a family issue where a family member killed his wife.
I have never liked guns. EVAH. I had a friend suggest going to a shooting range might help me deal with the angst. I have not done it. I am not scared of guns. I will never own one. For me, shooting one, nah, I don’t think it will help the pain.
I’m glad it helped you in some sort of way. I am a strong believer than guns (while they can kill people), that the person has to pull the trigger. In no way do I believe that there should be guns everywhere, or fully automatic weapons. If you hunt and eat the meat, then sure, I agree with that.
Other than that, no. Guns belong somewhere other than in our homes and on the streets.
Then again, I’m Canadian.
I agree, Diane. Well said. From your fellow Canadian.
I agree with Diane as well. I’m finding this a strange thing to work through
I am in 100% agreement with you. They do NOT belong in our homes. It’s kind of weird to enjoy what I did and still have a aversion to guns. I’m working through that. I know I will NEVER be pro gun. I just looked at this as a way to to relieve some stress and to maybe understand them a little more.
My favorite SIL finds going to the range a great release too. She tells me to her surprise she is a really good shot which gives her some hidden talents. She is not athletic and when people start talking about their running marathons, or heli-skiing etc., she casually mentions her shooting expertise. Usually the one upmenship stops.
Good for your SIL!!!
While I have so looked forward to your posts, today I need to let you go. I didn’t love where this story went. In my mind finding release in firing a gun is horrifying. I could never support giving money to a firing range. Not in a million years.
But then, you likely won’t print this. Best of luck to you. Oh, I will miss Mountain girl , your hubby and all your adventures.
I wouldn’t NOT print this. I figured there would be people who would object and I respect that. I will miss you as well.
For the record, I still hate guns. I really liked firing a gun, but I hate them and I will continue to support candidates who are strong on gun control.
Sorry to see you go, but we all gotta do what we gotta do.
I’m sorry, but as a card-carrying progressive liberal from California who wants to ban automatic weapons, I don’t understand this point of view. Gun ranges are not the same as gun shops (though most gun ranges will sell guns). They are probably the one place involving guns that actually takes the effort to educate the people buying/using them on how they should be PROPERLY used (ie: never point a gun at a person for any reason other than extreme instances of self-defense and don’t point it at anything else you don’t intend to destroy). Even if you don’t like guns, would never fire one in a million years, don’t even want to see them, why would you condemn the one place that actually attempts to educate people on the matter?
Oh boy…I’m happy for you and a bit scared at the same time.
I would have chosen the Glock too. Because that is the gun I remember from some of my favorite rap songs. Ah..Snoop.
Hahahaha…maybe that’s why I liked that one. It is a bit scary.
Sorry that someone is leaving you because of this story. Ah, well. If everyone loves you, you are one boring chick, right?
Anyway, we are sisters in the gun arena, Michelle. Not a gun fan, but just inherited a shit ton of them. Getting them out of my house to an auction has been top priority.
However, we have a few in the house now that kiddos are gone, and grandchildren are far away. All locked up, though. So hubs decided since we are hanging on to a few, I should know some basics. I took a women’s gun safety class years ago for a story I was writing, but haven’t shot since.
After we went to a range – where we got to “take aim at women’s breast cancer” pink paper targets – I felt lighter. And I shot the shit out of those targets. I haven’t unpacked all the reasons why I felt better afterward, nor have I spent one minute feeling guilty about it. And I plan to go again.
BUT, I think I may enjoy learning more about archery – and hoping it can give the same sense of unburdening. We will see.
I appreciate that you shared this with us, knowing that some of your readers may find it disconcerting. It resonated with me for similar reasons.
Archery would be interesting as well. And thank you. 🙂
I get it. At least I think I get it. Sometimes when I get frustrated I have to go and kick the shit out of some walls. Bonus: that rhymes with “balls”. I don’t think I could forgive myself if I ever took my anger out on a person or animal, maybe even a plant, but sometimes inanimate objects need to get the fuck out of my way or they will be smashed.
Except they can’t because of the whole inanimate thing, so I have to get away from computers and Ming vases before I start throwing punches.
And I know gun owners who keep their guns at a range, never fire at a living thing, and fucking hate the NRA.
Sometimes you just need that release, and I’m glad it’s working for you.
Also you should buy Other Casnookie a top hat.
