Mental Health & The Right To Bear Arms

The topic of mental health and the right to own a firearm has come up a bit recently, there have been a few deep conversations on Twitter and I was listening to the Jamoalki VS the second amendment episode 19 on the “Depressed Not Dead” podcast the other day regarding his fight to NOT be allowed to purchase a weapon. This has made me realize just how differently our two countries view gun laws.

Here in Australia the laws around gun ownership are very strict. You are only allowed to own a gun if you have a specific “genuine” reason that falls into select categories. You must do a firearms safety course before you can get your licence and then keep any firearms locked in approved “safe storage” with ammunition stored in a separate locked box. Only the licensed owner of the weapon is allowed access to the safe storage place. 

Hand guns are a very special class of license, automatic and semi-automatic weapons are not permitted at all and above all else firearms are not, for any reason whatsoever to be used for self-defense.

As land owners, my husband and I applied for our gun licenses a few years after we bought the farm, our applications falling under the ‘genuine reason’ of needing to control vermin such as foxes and wild pigs.

Now as an animal lover, I had no intention of actually murdering any living creatures, I only really applied because that way Hubby (who was quite content to dispose of nuisance foxes) and I could both have legal access to the gun safe and I could do a bit of target shooting and purchase bullets etc for him which is more practical as he hates going to the shops if he can avoid it.

At the time I first applied for my license my mental illness was very much present but remained undiagnosed. There are boxes that you have to tick on the license application form regarding criminal or psychiatric history including questions asking if you are receiving any treatment for a mental health condition, if you have been hospitalized for a mental health condition or if you have suicidal ideation or have attempted suicide.

I knew that answering yes to any of those questions would mean that my application would be denied. I had been suffering from bouts of suicidal depression and hypomania for well over 10 years but at that point I was still heavily denying my illness, I had never had professional treatment or official diagnosis and nobody could prove anything, so I simply lied and ticked “no”.

After paying a fee I was of course granted the license I didn’t need and probably shouldn’t have, for an initial term of five years. Hubby, through a long comedy of technical paperwork errors was denied his license. Because he immigrated from overseas and his Citizenship Certificate was granted when he was a minor, he was listed under his father’s name which meant it was apparently “not valid ID for these purposes” and he didn’t have a current passport to use instead.

He was told to obtain a new passport and then reapply after 6 months. The ID he needed to get the passport WAS THE CITIZENSHIP CERTIFICATE. *Sigh…* By this point Hubby was just cranky with the ridiculousness of the system and couldn’t be bothered retaking the safety course and reapplying.

I never did buy a gun because I had no intention of shooting anything and when my depression flared to suicidal proportions again and I wanted one, the rigmarole of actually purchasing a firearm was way beyond my exhausted mental capabilities at the time.

There are forms for intention to purchase the specific gun, application fees, somehow secretly coming up with the money to pay for the gun itself, the “safe storage” inspection by the local police department prior to receiving the gun. Then I would have to find somewhere big enough to hide it from hubby and the kids (remember these aren’t hand guns).

Besides gunshots are messy, I didn’t want to be found that way; it was much easier to overdose. When I was eventually admitted to a psych ward they went through my wallet, the nurse found my firearms license and immediately tensed up and demanded to know if I had access to any guns on my property. 

Answering “sadly no..” got me a raised eyebrow but she must have believed me and not looked into it further as my license was never revoked. During my lowest periods the temptation to go through the red tape to buy a gun was outweighed by the fear that a black mark would come up against my name and I would be stopped and questioned about my motives. I didn’t want to end up back in hospital so I didn’t pursue it.

My personal opinion is that a person who has had a diagnosed mental health condition's right to own a firearm should be assessed on a case by case basis rather than a blanket ban, after all someone who had a suicide attempt at age 18 but no further mental health issues and is now 50 would be far less of a risk than someone like myself who is still frequently cycling in and out of depression with a recent history of attempted suicide. 

I received a letter a few days ago stating that my firearms license is up for renewal soon and a form with those familiar boxes to tick, I was surprised it came at all, gosh that five years went fast. Against my better judgement I filled out the form, lied in the appropriate sections and posted it off rather than just letting it lapse the way I should have.  

The question now is will my form be taken at face value or will a little blip show up on a computer somewhere stating that I have a diagnosed mental illness, have been involuntarily committed to a psychiatric facility for attempted suicide and am no longer permitted to hold a firearm. Just how good are their system safeguards? I guess I will have to wait and see.

Empty Chairs

I walked out of my gym room tonight after my workout and glanced across the living room. The other five members of my family were perched around our old six seater table giggling hysterically as they played a raucous game of poker.

A wave of emotion came over me as I surveyed the scene, I couldn't help but smile as I watched my husband trying desperately to convince a rather skeptical Mr 14 that “in this instance I'm pretty sure I only need four cards to make a straight!” 

They all looked so happy.

The empty seat at the dining table of course was mine. It hits me sometimes when I see scenes like this that if things had gone differently back in May 2015 that the table would always look this way; full of family, fun and personalities and just one chair left empty, full only of the memories that had once sat there.

They looked so good sitting there, they looked like a complete unit, even without me. I guess they have had to be so many times when I have been absent, unwell, hiding in my bed under the blankets or miles away in a hospital for months at a time.

