We both reached for the gun: Fighting to stay alive in my own home

I did try to take the gun once.

I forget why we’d even been fighting; it was just kind of what usually ended up happening. We’d been drinking, but as usual, he was way ahead of me and beginning to slur.

Whenever he got too drunk, he had this moment where he’d be speaking to you normally and suddenly say something that to him made complete sense, but was just absolute gibberish.

Unfortunately, pointing out that you didn’t understand him usually set him off.

That was always the moment my stomach would drop because it meant the timer had begun; it was only a matter of time before he completely forgot where he was. It was a clear warning sign that it was time to get him out of public immediately.

This particular night, we were alone at home after I picked him up from his favorite dive bar. It was his favorite because it was just down the street from home. You could typically find him there about four to six nights a week, drinking flat beer and shots of Wild Turkey 101 (basically jet-fuel) whiskey, going broke playing the same dozen racist/sexist country songs on the jukebox.

He’d endeared himself to several of the other (also clearly alcohol-abusing) regulars there, one of whom once wet himself, then drunkenly fondled me while my abuser laughed.

Two others, women roughly 30 years his senior, he’d later cheat on me with in a threesome. A real stand-up bunch.

1911

The argument started in the living room, over who knows what this time.

After a while, he’d gotten fed up, picked up his pistol, cracked open yet another beer, and sat on the couch to freeze me out, as he often did.

Exhausted and hoping the conversation was actually over, I retreated to get ready for bed. Sometimes, if I stayed out of sight until morning, he would drink himself to sleep while playing video games on the couch and forget we’d fought at all.

Those nights, he seemed to absolutely relish getting angry with me and taking it too far. That was the case this evening.

I’ve mentioned in previous articles that my ex was never far from his nearest firearm, a fact that was especially true when drinking at home. To a combat veteran-turned-cop who was obviously in denial about his mental health issues, every moment was a moment of potential ambush. Despite the guns hidden in every room — in drawers, behind doors, under couches — he also insisted on carrying one in his hand from room to room.

It was as though he were constantly clearing the home for the ghosts that lived in his memories, never quite satisfied that he was safe.

I understand that feeling now, thanks to him.

De-escalation: Calming someone who loves being mad

When he followed me into the bedroom that night, he was so worked up that he started gesturing wildly. At this point he was far from intelligible, stringing words together in a manner that only made sense to him.

One hand waved a beer, the other, his gun. As his frustration grew, so did the barrel’s proximity to my chest. Then he began punctuating the end of each word with the gun, pointing it right at me as he did so.

I was barely even surprised, already bizarrely familiar with this scenario by this point. The world slowed as the adrenaline filled me, bringing a strange calm-yet-sharp feeling as my survival instincts took the wheel. I consciously softened my tone and body language, gently putting my hands out in front of me while attempting to exude calm and de-escalate the situation. Moving slowly and non-threateningly so as not to startle him, I asked him to put the gun down in what I hoped was a serene and persuasive manner.

Do you know how people say they couldn’t do something if their lives depended on it? Apparently, in that situation, I actually can be an actor.

He was past the point of understanding English, so I continued to speak in the most affectionate tone possible, as though he were an infant I was soothing after a loud noise. My pleading seemed to work after a few moments, even though he obviously didn’t understand what I was actually saying. He lowered the gun to his side.

I cautiously shuffled closer until we were chest-to-chest, my head on his shoulder. Pressing closer to him, I silently attempted to barter my body away, knowing it would be met with violence, in exchange for him putting the gun down. When he remained tense in the embrace, I had the sense that my options were dwindling down to one option: fight.

Knowing there was approximately zero chance of me physically overpowering this hulking man almost twice my weight, I knew I’d have to act quickly to catch him off-guard. I couldn’t give him time to make his next decision.

When I woke up on the floor a few seconds later, I was coughing and covered in something wet. I was relieved to discover it was only beer; he’d had to drop it to grab me around the throat and slam me backward against the bedroom wall.

He wasn’t even in the room, but pacing the hallway with his fists clenched, one still gripping the gun. He seemed, suddenly, icily sober. There was, quite literally, a me-shaped hole in the wall above where I lay crumpled.

He left me there without another word. When I heard the refrigerator door open, and another aluminum tab click open, I grabbed a blanket and locked myself in the spare room. I hid on the floor for the rest of the night with my dog. To this day, I’m grateful he didn’t come looking for me.

We had to buy a drywall patch and paint to cover the hole, but thanks to his shoddy craftsmanship, you could always see it. If you looked, you could see all of the hastily repaired holes he left in his wake.