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Most recent 20 results returned for keyword: If I Had a Gun (Search this on MAP) Orange “NorIce is better” Fires : If I had a gun with two bullets and was stuck with you, hitler, and Justin Bieber, I'd shoot myself ...
If I had a gun with two bullets and was stuck with you, hitler, and Justin Bieber, I'd shoot myself twice.
14 hours ago - Via Google+ - View - Tia Singh : If i had a gun with two bullets and i was with hitler,bin laden and you insert your ex or your enemy’s...

If i had a gun with two bullets and i was with hitler,bin laden and you insert your ex or your enemy’s name],i would shoot you twice.
1 day ago - Via Google+ - View - Concerts in Toronto : Noel Gallagher expected setlist -Half the World Away -AKA... What a Life! -(It's Good) To Be Free -...
Noel Gallagher expected setlist

-Half the World Away
-AKA... What a Life!
-(It's Good) To Be Free
-Talk Tonight
-If I Had a Gun...
-D'Yer Wanna Be a Spaceman?
-Listen Up
-Sad Song
-The Importance of Being Idle
-Cast No Shadow
-Slide Away
-Don't Look Back in Anger

2 days ago - Via Google+ - View - Ciel Phantomhive : If I had a gun, I'd shoot someone
If I had a gun, I'd shoot someone
3 days ago - Via Google+ - View - MIM104 PAC2 : If I had a gun with only two rounds; in a room with [you], Bin Laden and Hitler, I would shoot you twice...
If I had a gun with only two rounds; in a room with [you], Bin Laden and Hitler, I would shoot you twice.
6 days ago - Via Google+ - View - Lorraine Harvey : Reminder. Like it's was needed after sitting through my little boys first counselling session. Wow if...
Reminder. Like it's was needed after sitting through my little boys first counselling session. Wow if I had a gun!
7 days ago - Via Google+ - View - Jυvιλ Lσςκsεг : +Gray FullBuster後御気運  If I had a gun, I'd shoot a hole into the sun And love would burn this city down...
+Gray FullBuster後御気運 
If I had a gun, I'd shoot a hole into the sun
And love would burn this city down for you
If I had the time, I'd stop the world and make you mine
7 days ago - Via Google+ - View - Sans (Fallout) : I'm seriously done.... This was not a good time to piss me off... I've been fucking depressed since ...
I'm seriously done....
This was not a good time to piss me off...
I've been fucking depressed since January and now it's only gotten worse in the last few weeks,
I just...
If I had a gun with three bullets,
I'd kill Justin Beiber, Hitler, then myself.
To free the world of the burden we have on you guys
9 days ago - Via Google+ - View - Barbie Schuchart : He's back writing his podcasts and with his old (65 yrs old) gf before me (and while with me) he's telling...
He's back writing his podcasts and with his old (65 yrs old) gf before me (and while with me) he's telling everyone how to sell houses, how wonderful and great he is....
Wonder what they'd think if they knew the truth, he has battery and Domestic violence charges he's been convicted for and he IS an abuser let them see what he did to me this time.
He's posting his podcasts with his ex gf and about how he's so good and knows everything. ... I can't post b'cuz he blocked me from making comments! Do you think his audience would like to know and see the truth about him.. he has battery and Domestic violence charges for doing this to his gf who is about 130 lbs less than him...

See my next post with all the pics. After beating me up, a witness called police, he was arrested, he had police return our rental car (we were on a family vacation!) Then he reported all my bank cards stolen and closed them! My taxi ride to the cabins was $177. When I got there one sister was very kind but the pack of wolves, including his mom came out and told me I had to leave, I made him do that to me! I just went insure and locked the door.
Next thing I know the police are there! They called them and told them I had a gun and threatened to hurt myself and them!!! I looked at the woman cop and said "look at me I'm hurting enough, do you think I want to hurt more? " she said "Honey, you're going to have some dross marks from what he did to you " male cop asked if I had a gun! I said, yes at home in ky locked up. They searched and found more of Scots Marijuana, and a lot of it. I told him he does it with his mom, kids and sisters. They went outside, came back in. Told me Disney was going to put me up at a resort for 2 days. He said "you don't want to stay here they're all nothing but a bunch of drunks and trouble!" I said but I have no money, nothing to eat and no way home. He said, I'm sorry it's the best we can do.
They packed me up moved me to a resort, I don't know where, I believe I was in shock and have been since. I got to the room and slept 2 days. No food from Monday morning until following Monday. A friend bought me a greyhound ticket home, 20+ hours traveling, beaten, in shock, bleeding, no food, I was in a daze.
At the end they lost my luggage and my son's. I was yelled at by both my son's that "I purposely left his luggage somewhere!" Neither asked if I was ok. They're still mad at me b'cuz I prosecuted him (tho Florida takes over) and I left him stranded down there! His sister was with him waiting at an expensive resort and had rented an expensive car and would fly home. He and His family had all money they could ever need. I was stranded, beaten, in shock,no money and no food eye socket and nose broken! But they were yelling at me that I purposely left his luggage somewhere. Mine wasn't there either.
The entire ride, his sister, Angie kept calling me threatening me relaying what he told her from the background. He was to have no contact, even 3rd party. Then his buddy Michael text me to inform me he's waiting at the house for me! I called the police. They said come to the station and they'd escort me there. (He'd always told me his family had Edgewood and Crestview Hills PD paid off and in their pockets, I didn't believe it, big mistake) I went to the station, was detained for 3+hours. Found out it was so they could allow his sister to walk thru the house and take whatever of mine she wanted. Including the car I drove for 2 years, my check book, personal important papers, whatever she wanted or was told to take. After this they came to the station and I was told I could go home, no one escorted me! Paid off!
I sat in the house terrified, alone and still isolated I called and talked to so many woman but as usual around here they were all too busy and didn't have time or would call back and never did. Nothing like it use to be. Nothing like it is in NJ either. You need someone, they're there.
That following Monday I had to go back to Florida for the pretrial and it was terrifying but I met a lot of other woman who'd gone thru the same thing. I had protection every minute I was there, nothing like in Crestview Hills, KY. I felt safe. I didn't even have to see him. He'd not even seen what he'd done to me!
That was over, I flew back home, and was isolated, felt scared, hopeless, had to move by may 1 had no money, no where to go. I laid on the couch with Sam, my cat I guess for a couple of day, hopeless and full of fear and no one to talk to.
I don't know what day /night it was but I started thinking, I'd love to see my Daddy, and sister and be held for once in my life in my Father's arms with unconventional love and finally feel peace. Then I remember drinking a Sierra mist with a little antifreeze in it and it was so horrible but it was ok. No one would find me because no one cared or would come around. I tried to walk downstairs but couldn't so I had to scoot. That's the last o remember.
Then I was in this place and ppl were asking me my name and birthrdate but I couldn't move my mouth and I couldn't remember the answers. I thought they were trying to hurt me but one, Heather was so kind and gentle, I trusted her. After the 23 ppl left I lay there looking around thinking I was in a special home. I saw green, yellow and red water lights swirling and floating and dancing all around my room.
The ppl outside the room seem like a close knit family, the kind I'd always longed for. They talked with resped, joked and laughed. You could tell they would be there for each other. It made me feel safe but, why was I there? I always get the worse of everything.
The next morning the most beautiful, upbeat, happy nurse came in... she brought the sun in with her smiling and shining bright.... I found out it was Saturday and I was in St E ICU. I couldn't even move or use my hands but she ordered breakfast and fed me. She cleaned me talked to me like I was the most important person in the world. I was on dialysis. I came in with my creatin over 20. Not too many live once they drink antifreeze. She pretty much never left my side Saturday and Sunday. Heather came back Saturday night and I remembered her. They were my angels.
By Monday, I was off dialysis daily and we were going to try 3 xs a week.
I had an array of nurses night and day. They were all so kind and helpful.
Then I went to dialysis I met 3 of the most amazing, strong, supportive women there. If I'm down or stuck I think "how would Pat handle this!" I want so much to go back and visit them. I don't know if I'm allowed to tho.
When I was moved to 2B2 to prepare for going home, like everywhere I was at (everyone was so protective and careful for me). However, on 2B2 1st his friend, Michael, came in to ask if I'd go to Florida Monday and tell them he didn't do it and I wasn't afraid of him!!! I told him... NO.
That evening his sister, Angie, who'd been threatening me on the bus, went in the house took my stuff, came in my room! With 1 minute I had 2 charge nurses and 2 techs in my room to see if I was ok and asking who she was and did I want her to leave! Angie actually told me I had mental problems, I'm messed up in the head and need to be locked up! I think they all need to look at themselves and how and what they do to others. Going to a Catholic church doesn't mean a thing if you don't live the life. I told her it's none of her business, I happened b'cuz of her brother beating me and what they'd done to me. And it's time for her to leave. She said she'll come back the next night. If she did and I was there, we would have security there to escort her out.

More to come...

