Tuesday, August 5, 2014

A History of Violence

A gun, in my mouth, and a trigger pulling, blowing out my brains.

That's the image that would haunt me before I got treated for depression.  It would just pop up in times of stress.  I knew something was wrong with me, but because I didn't actually have suicidal tendencies (aside from a few albums) I ignored it.  I thought it was just some kind of coping mechanism, which it was.  

Later, after getting treated, I realized that the gun wasn't in MY mouth.  The image that would flash across my mind didn't have a distinguishable face.  It was a vague picture... just a scene of violence that I wasn't related to.  Eventually I felt it was just a violent thought I had, since I was a pacifist and non-confrontational, but that doesn't mean I think that's the way to live life.  I just ... dunno.  It popped up like that.

That image has long ago faded.  The most recent violent image has been Betty, my car (not White Betty... I mean, we know she's white), being t-boned by a eighteen-wheeler at an intersection.  Again, I am not part of the image:  I'm not in the car, or if I am I do not see it.  I am not injured from the accident.  Just, a trucker t-bones Betty.  Maybe I'm hoping that happens so I can lose the debt of the car, since I'm jobless now.

I've had a brand new one these past few days.  This one, I am actually part of.  My cousin is there.  He is being supportive but I wish he wasn't.  We are in charge of a kid, not either of ours, who is a brat.  The kid shoots me, a wound I know will not be fatal but I still am going WTF KID.  I never see the gun but it shatters my right shoulderblade, almost perfectly into six pieces, except for one sliver.  For some reason that seems important in the vision.

Yeah that's all one image.  

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