I have two birthdays. One when I was born, and the other secret one, which will be 27 years this coming Christmas. Only my close friends and family know why I get sad around the holidays. But even some of them think I should “get over it already,” so I pretty much don’t talk about it.
Twenty-six years ago, the love of my life bought a gun and entered my workplace and shot me five times. The police killed him. Days later, a mutual friend revealed a suicide note from him. I have struggled with the pain. The verbal barbs. The anger. The panic attacks. The alcohol. The isolation. The shame. The secrets. The sanity in this insane gun culture. The guilt. The crying.
But I must also acknowledge that I have been blessed in many ways. I am still here. I am sober. I am learning to live without answers.
I found a nice group of people at Moms Demand Action here. They are helping me start a Gun Violence Survivors Group. I would like to hear your story. I would like to share mine.