One Trigger Pull From Forever

Choosing to escape rather than resorting to lethal violence was a crucial decision that preserved possibilities for my future.

As my sophomore year of high school in the spring of 1971 was ending, everything was starting to reach a breaking point. Although not very tall at 5'10", I had become strong and quick, mainly from my relentless daily workouts and because of competitive sports and their demanding training. Every gym session had a single goal: to be stronger, quicker, and tougher than my father. Not just to finally stand up for myself, but also to truly punish him.

Since I was a small child, I had wanted to hurt my father, even hoping he'd die. Whether it was burning me, trying to drown me, locking me in my wooden toy chest until I soiled myself, or beating me with his custom-made weapon—a lethal length of 2x4—it didn't matter. Each time he hurt me, and almost killed me on several occasions, I wanted so much to return the pain. But he was a big, powerful man for whom I was no match as a child.

I tried to fight back physically at fourteen, but it ended badly. He was too strong and intimidating for my fourteen-year-old self to cause any harm. My defiance only made the abuse worse. So, I came up with a different plan—gradually building a body that could channel the rage I felt when I was finally ready to face him. He was approaching his forties now, starting to develop a paunch. He didn't do much anymore. I took on all the heavy chores, including yard work, so he was letting himself go. I figured that with enough effort, I could soon punish him, just like he had done to me all my life.

A few months before turning sixteen, I got into a fight with James, a senior football player, during gym class. Despite being nearly 5 inches shorter and over 50 pounds lighter, I unleashed something primal, hitting him multiple times and leaving him bloody. I thought it was over, but James’ pride wouldn't let him back down; he needed to be redeemed. We couldn't have a lowly sophomore beat the captain of the football team's ass. Coach caught him trying to provoke me into a rematch and intervened with a compromise: we would settle it properly, with gloves and formal boxing rules, under his supervision.

The rematch awakened something dark I had buried deep inside. What should have been resolved wasn’t—James’ refusal to accept defeat fueled a fury in me that Coach's structured environment couldn't contain. When the bout ended, I stood over him, my larger, older opponent now unconscious on the mat with a broken nose, a dislocated jaw, and one less front tooth than he started with. As my classmates stared in stunned silence at the unsettling violence they just witnessed, a smug realization washed over me—I was finally ready for the confrontation that truly mattered.

Only a few weeks later, an opportunity arose, and I remember that day perfectly. Led Zeppelin II was thundering through our living room—"Whole Lotta Love" with its pulsating guitars and Plant's voice cutting through everything. I turned up the volume on our old console stereo, knowing what would happen, but somehow no longer caring. The music filled an emptiness inside me that I couldn't quite put into words.

I wanted this. After years of walking on eggshells, dodging fists, and finally seeing even music—often my salvation—turn into another battlefield in his endless war against my very existence, something in me finally snapped. I wasn't just listening to Zeppelin; I had issued a challenge—come and get me.

The fight that ensued might have rivaled the "Thrilla in Manila" for brutality. The toll included two rooms of furniture, several walls, and my father's face. Before he finally begged me to stop, I had fractured his cheekbone, split his lip, and opened several gashes on his face.

Exactly one week after "the fight," our evening meal started like many others, with my father making disparaging remarks about everyone, usually me, since I was his favorite punching bag. Tonight, however, he targeted my eight-year-old sister for something absurd but hurtful and cruel enough to make her burst into tears; the fight had made him a bit leery of going after me. I had heard enough and knew what I was going to do, what I felt I had to do. I pushed away from the table and ran upstairs to grab something—an act that would ultimately mark the end of my time living with or spending significant time with my family, forever.

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Spring 1971

"C - l - i - c - k!" The slow, deliberate cocking of the hammer on the .32 revolver, usually hidden in my father’s sock drawer, silenced the room. Finally, peace at the dinner table. Mannequin-like stillness enveloped everyone, as if they feared any movement might shatter this frozen moment. Less than two inches from his left temple, the barrel remained steady, gripped firmly in my hand—cold, unwavering, resolute—as I stood beside my father's chair. My father—a bulky, large-framed man seated at the head of the table—sat trembling, beads of sweat forming on his upper lip. This was a scene some would turn away from in a movie, a moment only a film director might fully appreciate. My eyes stayed locked on my father, unaware of what my mother or younger siblings were doing. All I noticed was the total silence my actions had provoked.

Still focused on him, I unleashed a verbal barrage. "I am so fucking tired of your mouth, your vile, stupid behavior. Your lies. Go ahead, say something, try to hit me. If you say one more word or do anything but raise your fork to eat, I'll blow your brains all over this kitchen. Nod if you understand."

My father, not daring to look at me, nodded as instructed. When I was satisfied he fully understood I was dead serious, I returned to my seat, placing the gun beside my plate where I could quickly reach it if needed.

Looking my father directly in the eyes, I started, "Now, we are going to have a peaceful family dinner without the bullshit and the hate always being spewed at this table. Not a word—everybody eats, and you can all get up when I say so. And if you're thinking of calling the cops, consider this—I'll tell them about all the abuse, and if that doesn't turn things my way, I'll share the Polaroids I found in your desk." Out of the corner of my eye, I caught my mother's expression darkening at the mention of the photos; there was no way she knew about them, but I'm sure there would be an interesting discussion later tonight. I'd removed them and hidden them where he couldn't find them. The very mention would ensure he got no ideas about calling anyone.

Not even 16, I found myself in an impossible situation. I had reached a breaking point after enduring prolonged abuse, and in that moment, I learned how to assert control in a household where I had none. The fact that I am still reflecting on this at age 71 shows the profound impact it has had on my life. Our confrontation symbolized both desperation and empowerment. I didn't pull the trigger, which indicates that even in my most desperate moment, I chose the better path. Instead, I used the threat to set boundaries and protect myself and possibly my siblings. Maybe not the way my therapist would have preferred I do it, but I wasn’t even 16 yet and much of my behavior was influenced by my trauma. From my 71-year-old point of view, I feel relief that I didn't commit an act that would have drastically changed my life. I wonder how escaping my home soon after this event shaped my development, relationships, and opportunities. If I had pulled the trigger, my life would have gone in a completely different direction—probably involving juvenile detention, criminal charges, and the psychological weight of taking a life, even one that harmed me. Pulling the trigger would have fundamentally altered my education, career, relationships, and sense of self.

Today, I believe my biggest takeaway is that I found the courage to leave shortly after this confrontation. That decision to escape rather than escalate to lethal violence was a crucial choice that preserved possibilities for my future.

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