1976 — The Gun and the Door
In an instant, I knew: some things are worse than death. Bending to his will was one of them. I chose freedom—dead or alive.
From the Diary of a Mad Sailor Before I built HadIt.com, I survived more than I ever expected to. This is what shaped me.
Some stories never get easier to tell.
But silence never saved anyone either.
I was nineteen, still living at home in a small town just across the bridge from St. Louis. I’d graduated high school in May 1975 and started working that fall. It should have been a step toward independence.
But at home, there was no such thing.
My father was a violent man—unpredictable, cruel, manipulative. He could be charming, too. That made it worse. I learned early not to fall for it.
Once I started working, things got even harder.
He was retired, so he was always home, always in my face. I didn’t have a car, and he wouldn’t let me ride the bus. So every morning, he drove me to work. Every night, he picked me up.
The only time I got away from him was when I was at work.
And even that came with a price.
The moment I closed the car door after a shift, he’d start:
“Those bitches aren’t your friends. You can’t trust them. You’re too stupid to see it.”
We’d get home. My mother would set dinner on the table. He’d pull up a chair right next to mine, start eating off my plate, and keep going:
“You’ll end up raped and left in a ditch somewhere if I’m not around to protect you.”
He still beat me. Still controlled everything.
When I opened a checking account, he did all the talking. I just showed my ID and signed where I was told.
He bought a new car and told me to make the payments. Said when it was paid off, he’d give it to me. Of course, I wasn’t allowed to drive it.
I bought my own car later, but at the time, it was just easier to go along. Survival, not agreement.
Despite everything, I was starting to push back.
I made a few friends. After enough battles, I even got him to let me stay overnight at a friend’s house.
But everything was a war of wills. Sometimes it ended in bruises. Sometimes in silence. Sometimes I won. Most times, I didn’t. But I kept pushing.
I was tenacious even then.
By the fall of 1976, I chose a day and told him I was leaving.
His eyes went dark. He turned and walked away.
Not a good sign.
We went back and forth for hours. That night around 10:30 PM, he was lying on the couch in his usual uniform—wife beater and boxers.
I sat down on the edge of the couch and brought up the car I was paying for.
“What do you want to do?” I asked. “Give me some money back? Let me take the car?”
He growled without looking at me.
“There’s no money. And you ain’t takin’ nothing.”
I stood up.
“Well, I’m not tired. I’m going across the street to visit Frank.”
Frank, my oldest brother—23 years older—lived just across the way.
And just like that—he snapped.
He jumped off the couch and stormed down the hallway to his bedroom. And for some reason I still can’t explain—I followed him.
He came out holding a nickel-plated, pearl-handled snub-nose .38.
He pressed it against my forehead.
“You’re not going anywhere.”
I felt the barrel against my skin. Cold. Hard. Then I felt nothing.
I kept my voice calm.
“Well… if you feel that strongly about it, I’ll just stay.”
He didn’t move. I didn’t move.
The only sound in the house was the living room clock ticking.
He stood in front of the full-length mirror at the end of the hallway. I was facing him—so I saw the reflection of his back in the mirror.
It was surreal. In that moment, nothing existed but the .38 in my face.
I saw the bullets in the chamber, ready to pierce my brain, and the way it trembled as my father shook with rage.
We were frozen there. A minute? An hour? I don’t know.
I ran through every scenario in my mind and landed on one: de-escalation. Keep it calm. Keep it steady.
Eventually, the pressure from the barrel eased. The gun stayed pointed at my face, but he stepped back.
Then my mother appeared. She slid her arm through his. She was looking down. As far as I can remember, she never looked up.
He broke the silence.
“If you try to leave, I’ll kill you, your mother, and myself.”
I didn’t flinch.
I kept my voice steady and said,
“I won’t go anywhere. Why don’t we sit down and talk?
Mother, why don’t you make us some tea.”
That was all I had. I said it again. And again. And again.
Trying to get her away from him. Trying to move the moment.
She didn’t move. He didn’t move.
We stayed frozen like that for hours.
Finally, sometime around 2:00 AM, he lowered the gun. Walked back to his room. Set the revolver on the bedside table. Then lay back down on the couch.
Like nothing had happened.
I went to my room, shut the door, and sat down on the bed.
What in the actual fuck.
All the control. All the beatings.
And now this.
I remember thinking: I wish he’d just done it when I was little. It would've spared me years of hell.
A few minutes later, my mother opened the door. She stepped in and said:
“Don’t tell anyone about this. They wouldn’t understand.
Your father just did that because he loves you so much.”
I said, “Okay.”
She left.
What in the actual fuck. Again.
I made my decision.
Come sunrise, I was going out that door.
Toes pointed out—or up. Either way, I was leaving.
When the sun came up, I backed my car into his precious front lawn. I threw everything I owned into the trunk.
As I passed him at the door, he said,
“Look what you’re doing to your mother.”
And then,
“If you go out that door, never darken my doorstep again.”
And out the door I went.
That night, I wasn’t afraid of him. I was just done.
Done surviving for someone else’s comfort.
Every chapter that follows is a step toward the day I built HadIt.com Veterans—for the ones still standing at their own doors.
Have you ever faced a moment that split your life into before and after?
I’d be honored if you shared it—or passed this along to someone who needs to know they’re not alone.
📘 Coming Chapters in Diary of a Mad Sailor
1980 — East St. Louis, John Lennon Dies
Two men. A gun. A fight for my life on the same night the world lost John Lennon.
1981 — Struck by a Truck
One moment I’m walking. The next, I’m flying. And somehow—still laughing.
1981 — The Oven Explosion
Gas. Fire. A blast that knocked me across the room and changed everything.
1982 — Car Flip on I-55
When your life literally rolls upside down at 60 miles per hour.
1983 — I Joined the Navy
After everything, I still believed in service. This is how I took the oath—and never looked back.
Before You Go:
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