Freedom From Fear-Women and Guns

I grew up with two brothers who wanted to "toughen me up." Therefore, when I was relatively small, I took the pounding all youngest children endure. That is, until I was older. When I was about 15, my older brother and I got into a horribly physical fight that I for once didn't lose. Little did I know that my brother was holding back so he didn't hurt his little sister. Nonetheless, I savored the sweet taste of victory! I hadn't lost, and he was a strong guy, so they had in fact, toughened me up, right? Now I will admit to being meaner than most women due to my brothers' initiation, although I never grew to more than 5'2" and weighed only 100 pounds at my heaviest, but was I as strong as I thought I was? My imagined strength was soon to be tested. When I was 16, I was confronted by a homeless smut peddler on the Strip in Vegas, my hometown. He, who was smaller than I, claimed that I looked like his wife who had tragically passed on. Strangely enough, so did my friend who looked nothing like me. When I refused his offering of a leaflet full of pictures of call girls with a simple shake of my head, he seemed to view it as an affront, whereby he grabbed me and threw me  toward a short brick wall in front of the MGM Grand. I tumbled over the three foot wall, and he jumped on me and pummeled me. There were literally hundreds of people watching this happen to me, and yet it took several military guys to run all the way across the Strip to rip this insane man off me. When it was over I was in possession of several things, although my dignity wasn't one: The knowledge that no matter the size of the man, I couldn't defend myself. Fear and helplessness renders one weak, and that people, even good people, will stand around and watch what happens to another without lifting a hand to help. The bruises I suffered at his hands were minor compared to the loss of my confidence. When those brave men saved me from who knows what and carried me to safety, I vowed never to be a victim again. I cried to my brothers and my Dad, and I went through all the emotions victims of assault go through. But when I was done, I knew that I would even the odds. It was part vendetta and part determination. I learned from my Marine father how to handle a handgun, how to aim, how to shoot, how to dismiss the feeling of shock that causes your hands to go numb, what to expect from each weapon in response to pulling that trigger. How to be independent of fear. It was a gift that was more precious than life, for one day it could save mine. I had hoped that preparation would naturally lead me to the strength that criminals would recoil from. In other words: Do Not Mess With Me. Fast forward. Christmas shopping 2002, 8 p.m. Michaels Art Store. By this time, I was well armed and although I was still slightly frightened of guns, I felt that if I must, I could kill another person for threatening my well-being or that of my family. I was confident. That word was missing from my vocabulary for so long, it was like a foreign language. As I left Michaels and walked to my truck, I saw out of the corner of my left eye a man walking toward me. I slipped my right hand under my jacket and undid the snap over my holster, and I watched as he grabbed his crotch to pull up his pants, looked to his right, and sprinted across the parking lot towards me. "Give me your money." He grabbed my arm and  shoved me into the side of my truck. I had two choices, be a victim or be a strong woman who wouldn't put up with that crap. I chose the latter. My heart was beating so hard I could feel it in my throat, and my eyes seemed like they couldn't focus, I took a deep breath that I'm convinced I didn't let out until it was over. I told him, "Back off! I'm armed!"I shoved my jacket aside, and my gun was visible;   I was scared, and shaking, and I wanted to go hide somewhere, but he immediately backed off with a stupid grin on his face as if it had just been a joke, and his hands only slightly up. Then he took off, running across the parking lot and ducked behind a Krispy Kreme. 15 minutes later the police came. Would I have suffered something other than extreme fear in that incident? I don't know. Is there any way of guaranteeing something would have turned out differently than it did? Of course not. Will I ever again find myself a victim of scum like that? No way. The next time you're together with your female friends, take a good look at six of them. Out of those six, one will be raped in her lifetime judging by rape statistics in the United States. One in four will be victims of domestic abuse. In the next hour, 2 women will be murdered. Could their fate be different if they are armed and capable of defending themselves? It's a question every woman should ask. It serves no purpose, as women, in being defenseless against criminals. It's time every woman took control of their safety, instead of waiting for the police to arrive 15 minutes after the crime, or their family finding their body two days later. Nowadays, my guns are just an extension of myself. I'm as comfortable handling a gun as I am a pen. It took patience, a desire to protect myself, and a lot of time at the range. But it was worth it, and it's my hope that every woman gives herself the gift of confidence and safety. Yeah, I could end up being the victim of some crazy person, but one thing is for certain: I won't just give up. I will at the very least, go down fighting or shooting. If I go down, I'm taking him with me, and I type that with a smile.