Those Little Toy Guns engraved on a dark pewter plaque beside a toy cap pistol.
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NOVEMBER 7, 2022: “Those Little Toy Guns!” …

I saw a question posted on my Quora forum recently that asked:

How can imprisonment for insults be justified, considering no one has ever been killed by words, and no words can force somebody else to choose to do harm?

With that, and in honor of the anniversary of “The Four Agreements” I love so much having first been published on this day in 1997, let’s go over “words” by reading through my response to that question:

Oh, but you couldn’t be more wrong, my friend. Someone “ever” HAS been killed by words, let me assure you of that. While words themselves cannot physically force someone to choose to do harm, they can, indeed, incite it. Both the spoken and written word are the womb from which good things are born, and the sword upon which many tragic tales have fallen. This is why every “word” should be chosen impeccably, and why, yes, some insults are, indeed, deserving of imprisonment. If the words one speaks can metaphorically imprison the person receiving them in internal turmoil and ACTUAL hell, and thus potentially even cause their death, so, too, should the person who speaks such words be imprisoned. Long story short? Be sure to watch your mouth, lest you end up choking on the very same poison you spew into the atmosphere. By the way, this is especially important when it comes to the words we speak into the ears of children, whether they are our own children or someone else’s. Many are the children whose bodies physically grew into adulthood, but whose hearts, minds, spirits, and fledgling wings were physically MANGLED at the receiving end of careless “words”. How do I know this? I AM ONE OF THEM!
{“The Real Cat Williamson on Quora“}

The song I’ve paired with this entry is from the perspective of a child who hid in closets while their mom and dad were not just murdering each other with “words”, BUT THEM AS WELL! Been there. Done that. Yes, it’s true, and I am brave enough to admit that not only was I, too, that kid hiding in the closet from sparring parents, but I later grew up to be one of those parents who ashamedly subjected my babies to the war of words between their dad and me. So, whereas my Quora answer is about the danger of not speaking impeccably in general, children can likewise be SHATTERED in the presence and crossfire of “words”. Are we clear now, people? Good enough, then! In the meantime, make it a powerful “Four Agreements” kind of day, and for God’s sake PLEASE be impeccable with your words. They are not … I repeat – NOT just “little toy guns”. They may not draw blood, but they can, indeed, wound a human soul ireparably.

LITTLE TOY GUNS

In between the coats in the closet, she held on to that heart shaped locket. Staring at a family flawless … but it ain’t a pretty picture tonight. Mom and daddy just won’t stop it. Fightin’ at the drop of the faucet. Cuts through the walls catastrophic. She’s caught in the crossfire. Puts her hands over her ears … starts talking through the tears … she’s saying … she’s praying. I wish words were like little toy guns. No sting, no hurt no one. Just a bang bang rolling off your tongue. (I wish words were like little toy guns.) Yeah. No smoke. No bullets. No kick from the trigger when you pull it. No pain. No damage done. (I wish words were like little toy guns.) Wish there was a white flag waving, or that they were both just faking, and it was just a game they were playing, like shoot’em up cowboys. Leave the plastic pistols in the front yard, throw away the score card, and just turn off all the noise. I wish words were like little toy guns. Oh, I wish they didn’t cut like a knife. I wish they didn’t break you inside. I wish they didn’t bang bang make you wanna run, yeah. {Carrie Underwood}

About The Real Cat Williamson — Warrior, Motivator, Survivor.
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APRIL 19, 2009: “The Circadian” …

The photographed excerpt of my father’s letter, with its original blurred passages, hangs from a small metal clip under warm light.

After reading the letter my father had taped to my steering wheel during dinner, the dam that had been protecting what was left of my psyche finally broke. I was having a nervous breakdown, and by the wee hours of the next morning, I was medically assisted to The Meadows in Wickenburg, Arizona, where I received the inpatient treatment I’d been avoiding for at least a decade for the Molotov cocktail of psychological anguishes that had been simmering in my mind since the day I was born.

As I write this, I can still “see” that moment playing in my mind as though it were happening right this minute and can “feel” the visceral reaction I was having that day as my nervous system was being flooded with unfathomable, raw emotion and rendering me insane. I literally couldn’t breathe, but could feel the adrenaline slowly leaving my body as it bled out through my fingertips. I was crumbling! Then, when I looked up and saw my babies standing in that doorway, I was absolutely fucking DONE!

It would be years before I truly understood that my burgeoning decline in mental health was the catalyst for some of the best days of my life that were yet to come, and that I was temporarily sacrificing my psyche for the betterment and bulletproofing of my future and my children’s futures.

Even so, it was they who ultimately made the biggest sacrifices of all. In so many ways, I was their Thanos, and they were my Gamora. Like Thanos, the seemingly “selfish” behaviors and choices I’d been making that had led to my madness were, in truth, for selfless reasons. I didn’t just wake up one day and say, “Hey, I think I’ll just destroy everyone’s lives.” I woke up one day and said, “Hey, none of this is working. None of this is right. I have to do something once and for all to try and make their world better.” Even still, the fallout and collateral damage were the same. I hadn’t just blown up my own life; I’d blown up my babies’ lives as well.

I know for a fact there were angels present with all of us as that tragic scene played out, and if it is true that angels cry, they had to be crying their eyes out as they witnessed what was happening on that driveway. They literally had to peel my 17-year-old son from my body as I was being taken away. He, too, was crumbling, and I can’t recall another time I’d ever seen him cry so much. And Gia? My precious daughter who just needed her mommy to pick her up and hold her? She looked so lost and confused, and I can still see that look of fear in her eyes.

What the FUCK had I done?

About The Real Cat Williamson — Warrior, Motivator, Survivor.