Don’t tell me it’s not time to talk about guns. Don’t say I’m not honoring the WDBJ reporter Alison and photojournalist Adam, who were shot and killed by a depressed psycho with a sick manifesto.
I am honoring them, by talking about guns. If we don’t talk about guns in the wake of their murders, we’re careless and irresponsible human beings.
So let’s talk about guns. I was saved by a gun and almost killed by one at the exact same second.
I was visiting some friends in my hometown. My high school on-again-off-again boyfriend somehow tracked me down and busted my friend’s front door. He was there for me. And not in a loving way. A threatening way.
Men at the apartment clubbed my ex with baseball bats in the doorway. The hits didn’t slow him down. My ex-boyfriend flung grown men off of his 300 pound football player back, like they were puny flies.
I sat in a chair, frozen, watching it unfold. I couldn’t move. Within seconds, he came for me and flipped me over the couch.
I landed on my back. My shirt gaped open in the front where he held a tight grip. My breasts were exposed. This beast was hovering over me screaming and demanding I leave with him.
The rage in his eyes kicked my adrenaline into high gear.
I slapped him uncontrollably – flailing my arms on top of his head. I kicked him like a cockroach dying on its back.
I cried out, “Leave me alone! Just leave!”
After a long history of abuse, mentally and physical, I thought – he’s going to kill me. This is it.
Suddenly, with one hand on my leg, he falls to his knees, and grabs his stomach. His chest heaves. His eyes flashed wide open – looking straight into mine. With fear.
“I’ve been shot.”
This monster of a man, towered over me, holding the side of his stomach. Deep red blood seeping through his shirt.
In his shock, he glanced beyond me to the back of the apartment, where the homeowner stood, stoic, gun in hand.
He cried in disbelief, “Sarah, he shot me.”
When he said my name – I thought – holy fuck, he’s shot. He could die. It’s my fault. When he said my name, Sarah, I felt the gravity of the situation. I shut down. I stood petrified and paralyzed.
My eyes darted around the room looking for some sign of answers on people’s faces. An expression to lead me to the next step. Everyone stared, stiff as boards, blank-faced. I didn’t know what to do next. Should I run? Does the shooter want to kill me? Would he blame me for this – and shoot me next? Am I supposed to hide? Do we call the police? My body trembled, and my mind raced.
It took a while to process the situation. And by while, I mean years, as in, I’m still processing it.
My monster of an ex-boyfriend was probably there to inflict physical or mental pain on me. No one will ever know his true intentions or how far he would’ve gotten– because bullets peppered his belly and stopped him in his tracks.
I think often about, what if the shooter was just a hair off? It could’ve been my head. My brains could’ve been splayed all over that couch. He might’ve accidentally shot me in the head. And my mother would be writing my obituary.
I was saved by a gun, and emotionally scarred by the same one. That shooting haunts me, and manifests itself into daily anxiety.
I know gun advocates will find fault with me saying that I was essentially saved and almost killed by a gun – because after all, people kill people. Not guns, right? True that.
However, people with guns kill way more people than they would, if they didn’t have guns. It takes a lot more crazy balls to stab someone close range, than it does to stand back and shoot. People are crazy and depressed all over the world. There are mentally ill people and criminals in every country. But in other parts of the world, access to lethal weapons and ammunition are limited.
Not here in America. According to an infographic in the Washington Post, Americans are 20 times more likely to die from gun violence than any other developed country in the world.
We can’t say anymore that gun violence is rare.
We can’t say it’s a mental health issue, or simply blame criminals.
We can’t say because it’s impossible to solve gun violence 100% that we shouldn’t try. We can’t solve breast cancer 100%, so we shouldn’t try?
Am I happy that my ex-boyfriend’s shooter had good aim? Absofuckinlutely.
It could’ve been my brain, or his guts. You bet your ass I’m happy it wasn’t my brains. And that I’m grateful I didn’t have to find out what my ex had in store for me that night had he dragged me out of that apartment.
In an intruder situation, you don’t want your gun-wielding, untrained neighbor “helping” you – you want the trained, “don’t miss a shot” gun owner down the street. The guy who took the classes. The one who goes to target practice regularly. The one who is part of a shooting club to keep his knowledge and education current.
Between my personal trauma and my years of working as a journalist – I’ve seen and felt so many horrors. The shootings recently in Charleston, Louisiana and Roanoke shake me to the core.
I’ve always had anxieties, but the shootings over and over again – are bringing me to a dark place.
I don’t go to the movies, because I’m terrified of a mass shooting. The few times I have gone in recent years – I’ve strategically sat near an exit and planned my escape route during the previews.
I do a threat scan at every mall, church, festival. I examine exits on trains and airplanes.
I fear for my children’s lives every single day I drop them off at school. Every day, I think this could be the day a psycho shoots up my kid’s school. Every day. The fear never leaves.
The man who shot my ex-boyfriend was a good guy. He had a clean record. He wasn’t a psychotic monster with a manifesto. But, he had guns. Like stockpiles of military style weapons, according to the police report. For what? I wouldn’t know. He went to jail, and served time for possessing certain weapons illegally. My ex-boyfriend did not die from his wounds, so the shooter never faced murder charges.
The shooter is long out of jail. We haven’t spoken. I suppose I could look him up on Facebook and say, “Thank you.”
I’m glad he had guns that day. I’m pretty sure he saved my life.
But, I hate guns, and am terrified of them. On one hand they save people, like myself. But on the other hand, they kill people.
Every American right has restrictions and limitations that are ever-changing with the rapidly changing world we live in. Why should the 2nd Amendment be any different? Why would we want rights that don’t adapt and bend to address the new struggles we face in the future?
By not making any changes, and not coming together and brainstorming viable solutions to the problem of gun violence we are saying that the mass shootings in Newtown, the shootings in Charleston, and Louisiana and most recently the deadly shooting of a young reporter and photojournalist are the price we pay for our 2nd Amendment right, as it stands. We’re willing to pay the price of those lives, just so we can bear arms, hug our guns at night in our homes, and carry them around in case we have to save the public from a dangerous shooter on the loose (which by the way – law enforcement officers are the ones that usually take down armed madmen).
Let’s not forget, three brave passengers took down a gunman (traveling with oodles of firepower) on a high-speed train from Amsterdam to France – hogtied the assailant’s ass with their bare arms. The hero passengers didn’t have guns. They took the man down with sheer force, collaboration and bravery.
Qualities that all Americans possess.
Every single person in this country wants protection and safety. Protection and safety are paramount to all. We all have those common goals.
Gun advocates claim you get protection if everyone’s packin’ heat. Those against guns say you get protection by eliminating guns.
So, it is time to talk about guns. While it’s fresh in our minds. While we’re still reeling and aching after the recent senseless shooting in Roanoke.
Let’s talk about how to help America be safer. Let’s talk about how to protect each other. Let’s use our ideas to shoot through the stagnant, outdated policies. Let’s use our voices to illicit change that we can all live with, a change that will keep us, our children and our fellow Americans alive.
Sarah is an introverted urbanite, hiding out in the suburbs wondering where is everybody? But, secretly hoping no one comes out of their houses to talk to her. She lives in Atlanta-ish with her 2 girls and husband. You can find her work at MissguidedMama.com and mostly rated “R” rhetoric on Facebook and Twitter.