10 days ago - Via Google+ - View - Concerts in NYC : Noel Gallagher expected setlist -Half the World Away -AKA... What a Life! -(It's Good) To Be Free -...
Noel Gallagher expected setlist

-Half the World Away
-AKA... What a Life!
-(It's Good) To Be Free
-Talk Tonight
-If I Had a Gun...
-D'Yer Wanna Be a Spaceman?
-Listen Up
-Sad Song
-The Importance of Being Idle
-Cast No Shadow
-Slide Away
-Don't Look Back in Anger

12 days ago - Via Google+ - View - James Rudy : What a fucking night last night in fort lauderdale and these machine voices couldn't shut the fuck ...
What a fucking night last night in fort lauderdale and these machine voices couldn't shut the fuck up for anything. Come across a 777 yacht building and this giant fucking negro with a real problem, a homeless fuck with his bullshit other white homeless fucks as I try to rest at this giant complex. First he says I'm allowed to stay there if I'm quiet cause they keep it quiet there then begins to swear my name to his friend like a loud negro can only do. So I shout back and for whatever reason I say I have a gun as he rushes towards me I say have a gun rushing towards me to laughably attempt intimidation he asks me to produce it. Already rushing towards me then I say it. to produce it as I already know as his white friend comes over and stands over me like he owns the place and I tell him don't ever fucking get near my stuff again says he lives there. I wait for this goliath fucking unchained nigger to hit me no avoiding it now. I am the one who runs into guns this animal of course knew I didn't have one. so I'm hollering whatever I'm saying as I'm leaving and the cops saying I'm going to have them all chased out of there then I see him leaving on his bike now trying to catch up to me calls me crazy. Didn't call of course. I did say if I had a gun I would have killed him. my life in such danger. Territory homeless Americans. oh then it got so much worse.
13 days ago - Via Google+ - View - Chris Combs : (TRIGGER WARNING!) CHAPTER ONE: TEARDROPS THAT TANGO: TELL YOUR SUICIDE SURVIVAL STORY: Today is a "...
(TRIGGER WARNING!) CHAPTER ONE: TEARDROPS THAT TANGO: TELL YOUR SUICIDE SURVIVAL STORY: Today is a "special" day. November 21, 2015 is "Survivors of Suicide Loss Day." I will be posting about all four suicides in my family, as well as my testimony, chapter one is here on YouTube: **
"No mistakes in the tango Donna, not like life. Simple, that's what makes the tango so great. If you make a mistake, get all tangled up, you just tango on." (Al Pacino. Scent of a Woman, 1992)
Teardrops that Tango:
“A mere moment too late and we can never reach them any more in this world. They will not be cured by our most efficacious drugs or slain with our sharpest swords.” (F. Scott Fitzgerald)
I'll never forget the last words my fiancé said to me before I watched him die. “You want me to end all your problems, Heather? I’ll end them all right now!” His words spat through his locked jaw. This previously concealed wrath quickly diminished what I knew of the easy-going man I was scheduled to marry in two months. Kirk’s normally composed personality disappeared, and was replaced with the hysterical man in front of me. He struggled and clawed against the air, towards our bedroom. The breath locked in my lungs when he reappeared clutching his father’s Smith & Wesson, 9mm. 
His forehead was slicked with sweat as he buried the muzzle into his right temple. A pang of futility pierced through me, blanching the color from my face. The pulsing terror was so acute, I was virtually paralyzed. My mind struggled to defy this indefinable moment. I was frantically holding onto Kirk’s life by my own willpower alone, but my wits were sapped. Wrestling with reality, my vision distorted as my life played out like a movie on fast forward, jumping from one random section to another. I wasn’t in a real life drama, but a nightmare. How can this be happening? Kirk's legs quavered as he tried to stabilize himself. I could feel my throat begin to swell when he narrowed his eyes and tightly pursed his lips. I struggled to escape the rising panic, balls of fear jumped up within my newly pregnant belly and coursed up to my fingertips. His nostrils flared as his index finger curled around the trigger. Oh no…. Please God no…
Merely hours before, our joy was looked upon as enviable. How did we get from selecting baby names, to this desperate position, with twisted threats of self-execution?
In the Beginning
“I’ll send someone right over Heather.” The raspy male voice responded through the walkie-talkie’s static. Offended and annoyed with customers like this, I crossed my arms and tapped my foot, glancing every now and again at the invisible watch I wasn’t wearing. I never required a “captain’s” (our appealing name for bouncers) assistance at work before, their faces were unfamiliar melded images, along with the masses of other employees at the restaurant. I only recognized their sharp business attire. 
The plastered patron that initiated my summoning attempted to pinch my back side again, tumbling off a bar stool in the process. I was incensed with him, my irritation recognizable in my offended grimace. I waited impatiently for my co-worker to “remove” this guy. Reinforcement began funneling towards me in a posh blue suit. The atonal music of the busy night seemed to hush in awareness of him. Mid-tap, my foot went motionless, my mouth gaping in awe. Demanding veneration, this captain walked in long, big strides, appearing like a force of nature. I kept my eyes trained on this man, feeling drawn towards him, as if he tugged some invisible rope around my waist. My arms plummeted lifelessly to my sides in submission. Who is that?!
At six foot, eight inches tall, it was impossible to not take notice of this striking man. He was intimidating, but beautiful, hoisted head and shoulders above everyone else. I squinted to see the black name-pin on his upper chest. A step closer and it came into focus; “Kirk.” 
He was smiling indulgently, his faultless olive skin radiating from under his clothing. He had jet-black hair that was slicked-back straight, but delectable stubborn ringlets curled up at the nape of his white Oxford collar. His piercing brown eyes intensified his cultural élan, making my knees buckle. 
I suddenly couldn’t speak, so I pointed to the drunken culprit. Without saying a word, Kirk looped his hand through the inebriated cat-caller’s Western-style belt and carried him at least fifty feet to the front doors, using the man’s head to swing them open. With fluid harmony, he lobbed “drunken sticky fingers” into a waiting cab. When the taxi zipped away, Kirk straightened his tie, smoothed his hair with both hands, and swaggered back inside. He was astoundingly quick, the delinquent activities resolved in less than two minutes. My stomach quivered as he came back inside and boldly promenaded towards me again. Speak Heather, get yourself together girl!
“Are you okay…?” his stunning eyes began searching my blouse for my name badge, making my chest feel fiery. 
“Heather!” I almost shouted, thrusting out my hand for him to shake. “Y—yyes, I’m ookay now, Kkkirrrk,” I stuttered.
“It’s nice to meet you Heather,” he accepted my handshake with a demure but amused smile, his enormous hand consuming mine. Forked lightning speared through my body when our hands joined, my eyes darted up to meet his. Did you feel that? I marveled at the sensation and questioned his eyes to see if he felt it too, but he seemed even and unruffled. 
“You just let me know if you have any more trouble,” he said. I bobbed my head up and down as to indicate that I would. Uh, yeah, I’m scorched from your heat, but I’m good. I evaded eye contact with him once more, but when I dared to sneak another peek, he winked at me before walking away. I flushed, tingling from head to toe. His smile seemed to glow in the dark. I realized I had been holding my breath, and exhaled in a huge whoosh. When I regained my footing, I turned to my co-worker and whispered, “He’s mine.”
I couldn't stop ogling him throughout the night, a moment more with Kirk, I would be the cat-caller removed for sexual harassment. Returning home after my shift, I was still thinking about him all night. How handsome and mysterious he was. How swiftly he “rescued me.” I couldn’t wait to see him again, but when I checked our work schedule for his hours, I saw he was off. Crap! I sauntered off to my station, frustratingly kicking at invisible stones on the floor. Sooner than my heart could sink, I saw him walking right towards me. 
Oh God! I spun around and quickly slathered on some lip gloss. He reminded people of the actor, Steven Seagal, and I could see the association, especially since he was into karate. He had obviously just showered, and was wearing a gi and a clean white T-shirt. The scent of soap and a mild men’s cologne wafted off his body. He casually sat in one of my booths. His hair was disheveled in such a cute way, I wanted to reach out and slowly twirl one of those black ringlets around my index finger. Stop that Heather! I anxiously flattened out invisible wrinkles in my skirt, combed my fingers through my hair, and walked towards him. Just don’t fall on your face!
I nonchErictly smiled, the actress in me taking over with a composed, even detached job performance. Robotically, I offered him a menu and asked if he’d like something to drink. I was looking back and forth between him and the quivering menu in my hands. Why can’t we will ourselves not to tremble? When he reached for it, it was clear he wasn’t shaking. His large hand instantly covered half the menu size. Kirk never broke eye contact with me, which made me inadvertently start biting my lip and shifting my feet. It was as if he relished seeing me flustered. Guess who immediately failed in her coolness attempt?
He finally answered, “I’ll just have a bottle of water please.” His voice was so suave and cultured, I didn’t respond right away. My stomach was too busy quivering and the restaurant suddenly felt so small. 
“Are you all right?” he asked. Hearing his voice again made me blink out of my daze, and I stammered back into gear. My father had taught me how to interpret men, I knew this god in a suit was trouble. 
“Of course,” I said thickly, determined to respond casually. I was irritated with myself for appearing so awkward and frazzled. “One water, coming up,” I chirped and scampered away like a frightened rabbit. 
I tried to keep from looking his direction, but every time I risked a glance at him, I saw that he was watching me intently. His gaze was almost sexual, I nearly felt taken right there. Lawd, this man is hot! Upon delivery of his water, he began to invite me out on a date, but I accepted before he could finish asking.
The intensity of our magnetic attraction was so powerful, we fell in love almost instantly. We were "two kids in love,” I was eighteen and Kirk was twenty-one when we heaved ourselves into a relationship that took off at a fierce gallop. 
If we weren’t working together, we were playing together. I was always linked to his arm or enfolded in his embrace. I loved being wrapped up in his chest; he made me feel sheltered and important. He was sociable, humorous, and trendy; always donning the most modern Italian fashions, most of which he had custom tailored because of his height. We frequently went dancing, laughed at comedy clubs, or dined out at his favorite restaurants, especially small bistros.
Kirk had everything going for him. He was intelligent, educated, and ambitious. He worked part-time for a multinational information technology equipment and services company. It was a vast career opportunity for a twenty-one year old. 
Kirk had a quick wit and silly sense of humor. He had no trouble meeting people, and could single-handedly “break the ice” with style. When he entered a room, he’d usually slap the top of the doorframe with his palm. He’d whirl around and grab his forehead, moaning as if he’d smacked his head, grunting like a hurt animal. The room would explode in laughter. Little did I know at the time that these comedic episodes disguised a man so tormented by depression, he’d tried to take his life before we met, requiring hospitalization after overdosing on handfuls of medication.
Bartending was exceptionally popular in the early nineties, even chic, with academies and schools popping up like convenience stores in every city. We had recently seen Tom Cruise shine as a sexy bartender in a new movie, “Cocktail.” With stars in his eyes, but cautious feet still planted in his business aspirations, Kirk wanted to shift his positions at our workplace, from a captain to a (much higher paid), bartender. He studied for months, memorizing drink recipes and receiving challenging “pop-quizzes” from me. Flash-cards and drink recipes speckled the apartment walls and were taped daily to the bathroom mirror and refrigerator. Before I knew it, I found myself dreaming about bewildering cocktail requests, “A sex on the, buttery, iron curtain please.” Oh no! How do we make that? 
Perhaps the basic skills of a bartender can be taught, but a truly great bartender ensures every detail is perfect and executed correctly. Before long, Kirk was acing numerous bartending tests. He loved bartending, and took pride in electrifying people with unusual “flairing,” such as flaming glasses and juggling bottles. I watched him with pride while he captivated and mesmerized customers with his newfound talent. Many nights we worked together, I would literally jump at sudden, loud surges of shouting and applause originating from the main bar. What in the world is going on? I only had to explore enthusiastic noise once. I saw Kirk entertaining hordes of people. He was so charming, the flock of mesmerized people pressed me into the bar. Everyone clapped in sync to each movement. When he poured, he reigned!
Knock for six