Even now that I am doing much better, I still find myself feeling like a guest in that chair. I set the table for five most nights, my eating disorder prevents me from eating the same foods that I cook for my family and although I sit with them while they eat, I have become an outsider of my own making.

Right now I am supposed to be having a shower after my work out, but rather than having an urge to shower quickly so that I can go and take my rightful place at the table I am instead typing this on my phone while lying on my bed in the dark listening to the sounds of chinking poker chips, wild accusations of cheating and maniacal laughter.

As dark clouds slowly build in my unquiet mind, I find myself gravitating towards the thinking that they would have been just fine without me and one day they may still have to be. It would have been over a year and a half now, the heaviest parts of grief would have slowly subsided, life would have gone on and yes that chair would sit silent and empty, but realistically, for a long time it already has been.

Putting On A Face

I didn’t wear make-up at all until I was 27. I tried to put some on when I was around 13 but it didn’t look right and made my skin itch, it was awfully expensive and my mum didn’t wear any, plus all my friends were boys so I couldn’t ask them for tips, lipstick and hiking through the bush or skateboarding just didn’t seem to go together.

My teenage love life consisted of “drunk or stoned at a party sex” rather than prettying myself up for dates, I was fat for much of high school and not desirable to anyone sober, then when I lost weight and school boys began to take notice of me I was too involved in my eating disorder and working on my latest out-there manic project to have time for much else.

The 30yr old boyfriend I had when I was 16 did take me out on dates, but he never mentioned my lack of make-up, I was vegan at the time and definitely against animal testing so he probably thought that was part of it, there weren’t as many cruelty free products available back then.

My husband has always told me that I am perfect just the way I am and I don’t need to wear “Clown Paint”, it’s not even him just being nice, he really doesn’t like the stuff at all, in fact he was sending out death stares to my 16yr old niece when she put a little bit of lip stick and eye shadow on my 7yr old daughter on Christmas day!

At age 27 I was hypomanic, motivated and keen to get a full time ‘real’ job, I had been working in a pet store since I was 14yrs old. I landed a position in the public service where pretty nails and make up was simply expected. Suddenly I found myself in the world of manicures, eyelash tinting, brow waxing and was wearing make up every week day, my hypomania was ramping up and so was my eating disorder. A wardrobe of size XS nice work clothes, having my hair styled and wearing make-up made me feel pretty for the first time in my life.

I remember thinking that if only I had worn make up and had my hair done in high school, maybe boys would have looked at me a whole lot differently. Suddenly wearing make up to work became wearing it every day if I was leaving the house, then everyday if I was likely to get a glance at my own reflection.

Skirts, heels and cosmetics had become my mask and I felt hideous without them.

On one occasion I was off work as my hypomania and anxiety were causing problems and Hubby had to give me a lift into town for a therapist appointment. I woke up late and didn’t have time to put my face on or straighten my hair. I was beside myself. I had a panic attack and literally cried the entire hour long journey into town, then I ended up taking hubbies car and going to a shop and spending over $150 on new cosmetics that I applied in the bathroom at the mall, $100 on a new outfit and then went to a hairdresser and got a $200 cut & colour. 

I had spent nearly $500 I couldn't afford just so I could go to the appointment looking “good” and prove that I wasn’t too manic to work.

Shortly after this incident my mania peaked and landed me in hospital, where I was absolutely horrified that I would not be able to use a flat iron, run on a treadmill or wear make-up, I recall that I kept apologising to the other inmates for being so ugly and telling them that I normally wasn’t THIS bad, I just needed my face on and my straightener, promise!

The depression that came after that long manic episode drained me of energy and caused me to gain around 15kg but I continued using make-up for quite a while purely as a front when I went to work, when I wore it people thought I was doing well, they thought I was ‘normal’. I ran into a colleague at the shop on the weekend once, I was wearing shabby jeans, a now too tight T shirt and a naked face.

He took a step back and said “Woah, I nearly didn’t recognise you, you know without all your make up on!” I just laughed and said “Yeah pretty scary huh!” but I was nearly dying inside, my fears were confirmed I was fat, ugly, stupid and too lazy to even make myself recognisable. The depression got worse and I stopped going to work, stopped leaving the house and stopped wearing make-up altogether. It didn’t matter anymore; I was a lost cause.

After my suicide attempt and subsequent two months in the psych ward I returned home and eventually opened up my cosmetics bag again, Hubby was unimpressed “what do you want to wear that crap for? You aren’t working and you were pretty much fine until you started wearing all that stuff” he would say. He seemed to think that my wearing of make-up was to blame for my mania rather than the other way around.

When I was stable I started working again part time I wore make up to work but it didn’t own me anymore. Depression hit again, milder this time but I decided to quit my job for good. We didn’t suit each other. I am now back in a part time position in the pet store that is a big part of my soul, animals and fake nails are impractical, I have a uniform so I don’t have to worry about what outfit to wear. I don’t feel judged by my colleagues or customers and I look forward to every shift. 

So now sometimes I wear cosmetics and sometimes I don’t, but even on the days I do choose to wear make-up I know I am no longer simply putting on a face.