Other Casnookie would rock the shit out of a top hat.
I live in Canada, so it’s a little harder to do that, although honestly, I’ve never had even the remotest desire to shoot a gun–way too noisy, plus the killing part and whatnot, but to each her own. When I want to blow off steam, I go on the Ridgerunner at Blue Mountain–it’s pretty cathartic. You start out screaming and end up laughing hysterically. Quite the experience.
They are terribly noisy. Man, you really need those ear muffs. I never thought about shooting a gun until my coworker kept telling me to try it and I thought, why not. Everything sucks right now, do something different.
I have always been pretty emphatically against guns. My ex spent years trying to get me to go to the gun range with him. I finally agreed after we broke up in an attempt to mend our romantic relationship (by doing things together, or something). We actually paid for the private shooting lesson, which involves a retired police officer and fake guns.
It was incredibly fun. Also, apparently I was a great shot, considering that I’ve never even seen a gun in person before. Of course, once I got home, I promptly forgot the proper way to hold and cock the gun, but whatever. I’m sure I can find instructions on YouTube. Not that it matters, because even though I enjoyed myself, I don’t think I would do it again. Being around that many loaded weapons gave me crazy anxiety.
I’m glad it helped.
Thank you! I don’t see this becoming a thing for me. I will do it at least a few more times, though. It is unsettling to be around the guns. I don’t like that, but it’s so fun shooting it. I’m a terrible shot. haha
To all those that agree, or disagree, I have always found diversity is a wonderful thing, for without it; life would as someone else said, basically,….boring as hell.
I have stated I don’t like guns, however, I do have one, “fun” story My grandparents lived on a farm and in grandfather’s wisdom he thought it would be good for a young woman (read I was eight or nine) to know how to shoot a .22.
An oil barrel beside the outhouse. I quote him and hear the words to this day, “Aim for the paint spot!” I add that the oil barrel was empty. I hit the outhouse twice. I am thankful it was also empty.
Trust me on this one, my grandfather was in more trouble than I was when my grandmother came outside and said, “XXXXX did you check to see if anyone was inside before you let her fire that gun”.
I think we were both grounded….that part is a bit hazy as I got a swat on the ass.
Uh oh. Haha. Yeah, I know you can’t please everyone. I am also done with apologizing for my life. I’m not perfect, but I am me and I’m trying to learn to be okay with that.
I grew up in a house where the gun cabinet was in the dining room and just through the sliding glass doors was the deck, off of which there was a 100 yard shooting range.
I’m not sure how my parents kept the three of us out of the guns until we could be trained to handle them safely, mostly because I am the youngest and therefore the last kid to go through it.
We were, though, taught said safety rules at a young age, and also shown from a very young age just what a bullet does to living flesh, whenever my mom or dad shot something hunting or when one of the livestock was slaughtered.
I thought it was gross. My sister was upset by it. But none of the three of us, or any of our friends ever got in any trouble with guns.
Where I grew up, guns were just something you occasionally needed to have, and therefore had to know how to not hurt yourself or anyone else with, like a power tool or a vehicle.
I left all of my guns at my dad’s house in Eureka when I moved to Oakland in 1984, because why would I want them here?
Since my dad passed away, I guess my sister is now in possession of that gun cabinet and its contents. She can shoot, but was never really into it very much.
I have an odd system of categorizing people and their guns. I know some folks who have a LOT of guns. I mean way more than they will ever regularly use. I don’t worry about them, though, because they are a family full of master machinists who all shoot in competition, and their Federal Firearms Licensing paperwork is in multiple three-ring binders. Also, and I can’t stress this enough, they live in a place where shooting is safe, normal, and not any kind of power symbol that can entice the wrong kind of behavior out of someone who might pick one up.
Time and place for everything.
I also know a guy who lives in Oakland who has a gun safe that used to be a bank vault (he’s that kind of a mechanic) and it is full. FULL. And despite being somewhat of an outlaw for most of his life, he has a relationship with the OPD wherein he can approach many of the officers who work down in West Oakland, where he lives and where there is a definite problem with gun violence, and give them a gun. The guns he gives them are guns he found in the possession of someone whose mental state was such that he felt they shouldn’t have one. He doesn’t do this lightly or flippantly, and the cops LOVE him. They like it when he tells them where the guns came from, but will take them no questions asked.