My period had always been fairly regular, so when I suddenly felt hung-over, dog-tired, and experienced a bout of nausea without the “fun” of drinking, I bought an at-home pregnancy test while Kirk was working. Tearing it open, I followed the crude steps. Pee on the little stick, and wait, and wait. 
I sat on the toilet, plopped up my elbows on the sink, and stared at the stick-test as if it were lethal. It felt like the longest three minutes of my life. Kirk and I had been together only eight months, so when those two fuzzy pink lines suddenly told me that I was pregnant, I felt irresponsible and reckless. The “real world” was about to become all too real. I must’ve looked childish when I told him I was pregnant, fidgeting like a little girl, fearful of his reaction. I was astonished at his over-the-moon, delighted anticipation to become a father. He was exceptionally happy, almost as if he’d desired this baby all along. 
About a week passed after discovering I was pregnant. We were both hard at work, when I unexpectedly heard Kirk's voice over the main intercom. "Miss Heather Hager, would you please come to Reservations?" I was surprised to hear his voice, he didn’t typically use the intercom as part of his job. He was up to something, I just didn’t know what. I sprinted towards his voice, top-speed. My heart jumped hurdles as I chased his voice excitedly. What is this all about? 
I saw him leading confidently against a mahogany podium. I caught my breath and looked around, realizing that every eye had turned to watch us, to watch Kirk. Swaying towards him, I added extra swing to feed the adoring swarm of hopelessly romantic people. I blushed in flighty delight. 
He smiled at me, winked, and confidently questioned, "Heather Hager, I love you,” the intercom suddenly protested with some squeaky feedback that made everyone giggle, “will you marry me?" 
He let go of the microphone and sprang down in front of me, dropping down on one leg. The whistling and men’s hooting increased. Even on his knees, I was almost eye-to-eye with him. I excitedly shouted, “Yes!” He took my left hand and placed a stunning engagement ring upon my finger, and kissed the top of my hand. I was bright eyed and thrilled as I shot up into his arms, kissing his cheek. 
Romantic whistles and varying tones of "congratulations!" reverberated throughout the restaurant. The throng around us cheered and clapped. He laughed. His amusement sounded like the bark of a content seal. I was anxious about life happening so fast, but excited about creating a family together. 
That night, after watching our favorite late night program, Kirk cuddled up behind me and whispered sweetly in my ear, “you’re going to have a girl, you should name her Kyra.” What did he mean by “I” will have a girl, what happened to we? “Children keep you alive,” he murmured, as he closed his eyes. He lovingly laced his hands over my belly, and we fell asleep.
Red Flags
I rushed home from work, feeling violently ill, but I wasn’t sick. I was operating on instinct now, Kirk had threatened his life. His battle with depression surfaced a few months into our relationship, and as I fumbled for the house key, my unsettled thoughts summoned up all the times my own mother had threatened suicide. This wasn’t as shocking to me as it may have been for someone else, until I stepped inside. 
There were eerie, analogous notes throughout the apartment. Each incorporated his farewells, valedictions, and directives for his funeral. “Play Me,” was haphazardly scripted on a “Post-It” note and smoothed onto the metallic silver of our stereo. Tentatively pushing play, the grief-stricken melody, “No One is to Blame,” by Howard Jones resounded out for anyone who would listen. My chest went tight with sympathetic sorrow, my breathing redoubled through pain-constricted lungs. I’m so sorry Kirk. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see another memo on my VCR. As if in a dream, my fingers wobbled as I nervously pressed play. The television lit up the room, the volume so jarringly high that I flinched. The movie, “Young Guns,” was describing the epitaph of “Billy the Kid.” It was heartbreaking to observe, I could easily resist confrontational urges to scream or bark at him. In my mistaken bravado, I thought I could help him. Restore bEricce and relieve all of his pain and trepidation, by talking him through this episode by myself (as if I were a doctor or psychologist), or some magical muse that could supernaturally expunge his despair. 
I didn’t want to “embarrass” him in front of his family, but finally told his best friend about his suicidal tendencies. This is a vital mistake myself, and many people make when dealing with someone who is suicidal. I was stunned when Kirk's best friend wasn’t the least bit surprised and told me, quite matter-of-factly, that Kirk overdosed about a year before we met, because of a failed relationship. It seemed like terrorizing threats weren’t surprising to anyone but me, thus I didn’t feel any safer discussing details after that. What have I gotten myself into? 
Kirk unexpectedly walked in the door with a fevered look in his eyes. He was rumpled over, he looked like he felt hopeless. I weightily threw my arms around his neck, almost knocking him over. I was so thankful he hadn’t hurt himself. We stayed up all night, talking and crying it out with noses running like faucets. We never went to sleep, greeting the sunrise with swollen and sore eyes, we were chortling and laughing unrestrainedly to old Sam Kinison videos, Kirk's favorite comedian. The whole event was inappropriately sentimental, but morose. In my mind, an all too common cry for help. I may have been victorious this day, but not unsurprisingly, I failed Kirk.
I believed that on the present, fateful night, as he waved a gun directly above me, his threat would be like any other time I had heard someone I loved flippantly threaten suicide. Only a threat. I was dead wrong. 
Now time was twisted, there was no time in the room. His rage-transformed face was repulsive, his glower unwavering, as he loomed over me, still menacingly wielding the gun. I gaped at him, the blood pounding hard in my ears. His brow was furrowed, showing his disorientation and inability to collect himself. Deluged with aggression, this ticking time bomb was not the Kirk I adored. 
He began to pace the apartment like a restless tiger in a cage; unrelentingly wandering back and forth, back and forth. Kirk sustained his patrolling pace, but increased in tempo, making me feel hysterical. What’s going on? This started from a quick stab of jealousy from an overly hormonal pregnant teenager. I blinked back tears and tucked my legs tightly beneath me on the couch, it somehow made me feel safer. 
I dipped my head up to look at him. I wanted to up the ante of rationale. “Put down the gun Kirk, you’re really scaring me,” I pleaded, suddenly needing to clear my throat. He hesitated and glanced sideways at me. He allowed the weapon to drop to his side, but held his grip. I was appreciative the gun was not pointed at his head. That fragment of relief was all too fleeting. 
I nervously stroked the leg of the coffee table with my foot; I had no idea what to say or do next. He took a menacing step closer. In a defeated tone I asked him, “Why in the hell are you doing this to me? closed. I bristled, stock still. I know it sounds cliché, but everything slowed down, as if I were watching a movie. Overcome with fury, he squeezed the gun’s base so tightly, his knuckles went white. Knowing what was coming next, his face went taut, and he scrunched his eyes shut. No, no, please no! Even though time stood still, I had no time to react.
A loud pop echoed throughout the room, Kirk’s head jolted back. It didn’t sound like a gunshot, it sounded like a fire cracker, until Kirk fell heavy weighed down, the flooring quaked beneath him. Thud! I fluttered my eyes open and closed, trying to block out the image that was playing in front of me. But he didn’t evaporate, this wasn’t a dream. Kirk lay there unnaturally still, like a broken mannequin. I felt like running away in panic. This can’t be happening. What do I do? What do I do? Call for help! 
I leapt for the phone in a panic. Flustered, I dialed 1411. Oh God, I can’t remember the number for 911! Trying not to lose control, I keep dialing: 1411, 141, 411, 119, no 911! 
The emergency operator answered, and I blurted out in a combination of tears and screaming, “My boyfriend shot himself!” I urgently gasped for breath. 
“Where do you live?” she calmly asked. 
“I don’t know,” I lowly whispered. I really did not know! The shock hit me that quickly, and I was as helpless as a child. It was as if a black Kirkain went up right in front of me and I was jumbled and disoriented. 
“What’s your name?” She professionally questioned in a melodic tone. 
“I don’t know,” I mumbled. My reality was warped, I was in an emotional blackout. Just like an unsafe surge of electricity will trip a circuit breaker, a sudden trauma can trip our emotional "circuit breakers," provisionally. My breakers were tripped. My life had completely changed in the blink of an eye, as fast as a speeding bullet tearing through tissue.
“It’s ok honey, just stay on the phone with me.” Her voice was composed and soothing, I could hear her typing quickly. I felt less frightened somehow, just knowing she was with me, but I couldn’t be comforted. 
“The police are coming sweetie, I need you to step outside with your hands out to your side, can you do that for me honey?” Her engagement kept me from total darkness. 
“Yyyes, I‘m going, going, outside, go outside now,” I wasn’t sure what I was saying as I grappled with the doorknob. My hands were clammy from the upwelling terror, making it difficult to clench the slippery brass knob. I’m trapped here! The horror intensified when I thought I couldn’t get out. The air was tainted with the smell of blood, of death. I looked back to see Kirk, impulsively terrified that he would be standing right behind me. The bullet’s entrance had made shrapnel of his temple, and blood oozed down his head. He would be reaching out for me, wanting vengeance. 
But he remained in a twisted knot on the floor, blood pouring out of the burned cavity in his head. Through the deafening confusion, I unexpectedly heard concentrated, deep, long breathing. I jumped, tasting my heart that had jumped into my throat. Was it my imagination? The deep, bottomless breathing continued. I realized it was coming from Kirk! As if he was in a comatose-like sleep (but alive!). Excited, but scared, I took an experimental step towards him. Small blood bubbles were materializing in the cerise puddle under his face, gradually seeping and expanding outward on the carpet. He’s alive! Oh my God, he’s breathing! 
“He’s breathing!” I squealed, almost dropping the phone. My mind remained shattered into a million pieces. Was I breathing? I dragged a deep breath into my lungs, it was difficult to inhale. I desperately wanted to turn him over, but I was immobilized with fear. I was too cowardly to touch him. The operator began typing faster, then repeated her request that I step outside the apartment. Wiping my clammy hands repeatedly on my uniform to dry them. I got out, and was immediately met by five or more police officers. 
Within minutes, I was rushed down stairs and my hands were “washed” for traces of gunpowder. An emergency service officer looped long medical swabs up and down my trembling fingers. All I could think about was what I would say to Kirk when he “woke up.” Would I hug him, hit him, or both? I couldn’t think clearly, couldn’t orientate myself. I nervously twirled my engagement ring on my finger. I refused to accept what was happening. My brain may have known this was his death, but my heart stubbornly insisted on Kirk having immortality. Kirk. Is. Not. Dead. 
The rattled young officer had no idea what to say to me. He fumbled for tissues to wipe the blood from my face. I allowed my chin to rest lightly on his one hand, while his other dabbed at my cheeks. I drew in the deepest breaths I could, but only wheezed. The cop kept whispering, “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry,” and shook his head from side-to-side. I stood motionless, saying nothing in my trauma-induced fog. 
Despite my best efforts to look elsewhere, my gaze managed to stray back towards the apartment. A cluster of medical technicians were carrying Kirk’s body down the circling complex stairs. Five or six emergency techs strained while carrying his body, he was too large to move around the encircling, sharp corners on a common stretcher. A urine-yellow streetlight illuminated a crimson U-shape of blood under his tightly wrapped, mummified head. 
He was unhurriedly lifted into the back of the ambulance, the doors were closed slowly. Hurry-up! He’s breathing! I wanted to scream out for some haste. Sluggishly, the ambulance drove away with my dreams. There were no lights flashing or loud sirens blaring. There was nothing to indicate a rush to save a life. I suddenly understood why. The life inside was already dead. The despair and gloom began to consume me, until it was seamless. I cupped my hands over my face, rubbed my swollen eyes, and clawed through my hair. My fingers discovered a small piece of skull twisted up in the strands. Vomit shot into my throat and my heart chilled.
Since my parent’s second divorce, my mother lived hundreds of miles away, so my father remained my sole hope for emotional support. I rushed to his house and rang his doorbell too many times. My nerves abraded. C’mon dad, answer the door. Finally, I saw him and felt a gust of relief, immediately wanting to coil myself up in his arms. He pushed open the flimsy screen between us, but looked at me as if he didn’t know me. He surveyed me curiously. It’s late, he was probably asleep. I wanted to explain what had just happened, but how could I? I found myself pantomiming with gestures until I found my speech. 
“Dad, Kirk sh…shot himself,” I was panting for breath. 
“Are you okay?” He asked. An absurd question, of course I wasn’t “ok.” 
