Cocked Guns And Cocktails: The Easter Egg Hunt No One Wanted

Wonderful, he’s blackout drunk again.

So begins another twisted Easter egg hunt.

The grand prize? Surviving another night with my cruel, alcoholic, gun-obsessed narcissist.

Don’t spend it all in one place.

Shotgun Start: Let the Games Begin

Some are easy to find. An AR-15 by the bed. A Remington shotgun behind the door. Another rifle under the living room couch. Pistols littering drawers in the kitchen, bathrooms, and spare room.

I move quickly and methodically, gathering as many weapons as I can carry and hiding them in our bedroom closet. It takes several trips.

Out of sight, out of mind, I hope, though I know better.

I’ve had enough practice to know it’s best to search while he’s distracted, avoiding drawing his attention and, thus, his criticism.

Number One with a Bullet: Manipulations of an Abuser

I have to give it to him; he keeps the game interesting. He buys and trades weapons with such frequency that often, while cleaning, I discover unfamiliar guns hidden in new places.

When confronted about them, he casually replies that he got a great deal and forgot to tell me. That explains why I’m always bullied into picking up his bar tab.

I’ve gotten pretty good at this risky sport — a perfect record, in fact.

Still, the worry irks, the price of losing far greater than another night out at the local dive:

What about the guns I don’t find? That he doesn’t want me to find?

Break the Chain: Trauma, Hypervigilance, and Gun Obsession

Of course, he’d never give up the guns he keeps on his person. I’ve long since given up on trying to talk him out of those.

That’s no typo, dear reader. He carries at least two at all times. A compact pistol strapped to his leg, a full-sized one either holstered on his waist or carried in his hand.

Even when out in public, completely wasted. Even when lounging around at home, also wasted. Even when he goes to the bathroom (you guessed it: wasted).

He sleeps with one on the headboard’s built-in shelf, within inches of his head.

You know… For safety.

Locked and Loaded: Survival Instincts

I go about my critical work with a near-cloying cheerfulness (as though it’s a totally non-bonkers, strictly precautionary chore).

I’ve learned fawning in this way can sometimes curtail explosive arguments wherein he accuses me of distrusting him. I’ve grown to hate those nights when I’m unsuccessful, the nights he compels me to prove my loyalty by leaving the guns where they lurk.

Of course I’m not afraid of you hurting me, honey, despite the many times you’ve threatened to already. What sort of monstrous bitch would I be if I didn’t give you yet another chance to follow through?

I’ve never been a good liar.

Domestic Abuse and Gun Violence

Nearly half of all women murdered in the United States are killed by a current or former intimate partner, and more than half of these intimate partner homicides are by firearm. Women are five times more likely to be murdered by an abusive partner when the abuser has access to a gun. — The Educational Fund to Stop Gun Violence

I shudder on the day I come across those statistics. The numbers alone are staggering, but I can’t help but wonder, is that the likelihood per firearm?

If so, how worried should I be if my abuser owns upwards of 20 guns?

What if he won’t ever tell me the exact number, nor where they’re located in our home?

What if he’s traumatized, a victim of child abuse himself? What if he’s gone on to be formally trained by the military, police, and years of violent abuse?

The numbers aren’t looking great for me.

Fighting Imaginary Monsters

He spends his days off work stalking our halls, hungrily (maybe even hopefully?) preparing for the attack he believes to be coming any day now.

He pulls his sidearm at every chance, facing off against invisible enemies, barking imaginary orders, and roleplaying responses to fictitious resistance. This gives our home the air of a battlefield rather than a charming, mid-sized suburb.

How many tense, draining nights have I spent talking him out of pointing a gun at me, my dogs, himself?

How many times have I gently coaxed an armed, angry, traumatized, still-drunken sleepwalker into understanding I’m not the enemy he sees in his nightmares and war flashbacks?

How many laps have I done around our house, scavenging for weapons and silently begging to avoid the wrong end of one?

How long can I scramble through this violent obstacle course before I slip?

I’m Glad You’re Here

Want to support an abuse survivor while gaining insights on recovery? Join me on Instagram and Pinterest!

Trauma sucks. Recovery shouldn’t. Subscribe to receive your FREE digital copy of my new guided journal, “Empower and Heal: 90 Days of Transformational Prompts for Trauma Recovery, Self-Discovery, and Growth”, delivered straight to your inbox!