So, yeah, there are some folks with guns who don’t bother me, and some who only have access to one who scare the living shit out of me.
I don’t shoot any more. To me, it’s like the way I never rode my motorcycle fast on the street: as a former motorcycle racer, that would never do it for me, and was incredibly unsafe. I don’t like commercial shooting ranges, because I have an ingrained reflex to stop and pay attention to a gunshot when I hear one, and they kind of drive me crazy that way, when I grew up with the open space to safely shoot recreationally without having to pay attention to a bunch of other people who I don’t know if I need to watch out for or not.
I am as far left of a Bay Area liberal as you’re likely to ever find, but I also think that prohibition has never worked for anything else, so why should I expect it to work with guns? For example, we have some fairly strict gun laws here in California, but given the cash, I could have pretty much any gun you can think of, along with the ammunition to shoot out of it within a day. Including some terrifying guns that nobody but the military should ever have for any reason.
If we’re gonna do anything about the epidemic of gun violence in this country, we’re gonna have to face some more difficult social phenomena with tools more sane and effective that “thou shalt not.” There are currently 88 guns for every 100 US citizens, and those weapons will not magically blink out of existence if they become illegal.
I still feel that many of them need to go. Even with my background, after living through the late eighties in the poorer sections of Oakland, I have seen the slaughter right up close and personal, and I have seen the kids growing up in those poor neighborhoods with unhealthy attitudes toward guns: they are a power symbol that can win any argument by just being pulled out of a pocket, and therefore a reason to never learn the very social skills needed to live in the high population densities found in those neighborhoods. And most of what they have for gun knowledge comes from TV shows where the hero gets shot in one scene, and is running and jumping in the very next scene like nothing is wrong, and by the end of the show doesn’t even have a bandage.
Sorry for the extra long comment, but this is a subject I try to say my piece about when I get the chance.
And yeah, shooting can be a blast, so to speak. I guess a lot of things that are fun are dangerous, and require the ability to deal with complex ideas in order to safely enjoy.
Doug,
What a brilliant comment on a very difficult issue.
He’s smart like that.
I look forward to his comments 🙂
I always look forward to what Doug has to say. 🙂 I love this community so much.
Please don’t apologize, this is awesome. Thank you so much. This kind of opens my eyes to a few things, like guns harming young people’s ability to develop the social skills they need. Fascinating.
MICHELLE, LOOK WHAT YOU STARTED! This is fucking awesome: a rational, deliberative and respectful conversation about one of our most divisive topics here in the US. Would love to see this held on a national level.
I love my BB gun. Would never hurt a creature, but I get the thrill. I’ve killed many a dead stick and enjoyed the shit out of it.
Americans do need some limitations on types and numbers, but I don’t know how to fix that. More conversations like this one are a start.
Thank you so much. I didn’t see it that way. More just a funny post because my coworkers are some funny people. Well, and how weird it was to get such a kick out of shooting a gun.
I was raised around guns so haven’t had qualms about shooting targets and it can be fun. What I do now is shoot in video games. I kill the shit out of aliens and it can be satisfying though maybe not as much as shooting targets with a real gun.
I quit playing video games after Pacman. Maybe I should give them another go.
I live in Singapore and I think it used to be a capital offence to have a gun in your possession. Not sure if it still is..
Am totally for gun control but am glad you got to fire one to release the stress. Only ‘gun’ I fired was when we went and did the company thing with those paintball guns. I was very apprehensive before doing it but when I got the gun in my hand and ‘shot’ my office mates, I actually loved it…
Not a very good thing for an advocate for gun control…
Right there with you. I am all for stringent gun control. Still…really liked shooting the gun.
An acquaintance of mine was just killed by a stray bullet in a drive by shooting. She was 64 years old, heading out to dinner with her husband, a block from her home.
Gun shot.
I share your feelings on guns and I admit this was hard to read, but I too have shot a rifle, and there is some exhileration and release that happened when I fired it.
But then I get the same release from playing whack a mole at the fair ground, or swatting mosquitos with my electric mosquito swatter.
Go figure.
I am so so sorry you lost your friend. I am appalled by the gun violence in this country. I am sorry this was difficult for you to read. I am not trying to be flippant about guns, but more about my experience with them.
