Triggers

Even as we talk about gun culture, we don't talk enough about what's pulling the trigger.

It's easy to say I won't cry. It's harder when it actually happens. It can be so quick, also sometimes so fleeting.

For many of us, we can quickly wave those feelings away. Let it go. For others it bubbles up slowly, overflowing. Sometimes over a few minutes, for others over days, and at times not sure when it might end. In another way, it might erupt violently.

In the climate world, we call these tipping points. In nature, they are so much more profound. An instance of fear triggers a spurt of toxic pee. A rumbling stomach leads to a deadly shot of poisonous venom. A wounded scar telling a mother it's enough to leave a baby behind. Or yet a bird never wanting to leave it's nest in the face of great danger. It's not exactly tipping and the response isn't always exponential. Sometimes responses are rational, physical, in my case, emotional.

A deep sadness is my greatest response. I know I reached my limits when I break down. Whether for a minute, sometimes with tears flowing down my cheeks. These days, it's all about the same thing in different ways. A harsh word. An old feeling. A picture. Someone leaving. Smiles. My own thoughts racing through my memories and finding a glimpse of the past.

I can't help it. Sometimes you wish you could pull a gun instead. At least it ends quickly and forever. I know. I understand. But to carry on another day, knowing you are faced with it over and over again. You wonder if it's torture or if its hope. I try to stop myself before it's too late. I distract myself. I run. Hide. I sleep. I let my feeling of my finger on that trigger subside in the silence.

Till I never pull it. But everytime I reach this same point I wonder if it's any different. In truth, I pulled it slightly the other day. I restrained it with all my might, but sometimes I know I pulled it. At least with the safety on. Or in some other ways I didn't do it on the gun. I took it out on something else. Nothing less dangerous. Maybe not less destructive. But I broke my own heart. And sometimes, I'm waiting. Waiting to pull enough strings and not the trigger, playing the guitar and making little melodies, waiting for that twang. Waiting for the heart to stop.

I wish I could tell you more. But it's not time yet. One day, maybe God will pull the trigger. And I hope he gives me time to tell you before it ends.