Subdued Intrinsic

My dad had the most wonderful blue eyes. With eyes slightly tilted, heavily lashed, set above enviable cheekbones, my father was a 'pretty' man. People getting on to me for saying men can be beautiful or pretty, but I stand firm on this one.

Anyway, people say I get my eyes from him, which is kind of great, even if I didn't inherit the darker hue of his lashes, only the length. But his eyes weren't the only thing I got from him. I also got my suicidal tendencies. His tendencies became reality with the help of a pistol. My tendencies haven't succeeded, but I am incredibly afraid of hand guns. For the usual reasons, sure; my children, and intruder finding it and using it, accidental misfires. It doesn't stay in the house, but in N.'s truck. It's locked, and only he has the keys. It has a built-in trigger safety, so it can't be misfired.

But mostly I'm scared of that gun because of myself. I have help now, with my emotions and imbalances, but every once in a long while . . . I have the scary thoughts. A hand gun would be so easy. It worked for my dad, right?

N. made me hold it, made me name all the parts and what they did. He made me cock it. My hands trembled. I almost cried. I definitely panicked like mad inside, and maybe a little outside. N. understood, but he said it was important. He knew the worst fear I had, though we didn't mention it.

This is a very extreme truth to point out a much simpler one; sometimes, even if you're the thing most in your way, you still gotta do what you gotta do.