I answered a bit sarcastically, “I guess I’m okay Dad, I have to go to the hospital now.” I wanted him to grab me and pull me into his protective arms for a perpetual hug. Desperation seeped from my every pore. 
“Alright then, I’ll see you tomorrow Sweet Pea.” His duplicity was confounding as he casually closed the door. My breath left me. I teetered on his door-step, staring at the closed door for what felt like hours, but he didn’t return. Is this a joke? Should I knock again, did he not understand what I just said? My eyes filled with tears. A few more bewildering minutes passed. I opted not to call on him, ringing his doorbell again. I was too devastated by his detachment. I would have to go this alone. 
I had no idea that beyond the cracks of that pasty porch, my father was battling his own demon; an intense struggle with alcoholism. He would barely remember this night, he was too tanked-up. I couldn’t realize that this memory would haunt both him and me later on in our lives. 
Everything around me appeared like dream images without substance, but I drove to the hospital by myself. Knowing I couldn’t manage the tangled interstates today, I have no idea how I pulled it off. I called Kirk’s father before I left. He was already at the hospital, but that was of little solace to me. Our relationship was characteristically absent, not bad, but just “not there.” 
Under the hospital’s pinging fluorescent white lights, the somewhat detached doctors began to natter about a full subarachnoid hemorrhage and blah blah blah. At that moment, all I really heard was that Kirk was dead. I felt defeated. I must have worn a blank expression, because a troubled look crossed one of the doctor’s faces. 
He asked if I wanted to see Kirk. “No,” I responded too quickly, solely out of blubbering spinelessness. Terrified by what gruesome relic might remain in the husk of Kirk’s body. Looking back now, I wish I would’ve said goodbye. 
The silence in the room was disturbed when the fledgling younger doctor asked me straightforwardly, “Are you pregnant?” I jumped a bit at his personal knowledge about me. Surely the physicians couldn’t tell, I was only about eight weeks along. Kirk’s father must have told them. I weakened, recapping my newfangled reality. I nodded my head up and down, indicating yes. “I’m sorry,” was all he said as he bowed his head. Why did he even bother to ask, to probe into MY life? Both doctors scuffled out of the room in haste. I stumbled in their wake. I was sick of hearing “sorry” from everyone already. 
In my (measly) opinion, due to the lack of research at the time; doctors, psychiatrists, and therapists stagger in the dark when helping witnesses to suicide and even survivors of suicide. In retrospect, it’s not that I expected this doctor to sit down next to me, throw an arm around my shoulder and offer to have an “International Coffees” moment, but if one of the doctors would’ve offered a simple suggestion to pursue assistance for single mothers, it would have been more kind than making me feel like a curiosity. I presume they had merely confirmed to each other that fact was stranger than fiction. 
A moment of comfort came when there was a collective agreement between Kirk's family and myself to donate any organs that could be used to help another person. I often think about who that precious gift helped. Kirk's skin was bequeath his skin to burn victims. Every time I so much as burn my finger, I think of blistered and scorched skin supplanted with my Kirk’s ultimate contribution.
I’d been living with Kirk's dad for over a week, sleeping in Kirk's childhood bedroom to feel closer to him. Kirk's dad wasn't really the lovie-dovie type, so his hospitality was generous, if not uncommon. 
I hurt all over, inside and out. I was particularly susceptible at night. Living in his room helped me to briefly stretch actuality, prevent reality, and award myself with a fabricated impression that I was still close to Kirk. It felt like he was permanently near. Although unhealthy in the long-term, I needed to believe he was still there. 
Whenever I risked closing my eyes, I saw Kirk with a gun trained menacingly at his temple. His skin was pale, but his lips were reddish pink. He suddenly squeezed the trigger. His head jolted back, and his limp body twitched on the floor. When I woke screaming and trembling, Kirk wasn’t there. I floated my hand over his “typical” side of the bed, where he slept. The sheets were cold, devoid of any warmth, nobody had laid there. I stirred, trying to cry myself back to sleep to take a crack at a different dream.
The Telltale Heart
A day or two later, I returned to the apartment alone to undergo the dreaded and frightening task of packing up my paltry pile of belongings. Gritting my teeth, I opened the front door gradually. As soon as the door crawled open an inch, the pungent stench of death hissed through the crack. I stiffened, the odor was so nauseating that I suddenly fought off the bile clambering up my throat. Thump, thump, thump. Bargaining with terror, I left the door half open.
I scattered newspapers over the primary blood stain in the center of the floor, but like “The Telltale Heart,” it seemed to call out to me, adding to the remarkable fear. Thump, thump, thump. I swore I overheard the solid pounding. 
Priorities first; I searched out Kirk's jacket, holding it up to my face and inhaling deeply. His scent had disappeared, too much time had passed since he’d worn it. 
Thump, thump, thump. 
I uneasily rubbed the coat's collar and tried to smell again, as if the jacket were a scratch-n-sniff. Nothing. Disappointed, I folded it carefully and placed it a “special” box, with all my most important items and documents, which wasn’t much. 
I was hastily filling a battered liquor box in my kitchen, when an unexpected knock at the door startled me. A terribly regrettable oversight was about to knock the breath out of me. A peppy mail carrier handed me a box containing an elegant set of embellished silverware. I couldn't help but envy his cheerfulness, as well as despise it. I promptly searched out the gift card, and gasped in disbelief. The grief hit me like a wave. I felt like I was drowning. 
The elegant, gold script writing stared up at me: “Congratulations on your wedding. We love you. –Nana and Gop.” God help me. The reality struck, I had gone from planning a wedding to planning a funeral. 
I staggered out the door to get some fresh air, struggling to quell the tightening of my throat. I threw myself to the ground, weeping. Opening my eyes, I felt mocked, yet again, but this time by our friendly tan “Welcome” mat under my face. I could not stop the unconstrained pain released through my tears, sniveling in agony. My thoughts were interrupted by the prospect of single motherhood. You’re alone and pregnant Heather. 
Finding Out 
“Hi there, this Heather’s mother.” My mom was calling my work, sprightly and chipper, puzzling my manager. 
“Uh-huh, I’m so sor-“Mom cut her off, still motivated by her celebration plans. 
“I’d love your help. I need the addresses of Heather’s co-workers so I can throw her a well-deserved bridal shower!” Mom’s enthusiastic request made my manager realize that she observably didn’t know Kirk was dead. Mom had no idea, and she didn’t want to be the one to tell her such devastating news over the telephone. 
“Please call your daughter,” she really had no idea what to say, insisting that mom call me, but mom heard the wobble in her voice and demanded she tell her what was going on. Mom could be convincing. 
“Kirk shot himself.” My mother dropped the phone. 
Discovering Kirk’s death from a virtual stranger, mom called me and we talked, but I have no recollection of what either one of us said. Or any conversations for that matter. I remained vacant, I just “wasn’t home.” I had gone fishing, I was out to lunch, not playing with a full deck; just bizarre behavior. Now that my family knew Kirk was gone, they were about to take advantage of my turmoil.
“It’s much too late, for goodbyes.” (Julian Lennon)
The day was eye-stingingly sunny, relentless warm hugs burned cheerfully on my neck, making me feel ridiculed by Mother Nature herself. I couldn’t believe I was standing at Kirk’s funeral, the cruelty amplified from the unkind, stifling heat and lack of even a slight, soothing breeze. Nothing felt real or tangible; except pain. I was not asked to have any part of the planning, but because of the prolonged shock, I couldn't have helped anyway. 
I don't remember much from that dreadful day, other than feeling and literally seeing the sticky Texas heat shimmering off the rows of crumbling headstones, like electric luminescence. I loathed the people walking around the cemetery’s sidewalk who were continuing to play out their lives. Annoyed at these carefree individuals, without “real worries,” like being eighteen, pregnant, and burying your fiancée. 
I just wanted to go home and turn the clock back five days, flee from this nightmare. I whispered goodbye to Kirk, but not only to him, but also to our impulsive, but very real dream. My spirit seemed to fade away and my vitality waned. I cautiously folded our baby’s, his only child's first sonogram picture and placed it into the diminutive cranny that now held his cremains. We cuddled in his favorite “Garfield” stuffed-animal too, and sealed the niche with the priest’s prayers. Such an enormous man was now reduced to a small alcove. It felt so, wrong.
The tangled webs we weave
“Heather, this baby will be a consistent reminder of Kirk’s brutal death,” my mother asserted. Right our of the blue, only days after Kirk's death. My family desperately wanted me to “forget this dreadful trauma and move on with my life.” They didn’t understand why, at my age, I wanted to keep this baby and they insisted I have an abortion. Time now felt like my enemy. I suppose that’s why it’s important to never make any major life decisions after a suicide, because the anguish you’re left with often distorts your ability to handle changes and make clear choices. My parents didn’t heed such recommendations, and refused to merely listen to me and respect their grandchild. Both of my parents felt like their daughter was experiencing horrendous circumstances, and aborting this baby was analogous to a “victim of rape” option. Their point of view was; how could I possibly move on and forget what had happened since I’d be raising Kirk’s baby, he’d always be part of my life. They didn’t know what they were asking me to do. They continually lied to me, trying to coerce me to terminate my pregnancy. Both were sure I would “resent” the child one day because of what Kirk had done. I still refused. Neither of them understood what I already knew about abortion. It was not an option. 
Conversely, I was terrified of losing my baby and wrestled for his or her life with everything in me. After Kirk died, I felt like there was nothing left, no life within me, and no life to live for, until I thought about the precious baby I carried. I longed for our baby. 
I knew how “bad off” I was, Lord knows what my unborn baby was feeling in my emotional roller-coaster of adrenaline blasts and severe depression. If babies sense, feel and even taste what their mother’s experience, and science tells us they do, then how could a baby, no longer than a tube of “Chapstick,” survive such an ordeal unharmed? 
I was horrified to use the bathroom. I envisioned having a miscarriage night after night. I was afraid to pull down my pants, unsure of what I might uncover. I feared my underwear would be overflowing with blood clots, blood pouring down my legs. Latent on my panties is the lifeless body of my perfectly formed baby, partially submerged in tissue and bodily fluids. She has every finger and toe, but dark spots could be seen under her tissue thin skin. It was so disturbing, this illusory hurt was unyielding. I wanted this baby so desperately, I sought out hope and protection, leading me to religion. 
I began to pray to God. I didn’t know much about prayer at the time, but after staring death in the face, I urgently prayed for help to keep the severe depression at bay, at least until I had my baby. Even though I wasn’t a “real” Christopher tian, I began to wear a cross around my neck. It made me feel safer, more secure. 
The phone rang, and I was guardedly incited when my sister, mother and father asked me out to an all-you-can-eat cafeteria for lunch. Even depressed pregnant women rarely turn down a free meal, especially one that’s buffet style. My stomach rumbled in anticipation as I confirmed my attendance, adding that I would be more than happy to join them. My parents hadn’t given up on abortion and had formed another plan. This wasn’t going to be some peaceable, communal meal, it was a conspiracy to try and persuade me into believing that “abortion was my only option.” 
I was hiding as much as I could behind my long hair, it was still awkward being out “among the living.” I didn’t like seeing people, especially happy people, and I didn’t want them seeing me. 
“I have some bad news I need to tell you,” my mother began the deliberate story. Those ten words meant trouble, more pain, making me tuck beneath my tresses more. I stopped moving bits of food around my plate and looked up at her. My appetite vanished, a graveyard stillness filled the air. She let out a heavy sigh, as if this task was daunting and her words too grim to voice aloud. 
“Heather, honey, you cannot have a baby.” As if in critical, loving concern, she picked up my hands and held them in hers. Her expression was surly, melancholy. I’ve continually been fascinated with mom’s acting capabilities, I was sure she could stand-in for Judi Dench at a moment’s notice. 
“You have an inherited genetic disease, and you can’t have a baby. It will die anyway,” she lied. I was repelled by her feeble story, but still squirmed in my seat. Oh right, nice try mom. Amusing zinger.