One time, at a renaissance festival, I threw hatchets and it was very much like that. Only now I have a torn rotator cuff and I don’t really have that range of motion anymore.
I have owned a “snub-nose” .38 revolver for the past 20 years or so. Originally purchased when I found the 9mm too heavy to shoot with any skill or ease. 1st husband had bought “us” the 9mm, but my tiny girly hands just couldn’t handle the weight or the kick, so he kept that one for himself and bought me the .38. I only ever go to the gun range with it! It’s not for self- or home- protection; I just like shooting it.
But I grew up with guns. rifles and shotguns and revolvers, oh my. Paper targets and mailboxes and tin cans and whatnot in a gully in a big back yard, most of the time. I don’t need a damn automatic or semi-automatic; I don’t need anyone else to need one, either. Good hunters who use the game they kill don’t need more than a single shot at a time. Not even good COPS need multiple rounds, frankly, but I’m okay with the “good guys” being the only ones with access to them.
But let’s go to the gun range, shall we? I’ll load my five bullets at a time, and you can learn to load the Glock’s CLIP. We’ll have fun. Let’s be sure to protect our ears, tho. 😉
Clip. Right! I couldn’t remember any of the proper words. We were supposed to go back today, but I’m having lunch with my older son. Next week, though. For sure.
Jesus, Michelle, are you actually me?
Same here.
My brother however went on a corporate-bonding, “yay we just finished a project” celebration sort of thingy, which was a trip for his team to a gun range, and he regaled me with tales of how unexpectedly fun it was, etc. and being a natural salesman, sold me. He offered me an afternoon at a range as my birthday presnt.
And I went to that gun range, and we got the safety/beginner’s lesson, and we rented earmuffs and handguns ranging from .22s to so-called hand cannons — and I was home.
And I was good, right off the bat. Really good. At 50 ft., I don’t think I missed the 10-ring with a single shot. God, the mindfulness of preparing to fire. God, the sheer feeling of lining up those sights and slowing my heart and focusing, focusing, because I was at one with my tool, and God the orgasmic pleasure of hitting the silhouette drawing on the target square in the middle of the face.
I am not a violent person. As a child I used to pick earthworms off the sidewalk after it rained and put them back in the grass so they wouldn’t bake. I hate confrontation. Real violence sickens me.
But some part of me is a natural-born killer. Because somewhere — I didn’t even know this — I was THAT angry. At having been, by my mother, battered, tortured, abandoned in unsafe places, put down, screamed at, asked to “please be a good girl and commit suicide” (said in this chillingly cool and reasonable voice), etc etc et al.
I would never, did never, lay a finger in violence on my mother.
But apparently anger will out, ideally in a safe place and way.
I shot for the head. With such great care I kept hitting it and hitting it, never missing with a .45 or even the even though I have bad eyesight and suck at sports generally.
And God, did it feel good. I felt whole. I felt tall. I felt like someone who was not, briefly, the damaged but a natural-bred killer. But with the restraint to loose that side of myself only at paper facsimiles, with a range master at hand, and a lead back wall to soak up or safely deflect the bullets I fired.
This is making me sound like a psycho. 🙂
I’m not, I’m apparently just someone born in danger and raised in danger who, when shown physical self-defense techniques, show great zeal and seriousness in mastering them. Because in my home, there were tigers, and they only stopped tearing at me with their claws so the bloody furrows would heal before anyone who might care, witnessed them.
Have you ever read “The Gift of Fear,” by Gavin Becker, a man raised in unspeakable danger and chaos (mostly in the form of his mother) who recounts how that terribly hard-bought knowledge of reading facial signals and having a plan, always, to get himself and his little sister out if the mother looked like she was going to use the, er, gun she was brandishing at her lover; anyway, how that hard-bought knowledge is a survival skill few people have, and which does protect us. You smell narcissism on someone and bail. And on your personal Trail of Tears that your father forced you to walk, well, you walked. In the general direction of away from him. You might get turned around for a while, but you re-orient. You stumble, because he wounded you direly and gave you no footwear and left you in a rocky wilderness of the spirit with no sustenance of self-esteem, but you pick yourself up. You walk on and fall and pick yourself up and keep walking, limping a little maybe and crying sometimes and scared to death, but you don’t stay in the cubicle because you know it’s no haven, and you do stay with your man because you saw that he wasn’t your father, even if it took a while (you had an instinct somewhere that his waiting for you meant he WAS safe, that bewildering thing). You are a survivor. You’re a fighter. You hated hand-guns and worse, assault rifles, because they are beautifully engineered to kill human beings and you are no murderer and want to see no one murdered; but you learned to shoot because something in you knew also that somebody once tried to murder you, and if God forbid there’s a next time, well, you will fight for your life.
