On a frigid February night in 1983, my world took a drastic turn. While I was engrossed in an episode of a popular TV show, a knock at the door jolted me from my thoughts. A wave of fear washed over me as I recognized my father’s silhouette through the window, cloaked in the oppressive darkness of the night.
My parents were entangled in a bitter divorce, and my father’s mental state was precarious—he was angry, isolated, and had nothing left to lose. I had felt relief when he left our home, especially knowing he took his police-issued firearm with him. That gun had been a persistent threat, a tormentor in my life, and now, facing him on that dreadful night, I feared it could be my last moment.
Despite my instincts screaming at me to stay away, I opened the door, feeling an obligation to my father. Without any warmth or affection, he pressed the cold metal of the gun against my temple and asked, “Do you want to die first?” Those chilling words have echoed in my mind ever since, haunting my dreams and everyday life.
In a panic, I fled from the room, desperate to escape the nightmare unfolding before me. I ran barefoot through the snow to a neighbor’s house, leaving a trail of footprints illuminated by the moonlight. “Would you like some socks?” they inquired, noticing my icy feet. I managed to explain between breaths, “My dad is there. He has a gun.”
Fortunately, my neighbor was a police officer. He accompanied me back to my home with his firearm drawn, while his wife called for help. I wondered why my father wasn’t among the good guys. Though I didn’t hear gunfire, I was paralyzed by uncertainty about my family’s fate. I felt an overwhelming shame for abandoning them, a feeling that lingers even today.
We were fortunate to survive that night, but the specter of gun violence remains a dark part of my existence. Even after my father’s passing nearly a decade ago, his words still echo in my mind. Surviving gun violence leaves lasting scars; it breeds anxiety, shame, and sometimes post-traumatic stress disorder. The shadows of that night cast a pall over many aspects of life.
You may not realize it, but you are not alone. You are the child at Sandy Hook. You are the moviegoer in Aurora. You are the congregant in Charleston and the college student in Roseburg. You are part of an ever-growing group of individuals touched by gun violence. You know that a gun is not a symbol of love; it is an instrument of death in the wrong hands.
It is crucial that we regulate firearms to protect our communities. Guns do not breathe, they do not love—they are adversaries. My father used to call me “foe” in jest, a reference to “Fee-fi-fo-fum.” But in that moment, I just wanted to live.
For those seeking to take action against violence, I encourage you to visit Moms Demand Action. It’s vital to stay informed, especially when navigating the complexities of life and family. For more resources on pregnancy, check out Women’s Health, and if you’re looking for information on vaccinations during pregnancy, Understanding Vaccination is an excellent authority on the topic.
Summary:
This article recounts a deeply personal experience of surviving gun violence, highlighting the lasting impacts it has on individuals and families. It emphasizes the importance of community support and regulation of firearms to ensure safety and peace. The author’s harrowing story serves as a reminder of the pervasive nature of gun violence in America and the need for collective action against it.