“Oh pu-lease, you know that’s not true mom.” I confidently searched my father and sibling's face quizzically for disparity, but neither disagreed with mom. To my shock, both were stone-faced, or bobbing their heads in accord. The hush between them sustained. This can’t be true? Fear quaked through me like pulsations through a cable. A shiver went up my spine, my palms dampened with sweat, and without warning, I became so nauseous, I just about threw-up Luby’s “best country fried-chicken” in front of the entire restaurant. 
“You’ll die even trying to carry the baby.” Mom unrelentingly persisted, now supplementing the terrorizing, morbid fib with threats of my demise. The flurry of agony that coursed through me felt more excruciating than Kirk’s death. All I had left was our baby, that small seed of hope, and I was coerced into uttering goodbye to my now pulverized future. No way, I'll die first! 
“Then we will die together!” I bawled at them defiantly. Through the haze of my tears, my father distorted into a blurred form, staring at the floor and shaking his head. The burning tears filled my eyes, and my heart ruptured, all o'er again. Oh my God! Oh my God!
With the silent agreement of my father and sister, I believed I was hearing the tSteve's mom. For the first time in my life, I knew what it felt like to really want to die. I was so empty inside, I didn’t even “feel pregnant” anymore. How could I feel so hollow, so empty, and be with child? I wiped my hands wearily down my face. No! Why me? In my jumbled torment, if I had a gun, I would’ve shot myself at that moment, right there in front of them. I was that deeply disturbed and all-consumed by depression. 
I reached up to yank that cursed, no-good cross off my neck, sure God had rejected me. I was shattered in pieces, pounded down like a trampled puppy. How could “He” do this to me? I didn’t feel “protected” or comforted by the idol. Before I could give the chain a suitable jerk, my sister seized my arm with tears in her eyes, pleading with me to stop. I did, but begrudgingly. 
I couldn’t frown or smile, the agony was like a living beast. My belly was a cesspool, unrelentingly churning in revulsion. Perhaps seeing the despondency on my face, or not wanting to be blanketed with vomit, my parent’s intimidation ended for that day. They would try to persuade me to abort again soon, in an even more violating and detestable manner. 
Teardrops that Tango:
Where is the love?
“It is difficult to free fools from the chains they revere.” (Voltaire)
As the shock began to marginally wane, I still felt drugged, vulnerable, and helpless. I felt absent, like a nomadic drifter with no resolution in sight. I had no one, owned nothing, and was beginning to feel nothingness. I felt alone. Alone with the struggle. Alone with the violence. Alone with the emptiness and guilt. Alone with an anger inside. The National Institute for Trauma and Loss in Children, suggests when someone witnesses a violent death, the resulting issues and feelings of powerlessness can consume them with “intrusive thoughts, relived experience, and residual feelings of overwhelming terror.” They’re unmistakably correct, but it’s not rocket science. I would relive the night Kirk died in my mind a million times, repeating it in a neurological loop, until I received help. 
I really had no choice but to forgive my family. I needed their emotional support and love, and with a bit of luck, an acceptance of my baby.
The Web Tangles
As soon as we pulled into the doctor’s office parking lot, my heart rushed with appreciation and my tummy fluttered with excitement. Finally, my mother and father had accepted my “choice” to keep my baby, and even offered to pay for me to visit an OB/GYN to, "make sure everything was OK." I was waiting for Medicaid, but thanks to them, I could see a doctor right away. I was desperate for a doctors assurance that my baby was healthy, still recognizing that it would be miraculous if I did not lose him/her. I couldn’t cope with any more miscarriage hallucinations. 
We parked, and I almost found myself skipping to the front doors of the doctor’s office they had chosen. My mind was racing. Would I be able to see our baby on a sonogram? My parents were paying, so they checked me in and we began the customary, tedious wait. The waiting room was typically boring; a medium-sized fish tank and various magazines strewn about on side tables, but nobody was smiling. Everyone seemed downcast and talked softly. I could almost feel despair in the room. It gave me the heebie-jeebies, and I didn’t know why. I slid my hands up and down my arms vigorously, to warm the chill of the room’s brazenness Something about the “feel” of that office was all too recognizable to me, but I couldn’t place my fear. Obviously uncomfortable, I sat between my parents like a little girl. I may have well been bobbing around with pig-tails and cotton lace bobby-socks. You can do this Heather! I gazed at the drab paisley carpet until my name was called. 
I fidgeted on the examination table in anticipation. Craning my head back, I saw a silly puppy poster on the ceiling. Oh, the embarrassments of being a woman. I swung my legs back and forth on the table like a giddy adolescent. I hope they’ll let me hear the heartbeat today. I imagined the quick rabbit-paced thumping of my baby’s tiny heart-beat, a sound I would never ignore again. I couldn’t help but form a crooked smirk and snigger out loud. I knew I was doing the right thing, and I was truly exhilarated. This baby gave me hope. 
There was a quick knock, and the doctor entered the examination room. He barely made eye contact with me and wasn’t asking me any of the common questions I expected, like “when was my last period.” I began to feel uneasy as I watched him squeeze on a pair of latex gloves. He told me lie back on the examination table, put my legs into the stirrups, and allow my thighs to relax, so I cautiously did. 
“Comfortable, Miss Hager?” He asked in a formal, but honey-toned voice. 
“Yessir, I guess so, I-” I shifted on the table, my legs quarrelling against the strain. 
“Good, are you ready?” He cut me off, motioning for a nurse to assist him.
Ready for what? Alarms started to go off inside my head as the nurse hauled around a machine and instruments I had seen before, in nightmares, in real life. I sprang my head up, questioning him about what I was preparing for. The doctor moved closer, within feet of my virtually naked body. 
He dispassionately replied, “To terminate your pregnancy.” 
What the hell? I jumped off that table as if it were on fire, stumbling out of the stirrups in the process. My stomach twisted with nausea. My God! They brought me to an abortion clinic! I couldn’t believe the betrayal. That was it, I had taken enough. The abortionist received the lion’s share of my pent-up fury. I snapped, accidentally spat, and screamed at him until my face went scarlet and literally felt hot. My throat was seared and raw, but I was still screaming as I slammed through the front doors, leaving without looking back. The puzzled faces in the waiting room couldn’t divert their curiosity, watching me stamp away, stunned. I didn’t communicate with either of my parents for weeks.
Dream and reality were mingled. Life felt grossly unfair. The depths of my misery hit me in my very core, I felt totally responsible for Kirk’s death. In the days, weeks, and months immediately following the trauma of suicide, the grieving survivor is at the highest risk of depression and/or suicide. The unwelcome presence rears its ugly head the entire first year, and the grief-sticken friends and family need a great deal of understanding and encouragement. I was in significantly increased danger, but only the research in medical books knew it. I had been violated, betrayed, isolated, and heart-broken. Please God, I can’t take much more of this. 
My mind kept saying “I should have” and asking “what if?” Did he pull the trigger because of something I said, or didn’t say? Was it something that happened, or even the fight itself? Why did I even allow him to bring that stupid gun into my apartment? Why didn’t I call the police five minutes before? Why... What if? It really didn’t matter; I blamed myself. In my predicament, I was vulnerable to this inexplicable, augural fear; unmistakably experiencing (medically untreated) severe Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, and receiving no help. I was on my own. I couldn’t afford a counselor or therapist, and I knew of no other provision for mental health, so I didn’t even search for psychological assistance. I knew that I needed help, but didn’t know who to turn to. 
Moving On
My parents cooperatively acknowledged that I was keeping my baby. Although I was still wounded by my father for his deception, endeavoring twice to coerce me into abortion, I left Kirk's fathers home, and moved back in with my dad. Back to the bleak, void apartment, that ponged of stale cigarettes and sometimes made me feel down. It was my only option, but I didn’t seem to “fit in” there, or anywhere. 
It started to hurt to smile. I couldn’t control how to feel again. When you don’t want to hurt or feel, death can seem like a fantasy, a dream, even a wish. Mortality is something you dream about and yearn for, like Hemmingway or Poe. But when you see death as I did, upfront and in person, there is nothing poetic or beautiful about it. Death is ugly. It’s unsightly, bloated, ice-cold, sometimes bloody, and, in the case of all suicides, always wrong. You would think suicide, in particular, is such a dark unlikelihood for repeating, but statistically that’s incorrect. As unusual as it may seem, as the layers of suicidal guilt slowly peel away, there’s a new, monstrous guilt lingering in its place. Life sometimes felt dark and confusing, with no visible light at the end of the tunnel. I searched for “secrets” because I couldn’t believe my own mind anymore. 
“Living” in inertia, sleep became my closest ally. This is where I “dropped anchor” for too long. All I wanted to do was sleep, leave my harsh reality and dream without living. To be void of life, but still in control. Sometimes, the fitful, black nightmares were horrific (I still have them to this day, albeit less often). It was devastating to be re-experiencing the night Kirk died in all my waking hours, and also in my dreams. When I awoke in the middle of the night and felt cold in bed, a knife blade of fear went through me as I realized I wasn’t dreaming; Kirk was really gone.
After a couple of days, dad went back to work and the apartment was vacant. I was alone and depressed. Nobody knew what I was doing, or the depth of my misery. I didn’t tell anyone that I was dwelling in unforgiving depression and shameful guilt. Both were so unfathomably painful, my emotional state of mind seemed to somehow materialize with a volcanic abruptness. In maximum self-destruct mode, I was exceedingly fatigued and lonely. 
My crumpled clothes formed a disheveled mound on the floor, an illustration of my unruly state of mind. Naked and feverish, I spotted my reflection in the mirror. The woman in the mirror was repulsive. At a tipping point, I regarded my own my flesh as heinous, certain I was disgustingly foul. The mirrored image distorted, and this Rubicon past death being the Grim Reaper was pointing his bony finger at me. I was a curse, my whole life felt like wasted energy. I wasn’t preparing myself for a “typical” bath. 
Warm tears streamed down my cheeks in rivulets and my body began shuddering involuntarily. The warmth of the bath didn’t soothe me. I couldn’t rationalize anymore, and pushed a razor blade into my left wrist. My shoulders tensed and I clenched my jaw, squandering up the nerve to rip the blade up my arm, but suicide can be a formidable challenge. I spent some time bidding up the blind and thoughtless audacity to carve up my flesh. Waste the most precious gift I’d ever received, my life. Although I felt like I warranted acute torture, I thought my death would be painless, particularly compared to Kirk’s. 
It honestly felt like there was a phantom, opposing magnetic force pushing the blade away from my wrist. I exasperatingly sliced at my wrist four or five times. It looked like I scarcely broke the skin. I drew in deep breaths, marked by my failure. Don’t be a wimp! In my weariness I attempted to summon up more “courage” to destroy myself, but noticed the glinting water below me. I froze, eyeing my belly. The water had exaggerated my lower body like a circus mirror. I looked down at my flat tummy, now amplified by the water. I stiffened. What am I doing? My baby!
A leap of logic slapped me across the face. My heart pounded, and a cold chill chattered through my body. I may not have felt or looked pregnant, but I couldn’t lie to myself. I had a tiny babe inside me, Kirk’s baby; our precious baby. The same little peanut I fought tooth-and-nail against my parents to protect. How could I even consider destroying my angel? I heard a still, soft voice in my head. It was reassuring and encouraging, “It’s courageous to survive, for you, and for your child.” 
Aghast, I looked at my wrist. I caused more injury to myself than I thought. Blood was dripping down my elbow. Horrified, I hurled the blade across the bathroom. It ricocheted off the wall and clinked against the tile floor. I cried out at the senseless thought of hurting my baby. I cupped my hands and splashed water over my face, over and over again, disintegrating both blood and tears. As the saltiness of my tears disappeared, it felt like a self-baptism. Why would I hurt the thing on the outside for what hurts me on the inside? A deep tranquility stole over me, I rubbed my belly in appreciation. 
“Thank you baby, I love you so much,” I sighed admiringly. I needed to live, I wanted to live and make my child proud. When I focused on the new tiny life that was coming, I gained stability by the minute. My baby saved my life, before she was even born. 
Being suicidal is the same awful behavior as my family, wanting to abort their grandchild. What my parents didn’t know or understand, was that I had already taken the life of one of their grandchildren, and I couldn’t do it again...."


