I have been debating for a little over a week whether or not I wanted to publish this. In the end I decided it would be best because it would help mend wounds both old and new. Due to a lot of shit that has changed recently in my life I have been spending a lot of time on self reflection. No one will believe the words I am about to write here except a select few, and even those select few will be surprised at what has gone through my head lately. I guess I should start from the beginning. Well….here goes nothing.

Twenty three years ago, on May 22nd my uncle sat upon the bed of our shore house in Seaside Heights, placed a shotgun against his chest and fired. My friends found him on the floor during prom night…my prom night. Perhaps he did it knowing we would find him. Who knows? Our family has debated his reasoning for years and to be honest it was not his action that was the most important but the consequences of his action. We were devastated, from my mother (his sister) to my cousin (his daughter). I remember it like it happened yesterday. A select few knew this.

Twenty three years later, I retrieved my .40 caliber handgun, loaded it, sat on the bed and clutched it in my hands. No one knew this.

This is not a cry for help, because I have analyzed the reasons and  have come to an understanding with myself, so before anyone calls the police or is preparing to send me to the funny farm please read the rest of this. You may be interested in knowing what was going through my head at that very moment. I was stressed by what I felt was my failure as a husband, father and employee.  I lost both my children. One is living 100 miles away and another is preparing to live further than that. I lost my wife. The job I once felt I could perform effortlessly was now a great effort. Every day I felt like crap, I wanted to sleep but when I finally did go to bed I found I couldn’t. I slept no more than three to four hours a day, other days I would sit up and stare into the darkness.  I found little enjoyment in anything. Food was bland, I turned on my favorite shows and watched them with an eerie disconnection. I took a hard look at my life. I had no money, very few friends and had never felt more alone in my life. I started drinking more, thinking it would take the pain away. It didn’t. I turned to the outside and saw the same darkness which resided in myself. The news was equally depressing. Black fighting white. Republican fighting Democrat. Terrorists, sadness, pain everywhere. I didn’t want to deal with it anymore.

I held the gun in my hands and the first thing  I thought  was : “I don’t want to be a part of this world. I’m not sure I can take the pain anymore.” I looked over at the dresser and there sat a picture of Brian. His mother abandoned him when he was 4. I looked down at the gun and thought: “I am about to abandon him at 11.” Then I remembered how I felt after my uncle killed himself. Anger, betrayal, sorrow, confusion. Yeah it was a lot for a nineteen year old to absorb. How would an 11 year old and a 3 year old feel? Brian was already growing up without a mother and I was about to take his father away. That was pretty fucking selfish and made me worse than his mother. His mother could come back….I couldn’t. Braydon is a happy child and his face lit up every time I would come home from work or pick him up at daycare.  He had a hard time understanding why I’m not at home right now. What would he think as he stood next to his daddy’s casket?

The last time I really cried was my grandmother’s funeral in 2001, but I cried that night. I cried all over that fucking gun. I felt broken…hell I still feel somewhat broken even as I write this. I am better now then I was that night…a lot better. I just came back from NJ after visiting some friends I have not seen in a long time and we spoke about the good times we had in the past. I needed that trip more than I knew and I plan on taking more. Some of these friends are on Facebook and will undoubtedly read this and say to themselves “WTF?” Why am I writing this or even airing this out, you may ask. Part of the reason is this is my own self therapy. I like to write (most of you know that). The other half of that reason is I believe everyone goes through a bad patch in their life, I don’t care who you are. I hope that my words can inspire anyone who is really hurting inside and thinking of picking up that gun. Put it down.

I did.