Guns

It's a peculiar relationship.  That, of me and guns. 

An M-4. Not mine. But mine in Ar Ramadi, 2005 was set up nearly exactly the same. 

Personal failure bothers more than it does most.  I think.  In nearly irrational ways, I allow any little defeat to haunt my life.  

And, thus, my sentiment in regards guns. 

While in the Army, I once performed poorly during a marksmanship qualification event.  

My dissatisfactory shooting truly embarrassed me.  Especially because I tended to achieve success in most other aspects of my military service: tactical exercises, planning, navigation and, particularly, physical training.  

And qualifying with my weapon had never been a challenge.  Except during this single test.

Since that day, my anger with myself in relation to adequately handling weapons is such that I have developed a pretty nasty distaste for guns.  

Which is weird.  Because generally, I like to fire them.  In my limited hunting experience, I found the activity rewarding.  And, really, my gun in Iraq provided a sense of power that I can't well describe, but do miss. 

But, now, the thought of guns turns my stomach.  

This phobia is a bit like having a fear of heights, yet loving to fly.  I'd imagine for some that such a fear would prevent them from entering the plane despite enjoying being in the air.  

And that's where I'm at with guns.  

A weird character trait that speaks to some of my odder internal motivations.