‪#‎SurvivorsOfSuicide‬ ‪#‎SurvivorsOfSuicideDay‬ ‪#‎Suicide‬ ‪#‎NationalSurvivorsOfSuicideDay‬ ‪#‎TeardropsThatTango‬ Teardrops that Tango; Survivor of 4 Suicides
National Survivors of Suicide Day
Watch the video: (Warning, Graphic Imagery) Witnessed The Violent Death Of My Fiancee. 8 Wks Pregnant W/ Our Baby
Graphic Imagery in Novel; Suicide by gun-shot. *Warning Suicide Survivor Friends* Hi Friendz! This is an excerpt from chapter one, "Teardrops That Tango" As ...
15 days ago - Via Reshared Post - View - Concerts in Toronto : Noel Gallagher expected setlist -Half the World Away -AKA... What a Life! -(It's Good) To Be Free -...
Noel Gallagher expected setlist

-Half the World Away
-AKA... What a Life!
-(It's Good) To Be Free
-Talk Tonight
-If I Had a Gun...
-D'Yer Wanna Be a Spaceman?
-Listen Up
-Sad Song
-The Importance of Being Idle
-Cast No Shadow
-Slide Away
-Don't Look Back in Anger

16 days ago - Via Google+ - View - Kerriangelme Goddess :
16 days ago - Via Reshared Post - View - Benny Hutchings : MENU MENG: STORIES OF THE SCARIEST MAN IN THE HISTORY OF WRESTLING By Rob Fee Feb 19, 2014  It's ...

