Before we embark, my people, a few facts:
*I am a teacher, that is true.
*My politics are nobody's business, my students will also tell you that.
*When said students "walked out" for gun safety, they asked me my opinion. I answered as I always do "My husband is a Texan."
*I have, in my life, fired a gun one time. When Jim and I were dating, he tried to teach me to shoot while we were camping. I aimed at the creek, pulled the trigger, and promptly dropped the gun.
* I tried to go to a shooting range back in November. The woman in the booth next to me had an assault rifle. I tried to focus on my target, she fired at her target, and I set my gun down and left the building. No muss, no fuss, I just left and waited in the car. The panic attack that ensued was like nothing I had felt before.
* I am nobody's bitch, certainly not Anxiety's.
*I'm still not telling you my politics on anything, just enjoy my story.
Due to a suicide in 2010, I have a noose "trigger". I banned all ropes and nooses from the theatre, and the students were accommodating and kind without asking a lot of questions. This year, when we began The Last Days of Judas Iscariot, I knew it was my last chance to just get over it. I told the set designer to hang a noose over Judas. He quietly went about the task, checking in with me several times to make sure it was OK. I told him "I will not be a trigger's bitch. Hang the thing."
He did. The show was beautiful, and I swear it was partly because that noose was allowed.
Trigger #1:0 , Kryssi:1.
It felt fantastic to finally let go of that one fear, and I decided to take on the two that remain. I truly have only three triggers. I banished all of my fears this last school year, but triggers are different than fears. A noose could lock me up, I'd freeze and start to shake. What the hell? I was tired of it, and the opportunity to bust it myself was not going to present itself again.
Without really knowing he was doing it, Jim took on my next trigger, by purchasing me a gun safety and shooting class at our local shooting range. He did it primarily because he shoots, and he would like somebody to go to the range with, and I'm married to him so that makes me the natural choice since my personality has run off most of his friends.
I spent today dreading the class, hoping it might get cancelled. Jim had gone to some trouble to sign me up for a women's only class taught by a female instructor, and he seemed excited about it. He packed up a .22 Ruger, ammo and noise canceling headphones into a tackle box marked "Zombie Ammunition". How could I not go, he was so excited to give me this gift.
So I arrive at the training center, and stand in line behind seven other women, all over the age of 30. They were signed up for the class and choosing their weapons. I watched quietly, waiting my turn. Then the clerk (who turned out to be our instructor) looked at me she said "Are you here for the class?"
"Yes," I replied too perkily. "And my husband packed me a gun," I held up the Zombie tackle box, much to the delight of my fellow classmates. Apparently I'm hilarious. Now, part of my issue these last two years has been wrestling with Who I Am. I have always been a theatre kid, and for 14 years I taught theatre. Those two things no longer match, what I do and who I am are different, and that's thrown me for a loop. I have no idea who I am anymore, and if I don't know and I'm in an uncomfortable situation well...you don't know which personality is going to emerge. Tonight would prove that they are all present and accounted for, as the first into the spotlight was Quirky Kryssi with her funny Zombie tackle box.
We adjourned to the classroom, where were sat for two hours and learned about guns, gun safety, stances and ammo. But first, unfortunately, there was a Get To Know You portion of the evening.
God I hate these. I don't make my students do it, either, I think it's cheesy and I don't need you to tell me what I can see by your demeanor. Of the eight of us, I was last to speak. My companions were varying degrees of "I shoot for fun" to "I want to kill a mountain lion in my backyard" to "My husband taught me, I'm here to see if he did it right." Clearly, as someone who does not shoot for fun, or have any interest in shooting any animal, ever, I was out of my element. So Neurotic Kryssi chose to step into the light and speak.
"My husband is from Texas.I'm having a panic attack right now. I tried to go to a shooting range a few months ago, but someone next to me had an AR (all the women cringed and there was a general sense that those with AR's should not be at an indoor range), I kinda came apart. I'm here to face my fear."
OK, so looking back at writing that, am I really just Neurotic Kryssi? Maybe the Real Kryssi is Neurotic Kryssi. That'd suck.
Halfway through the class we took a break, and the woman who had been seated next to me, the one who wanted to shoot the mountain lion in her backyard to keep it from getting her dogs, and who also had a revolver instead of a pistol, decided to start talking to me.
"My husband is certified in DM*, and he is qualified to comfort you with a butterfly hug...."
"What?"
"I have acrophobia and I had to kiss a blarney stone, have you ever been there? It's really high and I had to look down and he grabbed me and now I don't have agoraphobia **."
"What?"
"He's coming in before they close, I can have him help you. He's qualified to butterfly hug."
"I'm fine. I will do this on my own. And the last thing your husband wants to do is be the stranger who tries to bear hug me from behind at a shooting range." Bitch Kryssi, enter stage right.
"Oh..."
"It's great that you're all better from your AgadarA Phobia and everything, that's awesome. I'm walking into the bathroom now."
As I entered, a quiet woman watching me carefully whispered "I like your pants," like she was afraid I might punch her, or cry, both of which would have been magnificent choices, but I really had to pee so I just said "Thank you."
Now that we've established three personalities, we are coming to the "get on your feet and do the thing" portion of the evening.
It might be worth noting that I had no idea what Jim packed in the Zombie case. For all I knew it was a chicken salad sandwich. I just hoped some of the parts resembled those in the class power point.
I opened the box to find a pair of pink noise canceling headphones, a package of bullets, a magazine and a purple .22 Ruger, items I can only identify because of the previously mentioned power point. Kudos to Instructor Cindy, she taught me something.
I have never loaded a gun in my life. So I stood quietly staring at the pieces and contemplated bursting into tears.
The instructor walked me through loading bullets into the magazine, which I was holding upside down and backwards. I had to wait for her assistance before loading it into the gun, which I was pretty sure I was also going to do backwards. The power point and class had instructed us to "slam" the magazine into the gun, which I did and promptly jammed the gun. I knew I did it right, because I have been watching Hicks teach Ripley how to replace a magazine at least twice a year for over twenty years, and he says to slam it in there. But this particular gun, either by design or operator, is delicate. There is not a need to slam anything, you just push it in. I also did not load the barrel right, you are to pull back and release the slidey thing, and I was pulling it back and pushing it forward. Which causes it to be a "dead battery", which is ridiculous as there are no batteries involved whatsoever. Once the instructor spent most of her time with me, it was time to ready, up, squeeze the trigger--not pull, you are to squeeze. So I readied, I upped, I squeezed the trigger...and nothing happened. I set the, gun down to my left as instructed and waited patiently for my new friend Cindy,who realized I had not fired. "Is the safety off?" she asked, and I smiled pleasantly back at her, as Lenny smiles at George, because it was probably on, but I had no idea where it was located. I'm sure it was covered in the power point, but there was so much with the bullet has to face this way in the magazine, and the magazine goes this way, and hitchhike your thumb and finger off the trigger and dominant eye and I again considered bursting in to tears. She switched off the safety. Then she asked me if I was doing OK, which I realize now was due to the fact that I jumped every time someone fired and I may have looked like I was going to start bawling any minute.
This is how it went every time we loaded and fired, for 45 minutes, minus the safety being on.
I hit the head of my target instead of the chest only twice, and the numbers every time I fired. I even nailed the target right between the eyes.
Move over, Neurotic Kryssi, Make My Day Kryssi has arrived.
Trigger #2:0 Kryssi: 2
* I don't remember the initials, who cares.
**She said two types of 'phobia', only the first of which was actually a fear of heights.
***Also calling guns a trigger issue seems silly, but it is what it is.
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