I Am a Gun Violence Survivor
I am a gun violence survivor. So is my daughter, my oldest son and their dad.
We hear a lot of stories in the immediate aftermath of a shooting like Sante Fe or Parkland or Las Vegas. What you don’t hear, is what happens to the survivors in the months and years, and yes, decades following a shooting. These people are victims of the shooter also. It’s not just so-many dead and so-many wounded. There are hundreds of mentally wounded after a violent act, and it’s important that our discussion of gun violence includes the incredible mental toll following a shooting.
Of course, everyone reacts to violence differently, but I want to share my story to just give a glimpse of what surviving gun violence can be like.
In the spring of 2001 we lived in a rural community called Pickwick, MN. Pickwick is one of dozens of little valleys that run inland along the Mississippi River between Winona, MN and LaCrosse, WI. In a lot of ways, Pickwick is idyllic. There’s a beautiful stream that runs through the valley. In the wide spot in the road there’s a pond and historic Mill that pre-dates the Civil War era. You know your neighbors well in Pickwick. The community revolves around the local bar/restaurant and the volunteer fire department. Pickwick was the ideal spot to start a family.
My ex-husband was the pastor of the tiny church in Pickwick. Pickwick Church was a typical white steepled little country church. We would have only 30–40 people on a given Sunday; most all members of one extended family. The church made us part of their family and we would join them for holidays and birthday parties.
One family in the church had an adult son who was a truck driver with a history of assault arrests and convictions. Despite this he still was allowed to continue to own many guns. This family decided to donate some money to the church but ONLY if it was used exactly for their expressed purposes. The church voted and agreed they’d rather not take the money if it came with strings attached.
Their bitterness over this decision boiled over to their son who started to harrass the families in our church, but especially our family, as we lived just three doors down from them. It all culminated in an attack on our family one night.
At the time my son was 18 months old and my daughter was 4. We lived in an old two story farm house. The windows in the second story, where my kids slept, were close to the floor to make room for the angled, low ceilings in the bed rooms.
About 11 pm one night, this man got drunk and drove his motorcycle over to our house and proceeded to tear up our lawn while screaming threats at us. Before we could even react, he, with gun in hand, had punched through our backdoor glass, unlocked the kitchen door and was coming inside screaming that he was going to kill us. We yelled at him to get out and he retreated to the yard continuing to wave his gun and threaten to come in and shoot us all.
We retreated upstairs. I dialed 911 and my ex crept into my daughter’s room to move her. Those low windows in her room now put her right in the path of gunfire, if he started shooting from outside. Laura’s first memory of her entire life is her Daddy hiding her on the opposite of the house behind the chimney and covering her with pillows and blankets as he told her, “Don’t come out NO MATTER WHAT YOU HEAR, unless it’s Mommy, Daddy or a policeman who comes to get you.” And then left her there in the dark so he could come defend his family. I laid on the floor sobbing on the phone with 911 waiting for the cops to come while this crazy, violent man screamed threats, waved his gun around, yelled that he was coming in to shoot us and kill us and our kids.
After this night my perfect little home in this gorgeous valley was forever ruined for me. I felt like a black cloud had descended in our valley. I kept chairs under the door handles and all the shades pulled. I was terrified to take my kids outside to play in the yard or go for a walk. I couldn’t sleep. My daughter couldn’t sleep. We had nightmares, constantly. Within two weeks we left and moved away. None of us could bear to stay anywhere near where the violence against our family had happened.
For years afterwards I was terrified at night. I would jump at the slightest sounds. The sound of a motorcycle driving by would send me immediately to the floor; shaking and crying. PTSD stemming from violence is real.
I asked my daughter recently if she still had issues from this. My daughter is now 22 years old. She said when she’s stressed or worried about me or her dad, she still gets flashbacks. This is 17 years later! I still flinch when a loud truck or motorcycle drives by.
This experience has framed the way I see gun violence and how I relate to the pain that survivors will deal with, probably for the rest of their lives. For the sake of the families of those killed and wounded and the thousands of victims of mental trauma from gun violence, I continue to speak out on the need for better laws, especially when there’s a history of assault or domestic violence. I’ve gotten involved with Everytown for Gun Safety and my local chapter of Moms Demand Action for Gun Sense in America. My experience honestly pales in comparison to kids who have hidden from gunfire, surrounded by their dead and bleeding classmates. Knowing just what I’ve dealt with, it breaks my heart to think about children experiencing that kind of fear. I believe we can change this. But I believe it’s going to take a widespread grassroots action from every day men and women and students to come together to say we have had enough violence! I encourage anyone reading this to join your local Gun Sense groups and call your representatives and demand gun reform. No one should be terrified to go to school, or church, or the club, or a concert, or in their own homes.