By Rob Fee Feb 19, 2014

It's one thing to be a popular professional wrestler in the ring. You have T-Shirts printed up with your catch phrase on them and action figures that simulate your finishing move. You're loved by the fans and everyone knows your name. It's another thing to have the respect of your peers.

Some of the most popular wrestlers were considered soft by others in the locker room. There are numerous stories of altercations that caused guys to immediately become respected, but there's one man that stands above all the rest. He was considered the most terrifying man in the sport and was feared by even the toughest wrestlers.

His name is Meng and the tales of him have become those of Chuck Norris jokes. No one knows for sure which stories are true and which ones have been embellished. One thing we know for sure is that no one gets that much respect without having pulled off some truly unbelievable acts. Here are the stories from other wrestlers about the scariest man in the history of wrestling. This is the legend of Meng (aka Tonga, Haku).

The Bite
Kevin Sullivan was a wrestler/booker in WCW and traveled with Meng quite often when they were on the road. He told a story to WWE Classics about the time the duo went to a tavern to grab a few beers before heading to their hotel. According to Sullivan, it was obvious that he and Meng weren't locals, so when they walked into the bar, a guy playing pool called Meng a horrible, derogatory word.

"The next thing I know is that Meng goozles the guy like Mr. Spock," Sullivan said. "It was fast and furious. He then grabbed another guy who tried to get involved and knocked him unconscious."

After that, things got even crazier. "Meng bit through the guy's shirt like a wolf, bit a chunk out of the guy's back, then spit it on the floor," he said. "I said, 'It's time to go.' "

Sullivan said that as they drove from the bar he saw police cars pulling into the parking lot, but authorities didn't pursue them and no charges were ever filed.

The Airport Incident
In an interview with James Guttman of World Wrestling Insanity, Meng discussed how he wrestled to support his family and not for the fame or popularity. That's why he took particular offense when anyone called wrestling fake.

"When I walk in and you tell me it's fake, I'll show you how fake the business is. Whether I take your teeth out or take your eyeballs off or whatever it was in those days. Maybe they're going to kick my butt around, but watch it - I'm coming back and finding you. But those were those days. I'm glad nobody picked up a gun and shot my ass. But in those days, that's how it was, James. It's my love for the business."

He then confirmed that one of the most outrageous tales about him was indeed true.

"Yeah. It was in Baltimore Airport. There was a hotel there. We were staying at another hotel - the Marriot or something. There was another hotel there, though. It was hopping at the time. The music was playing and it was packed. It was during the week I believe. Me and Siva Afi went over and there were lots of babyfaces there at the bar. So we went and sat in the other corner away from them. When they were ready to close, we had a few drinks, and on our way out there were five guys just sitting there. Of course, the same thing came out. The "fake" stuff. "Hey, are you guys with those guys - wrestlers? The fake wrestlers on TV?" You know. I said, "Yeah. I'll show you." And I reached over without thinking - there are four other guys there (laughs) - grabbed his face, and bit his nose off. Then the fight started. Me and Siva kind of cleaned house there and left. I'll never forget it (laughs)."

Perry Saturn
During his YouShoot Interview, Perry Saturn was asked about his time in WCW and the toughness of the guys backstage. He was given the followng list of the guys with the strongest reputations of being tough and asked who would win a fight between them all.