Me, too, which is why I found that book so affirming. It’s all about how we somehow survived intact (-ish) being finished off by our gone-so-so-wrong designated protector, as “children,” holding none of the cards and biologically programmed to love our parents and run to them for safety, which usually works but not in our case; and the strength and the sense of some aspects of reality we have that few people guess at or can stand if shown it, let alone survive it.
And now you’re using that terrible knowledge to help others. You were violated, and instead of turning into your father, you watch yourself like a hawk for little instances in which you might be doing the same; and moreover set up a sort of blog-cum-trauma center for others who are bleeding. (Like the book author, who grew up to become a world-famous personal security consultant; still trying to keep his little sister from trauma and physical harm. And wrote a book telling us Children of the Secret — phrase borrowed from another author* — that our damage is damage, yes, but that it is also uncommon strength, and that it gives us special, rare power to heal the damaged, if only by telling your story honestly and giving us all a sight of a fellow damaged sister being good, and compassionate, and conscience-ridden, and strong, and funny and wise and a really good listener if you’ve made it this far in my post.
Do you know the Greek ( I think) idea of the “wounded healer”? Well there you go. Literally.
If any of you haven’t read the book, all, I highly recommend it. The author doesn’t just assert that what we went through gave us special strengths that the more blissfully ignorant don’t have, he shows exactly how that worked in real people, including himself. (Without being grandiose, so I’m actually pretty sure he didn’t turn out to be personality-disordered, any more than you, Michelle, did. Or the rest of us.)
Getting back (sort of) to guns, the Army gives out medals to soldiers wounded in combat. And — to sound a bit here like someone whose father’s family were small-town working-class Christian folk, with the men going off to war when called up and shotguns for hunting and workplaces that included a patrol car, a coal mine, and, for the women, the home; which I am — when I hear someone won a Purple Heart, I thank them for their service. And respect them for it. Whatever I think of the war and the rear-echelon bleeper-bleepers who called the shots, while staying well away from them personally.
Also, I may ask them whether it’s better to pause to aim while first returning fire, or just put out covering fire for a while, or do neither but run for better cover.
Just in case. Because I like all of us was not spared the first-hand knowledge from babyhood onward that there are adults trying to harm their own children gravely, forget about armed foes; that surrendering (except seemingly, to placate) isn’t an option; and that being handed a weapon and learning its use is a revelation. Even, or more accurately especially because, when we know we aren’t going to use it, because when given lethal power over someone helpless, we choose differently than our parent(s) did.** It feels really good nonetheless not to be that helpless ourselves.
* Andrew Vachss.
** Shooting a paper target in the face repeatedly doesn’t count, we can agree. I was clearly, unbeknownst to myself, filled with murderous fury at all the times I got hit and couldn’t, didn’t hit back, physically or emotionally, and probably actually wanted to burn down the whole world, but I did restrict my subconscious to seeking harmless catharsis at a shooting range. As did you. Enjoying the bleep out of it was just one of the very very very few perks of being an Adult Child of a Malignant Narcissist.
Wow. Just wow. First, I am glad you are here and I am so sorry that your mother was so horrible. It’s just heartbreaking. And thank you so much for the book recommendation, I will certainly be reading it.
And no, you don’t sound psycho at all. We all process our shit the way we process it. I wish you happiness and peace and contentment. xo
Hey Michelle,
I’ve never thought of firing a gun to release anger or whatsoever. I like breaking things like my vocal chords, bones and muscles! I sing or go to the gym, just like that. Haha! No guns not even a toy gun. We banned toy guns at home, not for my nephew or for anyone.
Thanks for sharing your story though, I enjoyed reading 🙂 By the way, don’t forget putting ear muffs on next time 😉
I haven’t gone since. I also didn’t allow guns and I am not a gun lover, I just wanted to try it. I DID enjoy it, but I don’t know that we’ll do it again.