I’ve known for a while that I have a serious depression issue in spite of the fact that I am a college student and a person with a lot of things to be thankful for. But I still have these unpleasant bouts with blurry edges at the beginning and end as they bleed into and out of my life.
The point is, I have a depression issue and my stepdad, a cop, owns a whole lot of guns. We keep them in a safe and I stay away from it so it doesn’t really bother me. He and my mother recently married so he doesn’t really know my problem. Not to mention, I tend to keep things to myself so my mother doesn’t know all of it. Not knowing my issues, he was leaving to take the dog for a walk so he put a loaded gun in front of me on the coffee table.
Let me say that I have never hurt myself nor have I ever attempted to do so (well, per se). But acting and thinking are two different things. It’s kind of like a morbid curiosity that is also kind of like a rabid compulsion whenever I am depressed. Part of me, the part of me that is above water knows that that is incredibly stupid. But, as my professor pointed out on the first day of Abnormal Psych, “this is a very interesting and a very dark side of humanity.” So though I don’t exactly have a dark side, I have a bit of darkness to me, according to his definition. That I am okay with. But knowing I have it and actually having it aren’t the same thing.
So there is this loaded gun in front of me, which probably to be honest poses more of a danger to me than anyone who would walk in, which has a wood handle and a black barrel. Aside from that, I have no idea what it is. All I know is part of me looks at it and is scared to touch it and part of me is pulled to touch it, to lightly run my finger down the handle and circle. Part of me muses that hey, this could be over in just a few seconds. Like that, total darkness, quick as switching off a light. My stepdad is a cop so I know it doesn’t necessarily work that way but that is my thought process. The line between life and death is fairly thin, like a reaching of my hand across the coffee table.
Don’t get me wrong, I have no intentions of touching it. But the part of me that sometimes feels a little, how to describe it, funny, is drawn to that gun. I wouldn’t touch it for all the world but the more I stare at that black barrel, the more I feel it smoking.