The Barbarian
Scott Norton
Jim Duggan
Fit Finaly
Scott Steiner
Rick Steiner

He responded "Tonga. Nobody else would stand a chance. Not even a question. He could kill everyone without blinking and there is nothing anyone could do about it"

Ted DiBiase
The Million Dollar Man said that one time they were in a rough part of St. Louis for a show. Everyone had been drinking and a large fight broke out, which resulted in the police showing up. Meng had a few drinks, but saw the fight break out so he started trying to break it up. In the process, police thought he was part of the fight and maced him then handcuffed him. He said that Meng was cuffed behind his back, looked at the police, and snapped the handcuffs.

Bobby Heenan
In a shoot interview, Heenan talked extensively about Meng and referred to him as the toughest man (not just wrestler) he's ever met in his life. The craziest story he shared was in regards to a bar fight where he claimed Meng "took his two fingers on his right hand, his index finger and trigger finger, and he reached into the guy's mouth and he broke off the guy's bottom teeth." Heenan said that if he hadn't been there and seen it himself, he wouldn't believe it. After all the other stories that have been confirmed, it doesn't seem that unbelievable at all. Heenan was also close friends with Andre the Giant and claimed that the only two men in the word that Andre feared were Meng and Harley Race.

Rick Steiner
The Steiner Brothers were known for being tough guys, so when a man is feared by two of the hardest guys in the sport, you know they've seen some crazy things. In an interview, Steiner talked about the time Meng fought off eight police officers. "They shot him with mace and he closed his eyes and sucked it in. He just opened his mouth and took a deep breath. I mean some of the stuff he did was like, 'What the hell?' Scotty and I always thought we were tough guys but that was before we met Meng."

Arn Anderson
In his biography, "Arn Anderson: 4 Ever" Anderson claims that there are three types of men in the world. There are tough men, there are wrestler-tough men, and then there's Meng. He was in a completely different category than anyone else on the planet. Anderson recalls one instance where a large cowboy was arguing with Meng and he pushed the cowboy through two different sets of doors using only one hand.

Brutus Beefcake
One of the most famous Meng stories happened during his time as Haku in the WWF. Brutus Beefcake had gone to management and complained that Meng slapped him too hard during their match. When Meng found out he walked straight to Beefcake's locker room and grabbed him out of the shower. He started choking him and lifted him two feet in the air while everyone else looked on because they were too scared to step in and break it up. Eventually Hulk Hogan came in and talked Meng down.

Eric Bischoff
There are so many stories about Meng fighting with other wrestlers, but that doesn't mean management wasn't just as scared of him. Former head of WCW, Eric Bischoff has said numerous times that Meng was never fired from WCW because no one was brave enough to do it. On one particular day, Bischoff and Greg Gagne walked into the locker room and interrupted a conversation between Meng and Chris Candido, Chris Jericho, and Tammy Sytch. Meng immediately looked at the pair of execs and said, "Hey! Apologize to my friends. I'm talking to them." According to Candido, the entire room went silent and everyone just froze. It was then that he realized the stories about Meng weren't just legends. Bischoff and Gagne apologized to them and waited for the conversation to finish before speaking with Meng.

Jesse Barr
On a trip to Puerto Rico, Meng was walking with fellow wrestler Jesse Barr when Barr decided to kick dirt onto a man who was digging ditches. Meng was upset by it and told Barr he shouldn't have done it. Barr decided to get in Meng's face and argue with him, which turned out to be a bad idea. Meng grabbed him and popped his eyeball out of socket. Some wrestlers claimed he completely tore it out, but Meng said that wasn't true. Barr ended up getting fired for the incident.

Kevin Sullivan
During Kevin Sullivan's numerous shoot interviews, he's spoken extensively on his time working with Meng. He claims that on one occasion when Sullivan was a booker in WCW, he asked Meng to do something that wasn't major, but it wasn't completely the right thing to do. He said that Meng got a little upset and it was most scared he's ever been in his entire life, despite Meng not being that angry.

Sullivan also used Meng to his advantage. Sullivan had to inform a few guys that they would be losing an upcoming match. They wrestlers became upset and told Sullivan they refused to do the job. Sullivan told them that, instead of arguing, he would just go get Meng and have him take care of the situation. They guys immediately agreed to lose their matches if he promised not to go get Meng.

Sting and Meng in the ring

Jake Roberts
Jake "The Snake" may have said it best during one of his shoot interviews: "If I had a gun and was sitting inside a tank with one shell left and Meng is 300 yards away, he's mine, right? Well the first thing I'm going to do is jump out of the tank and shoot myself because I don't want to wound that son of a bitch and have him pissed off at me.
18 days ago - Via Google+ - View - Concerts in Atlanta : Noel Gallagher expected setlist -Half the World Away -AKA... What a Life! -(It's Good) To Be Free -...
Noel Gallagher expected setlist

-Half the World Away
-AKA... What a Life!
-(It's Good) To Be Free
-Talk Tonight
-If I Had a Gun...
-D'Yer Wanna Be a Spaceman?
-Listen Up
-Sad Song
-The Importance of Being Idle
-Cast No Shadow
-Slide Away
-Don't Look Back in Anger

19 days ago - Via Google+ - View - 1ElCondor : If I had a gun for every ace I have drawn, I could arm a town the size of Abilene Don't you push me ...
If I had a gun for every ace I have drawn,
I could arm a town the size of Abilene
Don't you push me baby,
Cause I'm all alone and you know I'm only in it for the gold

All that I am asking for is ten gold dollars
And I could pay you back with one good hand
You can look around about the wide world over
And you'll never find another honest man.

Last fair deal in the country,
Sweet Suzie, last fair deal in the town
Put your gold money where your love is baby,
Before you let my deal go down

Don't you push me baby, cause I'm moaning low
Well I know a little something you won't ever know
Don't you touch hard liquor, just a cup of cold coffee
I'm gonna get up in the morning and go

Everybody prayin' and drinkin' that wine
I can tell the Queen of Diamonds by the way she shines
Come to daddy on the inside straight,
Well I got no chance of losin' this time

Last fair deal in the country,
Last fair deal in the town
Put your gold money where your love is baby,
Before you let my deal go down

Everybody's bragging and drinkin' that wine
I can tell the Queen of Diamonds by the way she shines
Come to daddy on the inside straight,
Well I got no chance of losin' this time. 
Watch the video: Grateful Dead - Loser 7-7-89
JFK Stadium, Philadelphia, PA
20 days ago - Via Google+ - View - Jennifer Allage : ~Nominated By~: +Kaylee Russo (why doe man) ~HAVE YOU EVER: Snuck Out: Yeah, I got mad at me parents...
~Nominated By~: +Kaylee Russo (why doe man)

Snuck Out: Yeah, I got mad at me parents so I went for a walk to my friends house.
Broken a Bone: Of course, I fight people.
Cried myself to sleep: Of course, when I think about everything I am.
Been arrested: noooo
Felt Lonely: Of course
Been depressed: I am the definition of depressed.

Birthday: December 18
Biggest Fear: All of my close friends dying, or being a mistake/not being enough.
Dream Job: I would like to be a Youtuber or an engineer.
Dream House: I would just want a simple 2 story house where I can live with a friend and such.

Like someone: Iz taken I like someone, also I've gots a SEMPAII
Love someone: My friends are my family, I rarely talk to my blood family...
Have tattoos: Nope but I plan on getting a yin and yang symbol and friendship signs etc...
Have piercings: nah fam
Party: Yeup, just me Rani-Sama, Kaylee-Sama ANND Kenzie-Sama

Artist: Does Krewella count? If not then Alan Walker
Movies: FURY, Edge of tomorrow, and Inception
Song: Zero-Gravity or Live for the night (Pegboard Nerds remix)
Series: TV show is Pokemon, Game is Black Ops series, Book is Blue Exorcist.
Book: Dunno, I only read manga and stuff...
Color: Golden, black, or blue.
Animal: Wolfs, dogs, cats, and llamas

Twitter or Facebook: TWITTER
Twitter or Instagram: INSTAGRAM
Facebook or Instagram: INSTAGRAM
Coke or Pepsi: Coke
Tea or Coffee: Coffee cause I need daily doses.
Tacos or Pizza: Doesn't matter cause both or GRRREAAT
Winter or Summer: It doesn't matter cause I can drink coffee and have fun with friends during winter. During summer I can see hot guys and go on road trips with friends and play games etc...

Get married: Yeah but I get all of the food.
Have kids: Yes... Like 2/3
Swim with sharks: If I had a gun then yes.
Eat rotten food: Nah fam, the food may kill chu.
Marry a foreigner: Eh, sure. If they were Jap or Korean

~Nominate 10 people:
+Emerald Sustrai
+Mercury Black
+Cursette sugarspiceand-oopstoomuchsass Desolation
+Shiny Iron
(Not doin more)
21 days ago - Via Google+ - View -