The Gun

When we were engaged, Az bought a gun. It was not a subject he discussed or sought my opinion on; it was just something he did. Az is an old-style Southern Democrat, fixed in his opinion that gun ownership is a right approaching a duty. He has that curious blend of kindness, conviction and pigheadedness that is such a part of male Southern identity. It is a part of who he is, and part of why I love him.

I did not have strong feelings on gun ownership. We grew up in small midwestern towns where guns were part of the equipment of adulthood. Many people hunted, and a few of the boys at school might miss classes the first day of deer season. My father had fired guns before, though I don’t remember seeing him do it. My mother, her father’s favorite, had gone hunting with her daddy when she was a child, a privilege he did not offer to his other children. She hated it. She was not particularly upset about the slaughter; she hated it because it was always cold. My mother hates to be cold.

I had never held a gun, but I had seen them often enough. My grandfather’s farmhouse had a dusty, glass cabinet filled with rifles and shotguns. It was part of the scenery. For a while two borrowed shotguns were under my parents’ bed, though I no longer remember why (this was all in the days before laws about gunsafes and children).

I also knew the city could be a dangerous place, and I could understand Az’s desire to own something for our protection (please do not preach at me with statistics about accidental injuries and guns; I am not talking about statistics but about one gun owned by one responsible man). I did not like him owning the gun, but I also knew he was a very stubborn man, and he would not get rid of it. My choice was between marrying this good man who owned a gun, or not marrying him.

My biggest fear about the gun had nothing to do with accidents or burglaries. I was not particularly concerned about a criminal turning the gun against me, because I intended never to touch the thing. My concern was me.

I have a history with depression, including the self-destructive kind. It has hit me every few years since I was thirteen, though as I get older and know myself better, I am better able at preventing it and the bouts of depression get fewer and farther between. But I was afraid of having a gun in my home when I was in a period of dangerous depression. So I solicited this promise from Az: you may have a gun in our home, but at some point in our marriage I will be depressed, and when I tell you that it is not safe to have the gun in our house, you must get rid of it. Do not ask for explanations; just get rid of it.

He promised.

We married and, as luck would have it, my first year of marriage was one of the worst periods of depression of my life. It wasn’t the marriage that made me unhappy; my time with Az in our little apartment was the happy time, when I would forget all the other things that pressed on me and left me feeling guilty with failure. Az was my comfort, my joy and my irritation, and if you have never been depressed, then you do not know how important irritation is. Irritation is the sign of life; you cannot make melodramatic decisions of self-destruction when you are still mad at him for leaving hair in the shower.

But the depression was deep and real, and Az would come home from work sometimes to find me curled up, disconnected from the world, lying in bed. He would stand over me and call “Veronica,” long and urgent, as though I were at the bottom of a well.

When I was in college, a former roommate of mine had killed herself by gunshot. I attended the viewing, and it should not have been an open casket. The memory haunted me, and in my depression, I became fixated on Az’s gun. I will not give you details, but using it on myself became an almost daily fantasy.

One horrible morning Az was in the shower, and I was lying in bed, knowing I should get up and face the day, but finding it impossible. The thought came through my head, crystal clear: “Of course, the only logical thing to do is kill myself.”

I know this is stupid. I know there is nothing logical about it. But that is the compelling, perverted “clarity” of depression. I did not do it, but the primary reason I did not in that moment was my fear that Az would come out of the shower while I was attempting it, and then I would have to spend the next few years explaining my actions to everybody, enduring their pity, and being afraid to meet Az’s eyes. He is no fool, and knows that giving in to that impulse would be an even more profound betrayal of our marriage than adultery. I know it, too, and I did not want to get caught. Sometimes love is something you have to live up to. The love of someone who really knows you is a strong tether to life, and cutting it is an act of treachery.

A few days later, I told him he needed to get rid of the gun.

I do not know how to tell you this next part. One of my jobs as a wife is to encourage people to think well of my husband. I have a good husband, so it is an easy and enjoyable job. But he has his weaknesses like everyone else, and if I mention those, I want to only mention them to people who already love and respect him, so that it is taken within the context of his whole character. I do not know if you know him well enough yet through my writing. I do not know if new or casual readers will be able to see him as his whole self, or only this one part. I do not know if I should write this.

Az refused. He would not get rid of the gun. He kept it, still in its case, still under our bed. It is the only promise to me he has ever broken.

I have been married for ten years now, and I know my husband better now than I did back then. I know why he refused. My husband is a brave man, facing many outside dangers, including at least one he does not allow me to tell people about. He stands up to people in ways I don’t. He can battle the world, as long as he has peace and solace at home. He loves me profoundly, and losing me would be a horror to him that does not bear thinking about. When I presented the danger to him, he could not face it, so he didn’t.

I have seen him do this once since then. His father was very ill and almost died, and as his family called us with updates, all gentle and oblique, he worried, but he would not admit his father was dying. He got angry at me when I put it so baldly. His family had been too gentle to use that word, and so he could tell himself Dad was just sick. Losing his father was too terrible to contemplate until he absolutely had to.

Thanks be to God, his father got better. I did, too. I have had a few bouts with depression since then, but never any as severe or long-lasting. I know myself and my body better now, and know how to ease a depression when I feel one coming on. I am more willing to seek medical help if I need it. I find joy and support in those tethers of love that hold me and move me, rather than paralyzing shame in every little failure to live up to them.

Az has asked me to leave this post somewhat unresolved. He does not want strangers to know any details about our gun ownership.

The resolution I have found, I suppose, is that we know each other better and better as the years go by. Love settles into knowledge, and one person’s strengths begin to fill up the other’s weakness. There are still dangers ahead, still uncharted spaces on the map. But we face what we can today, and we leave the rest to God.

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