My Fight by Shannon Bolin

It has long been debated as to whether or not a woman should fight a would-be rapist or comply with his wishes. Proponents of compliance argue that you are more likely to survive an attack if you willingly meet the attacker's demands.

I have long felt that any rapist who threatens death is either a killer or he isn't.

If he isn't a killer, than he probably doesn't want someone who is going to be too much trouble.

If he is a killer, even if he is a killer who hasn't quite worked up the courage to kill yet, then chances are your ONLY way out would be to try to successfully fight him off.

Perhaps my judgment is clouded by my own experience. Here is my story:

It was a beautiful Sunday afternoon in May, Memorial Day weekend, in fact. I grew up in a small town in Northern Michigan, and I remember the air being crisp enough to warrant a jacket.

My father and step-mother had gone to town to do our laundry, since we didn't have a washer and dryer at home at the time. I was 16 and itching to get away from the house.

We had chores every day, and my parents were extremely strict. In fact, they were abusive, not sexually or much physically, but psychologically and emotionally. Twenty years ago they were just finally cracking down harder on physical abuse, and were only beginning to learn the damage emotional and psychological abuse can do.

So, I must have had my chores done when I decided to take a walk. I decided to walk 2 miles to the local party store by way of the woods and back roads. It was a walk I had taken often over the years.

Along the way, I found an empty beer can. Michigan gives you 10 cents for every beer or soda can or bottle, and it just so happened the party store sold Charm's suckers for the same price. Remember, I was 16. My friends and I LOVED Charm's suckers, and on this day I planned on getting one for my friend.

I remember feeling guilty that I had an empty beer can, though. My step-mother was extremely sensitive when it came to alcohol--all of it was evil in her book. But, 10 cents is 10 cents, and it wasn't like I had personally consumed the beer, so I pressed on.

After a mile, the road I was on ended at a crossroad that ran parallel to I-75. As I neared the crossroad, I heard the faint hum of a motorcycle. My first instinct was to hide in the woods.

I thought, "You are being ridiculous. Nothing's gonna happen," and stayed on the road. If only I had followed that first instinct!

Sure enough, here came a motorcyclist, no doubt enjoying the beautiful holiday. Pretty soon, he passed by again and stopped to ask me how to get back onto the main road. I gave him directions, and he rode off again.

A short time later, I heard him coming back, and remember actually feeling flattered that he seemed interested in me. That didn't happen to me very often back then.

This time, he stopped and asked me if that was I-75 over there. I turned and looked, answering "Yes" as I turned, when suddenly, something grabbed my arms.

I whipped around, and he had a good hold on me. So good, in fact, that he ripped the sleeves of my jacket a little.

I started screaming, "Let me go! Let me go! Let me go!"

"You lied to me," he glared.

"No I didn't," I screamed back. I explained that both main roads were called the same name by the locals, and I had given him directions to the road I had assumed he wanted.

Then he said the most horrible thing: "Let me put my hand down your pants and push, and I'll let you go."

Friends, I am sure that, had I complied at this point, I would have at least been raped, if not much worse.

Still facing him and even more terrified, I told him that my God would never forgive me if I let him do that to me, and I continued to hold him off with my hands and scream, "Don't you touch me! Don't you touch me!"

Suddenly, he let me go, hopped on his bike, and road off. I never saw him again.

Some people who lived down the road came by and saw this miserable, sobbing mess of a girl walking down the road. They took me to the neighbor's house, where I called some friends to come pick me up and take me home.

For a long time after, I could still see his piercing blue eyes boring into mine, hearing his horrible proposition over and over again.

Dad thought it would just be my attacker's word against mine if he reported it to the police, so he did not and forbade me to discuss it ever again. (He was of the mind that bad things were best forgotten if they were never spoken of again.)

I learned something that day. I learned I had a strength deep down that was stronger than anything my parents had put me through.

I also believe that God was with me that day.

And I learned that sometimes, it is better to fight an attacker.

So ladies, scream, fight, bite, scratch, kick with all of your might. It could very well mean the difference between a bad experience and an ugly one, between living and dying.

Shannon makes unique hand crafted jewelry and is the owner of Bolin Family Jewelry http://www.bolinfamilyjewelry.com/ and she also has a wonderful blog http://www.bolinfamilyjewelry.com/blog.html

Shannon is one of our valued VIP members and we appreciate her contribution, and her bravery in disclosing her ordeal.