I have thought quite a bit on the drive home from Virgil’s office. Our session was straightforward and workmanlike. We discussed what needed to be touched upon. My anger at her had mainly subsided, to the point where it wasn’t registering when asked about it. I know none of what happened was really her fault. None of us knew what the steroids would do. Sure, she could have aired on the side of caution, but given the fact that my back, was indeed causing significant problems, it seemed a prudent course. We learned a lesson over the past weeks, maybe the really hard way, but at least we learned it. I’m here. I know now I cannot have a firearm in my home. I know you all are probably thinking, why the fuck did I have one in the first place. I know, it is a logical response. I just never thought of killing myself with a gun, i mean REALLY actually doing it. A transient thought, or image are not what I am talking about. I mean the slow methodical planning that often leads up to my previous attempts, or hospitalizations. I’ll be honest, I love guns. Don’t ask me where that came from. Nobody in my family hunts, or owns firearms. I can’t even remember handling one until I was in my teens. I held a .38 revolver belonging to a neighbor. She let me hold it and examine every inch. I did not fire that gun. But my obsession (I use that word liberally, not clinically) started long before. I had gun magazines beside porn when I just hitting puberty. Don’t ask me why, but they always had a dark secret space in my head. Always the blued steel/ black pieces, never had the same response to a wood and metal gun. They had to be black. The attraction only grew as I got older. As I went thru high school my thoughts remained. I cannot come up with a memory of when I first held or fired a gun. I am just assuming it was after we moved up here. Guns are everywhere in our part of the map. I can tell you which neighbors have firearms, I can even tell you what they have based on the sound of the all too frequent gunfire. It is almost a weird game of mine’s bigger than yours. It will start with a single shot, or maybe a couple. Within minutes (enough time to take it off the gun rack, or out of the safe, and load it) the next one will start shooting. I have a lovely elderly woman who lives next door. She will shoot at anyone that trespasses (she’s almost 80!!) so, needless to say when we moved up here I had to have a gun. Not just any gun, a black benelli shotgun. Oh I can just remember the glee of bringing her home and unleashing the power of a 12 gauge. Awesome. I loved it. There was something exciting and frightening about it. I was holding in one hand a killing machine. The raw explosive power, all in my control. I could kill something if I chose, be it human or animal. I was in awe. I shot her a few times over the next couple months, but mainly I was just content to look at her on occasion. She remained in the house. That was enough for me. Late into the fall hunting season, my partner noted a spotlight out on the back ridge, just as the sun dipped below the horizon. I ran down to the house and grabbed the 12 gauge. I now possessed the ability to harm someone. trespassing or lighting up deer (often used to illegally hunt at dusk using a spotlight, deer freeze in the light and the person kills them) were two very real reasons to want to have some words with someone. I carefully and quietly made my way all the way up to the ridge, a 1/2 mile from the house. I was approximating where I had seen the light last. When I got up there I racked a round into that chamber. I’m sure most people have some sense of that sound (think Terminator or some other action movie). A shotgun uses a pump action to set the round for firing. There in no other sound in the world that comes close. It is a cold hard lethal sound. In the dark I had given the trespasser a very clear message. Had I been in the dark and heard that sound I might need to look for some new underwear. I am sure he was in need as well. If the sound wasn’t enough I promptly told him to get the fuck off my property. I think I felt more powerful in that one split second than I had ever felt in my lifetime. I quickly realized it was entirely stupid, since he now knew exactly where I was, yet I had no idea where in the darkness he was sitting. I felt it prudent to rapidly move in case the dipshit decided to take a shot in my direction. (known to happen around here). I headed back, treading lightly and listening for footsteps in the fallen leaves. I unloaded the gun, since it is far safer to move without having the gun loaded. I nearly walked head on into my partner in the pitch black. We both jumped. It was funny, but really not, considering less than 2 minutes earlier I was holding a loaded gun.
It is clear that in my mind, and heart I have great respect for a gun. I don’t know how to explain it, but I would never intentionally use one to kill myself. I love them too much. It would be disrespectful. A gun should be handled with care, and with respect. To kill oneself with it is neither of those. I am beyond horrified with my handling of my AR a few weeks ago. I loved her. How could I? It is not me. no part of me, least not one I have any conscious sense of. It disgusts me. It frightens me. I held her, fired her, cleaned her. All of those things, but never to harm. It was not meant for that. Virgil commented on the sexual nature of the relationship. I cannot explain why it is what way. I can only think it comes from the visual introduction to the magazine images at the same time as the pornographic images, all coinciding with the sodomy by the barn worker and later the rape by my brother. But I know the sodomy and the gun images are definitely from the same time period, as the house is the same in my mind, and the orientation of the objects of art/ furniture are the same, most likely indicating a similar time. The guns and the coveting of their images was happening at the same time I was being initiated into a world of sex and violence. I do not know if I was objectifying them as my savior, or my escape? I guess I may never know. I think it may be a bit of guilt by association. They may well have been a harmless liking that suddenly became linked due to the abuse, and the hypersexual behavior and arousal I was experiencing after the sodomy. They may well have been dragged into this world by mistake, and found a very deep place of meaning because of it. Later my experiences at the farm of control and power only strengthened it. I do not recall any arousal that night on the hill in the dark, but I do remember the feeling of complete ability to dominate. I wished that fucker would step out from the bushes. I know in my heart I could have unloaded that gun into him. I was anxious, furious, and determined to GET HIM. I doubt it was the trespass, or the spotlight. It was the disregard for my property. My property, something that has been abused, harmed, desecrated and penetrated. His appearance on the ridge just symbolic, and I was ready to unleash years of hate, rage and pain on him, as he had just become any man. Those that had done so much damage, for so many years. That gun was my ticket to the upper hand. I finally had the ability to unleash destruction and harm in the blink of an eye. I love guns, not for their form, but for their ability to empower me. No harm can come if I am armed and waiting. I know in those waning minutes of sunlight, with the round chambered, I looked down to see my gun. I could not reconcile in my brain why I would hurt myself with her. All the impulses driving like a freight train put the barrel to my skull, not a desire to use that gun. It was the disparity that drew me to take the gun away. Sure my mind thought of every possible reason why pulling that trigger would be horrific. But I know it was my heart that stopped my hand. I loved her. I could not do that. To take an object I found a savior in, only to take my life with it, no it just does not add up. I know why I touched her and held her. I was apologizing. I had strayed miles from my unspoken bond, I had cheated. I was not faithful to her. I could not control myself. I held her in sorrow and in guilt. I touch her gently. every inch of her cold sleek body. I told her I loved her without uttering a word. My tears hitting her body language enough.
I know I can never have another gun. I understand that, but I need you to understand that is a loss. I will grieve for her. I will never again hold in my hands the ability to kill or harm, myself or others. I never had the chance to unleash that rage thru the barrel of a gun, but don’t think for a moment I didn’t wish for it. I lost that opportunity. I mishandled her. I let you down, and I scared all of us (though scared is not strong enough a word). God I wish it were different, and that I had never done any of that. Not because of the proximity to death I came, but for the loss I have now suffered. I doubt any of that is understandable, but it make sense in my mind. That blackened place hardened by abuse, trauma, and the willful destruction at the hands of men. A gun was my naive attempted at changing all that. Instead it nearly did the opposite. As often is the case, my choice was poor, and my thinking severely distorted. But I ask of you, would you expect anything else if you had been in my coming of age shoes? Would you have learned to love an object capable of unleashing all the unspoken hate and rage? I am not alone. Just look at the news this evening.