During my teen years, my father was drinking heavily. We had a nice house, a boat, a mini bike, a new Lincoln, and other nice items. But, he was a mean drunk. He would hit and threaten. I would try to protect my mother from his fists. One night I ran to protect Mom, and my father placed a loaded revolver against my chest. He threatened me, but luckily didn’t shoot me.
The second time he pulled a gun was when my fiancé came to our house. He pointed the gun at him; I pushed him behind the car, and my father pointed the gun at me. He called us names for being scared, then walked away.
People always think that if you live in a nice home and have money, then life is good. It was frightening during those abusive drinking years. I have never liked guns because of those times.