The area reverberated with gunshots. Shell casings littered the
floor. In the far corner, I felt trapped. Too many people lined the
narrow room, preventing my escape. I wanted out. I needed out. I
couldn't breathe. Uncontrollable fear was pushing its way to the
surface. The room was cold. I was sweating. Tears were threatening to
fall but I knew that that would be the action that would cause the dam
to break. The tiny shred of control that I had would then be lost and
chaos would ensue. I knew what was happening. I knew that I was in the
grip of a panic attack. I just didn't know why. and at that moment, I
didn't care why. I knew that I had to restrain these feelings, compose
myself. Long minutes passed by while the rest of my class continued with
their target practice. By the time my turn came, I was collected enough
to shoot again. I had elected to participate in this gun safety course.
I own a gun. I had shot guns before.
So, why was this happening now?
As I was relaying this story to a friend, she offered that maybe shooting that day had triggered something in my mind, maybe even something that I wasn't cognizant of. The moment she said it, I knew. I had suffered these types of panic attacks before, in my past life, in times that I would rather not remember. At the time, I attributed them to the lifestyle I was living, the drugs, the alcohol. But this occasion was different. There was no drugs. There was no alcohol. There was only me and a gun. and fear.
Those years that I talk about, that past life, was one filled with fear. and love. It was a twisted love, a perversion of the intended meaning of love, but what I thought of as love anyway. It - he - was controlling, dominating, abusive. I was fearful. And I remembered the day that it was me and a gun. and fear. and him.
His pickup was small and I felt closed in, trapped. He was so angry. I gauged the distance between me and our friends house. Could I make it? The gun lay on the seat. I opened the door and bolted. I didn't look back. I heard his door. I kept running. He didn't shoot me. He wanted to. He told me the next day (when I showed up at his work to beg forgiveness) that it was because he didn't get it loaded in time. That was his answer. And, I accepted it. and continued to stay for another year.
Try as I might to forget about those years, to shield my loved ones from the pains that I lived through, to just move on and embrace the life I have now, I can't. In order to heal completely, in order to rid myself of the fear, I am having to face these mountains, these formidable areas of my life that have helped shape the Sherri you see today. I have to muddle though the good times and the bad, looking for which masks I may have put on, which traits I may have picked up, which habits may have become ingrained, that are not a part of the real me. It is a messy, ugly, draining process. It is opening old scars and wounded places. But, I am doing it. I am in it and there is no turning back. My quest for wholeness is greater than any fear.
As I was relaying this story to a friend, she offered that maybe shooting that day had triggered something in my mind, maybe even something that I wasn't cognizant of. The moment she said it, I knew. I had suffered these types of panic attacks before, in my past life, in times that I would rather not remember. At the time, I attributed them to the lifestyle I was living, the drugs, the alcohol. But this occasion was different. There was no drugs. There was no alcohol. There was only me and a gun. and fear.
Those years that I talk about, that past life, was one filled with fear. and love. It was a twisted love, a perversion of the intended meaning of love, but what I thought of as love anyway. It - he - was controlling, dominating, abusive. I was fearful. And I remembered the day that it was me and a gun. and fear. and him.
His pickup was small and I felt closed in, trapped. He was so angry. I gauged the distance between me and our friends house. Could I make it? The gun lay on the seat. I opened the door and bolted. I didn't look back. I heard his door. I kept running. He didn't shoot me. He wanted to. He told me the next day (when I showed up at his work to beg forgiveness) that it was because he didn't get it loaded in time. That was his answer. And, I accepted it. and continued to stay for another year.
Try as I might to forget about those years, to shield my loved ones from the pains that I lived through, to just move on and embrace the life I have now, I can't. In order to heal completely, in order to rid myself of the fear, I am having to face these mountains, these formidable areas of my life that have helped shape the Sherri you see today. I have to muddle though the good times and the bad, looking for which masks I may have put on, which traits I may have picked up, which habits may have become ingrained, that are not a part of the real me. It is a messy, ugly, draining process. It is opening old scars and wounded places. But, I am doing it. I am in it and there is no turning back. My quest for wholeness is greater than any fear.
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