From one warrior to another:
I don’t know your name, and I don’t need to know. But I refuse to call you the Stanford “victim” As someone who has also been called a “victim” I have come to learn that I am so much more than that, and so are you. You took one of the worst things a person could ever experience and turned it into a national uproar. You are not a victim, you are a warrior. You are a survivor, a fighter, an inspiration, a role model, a writer, a lighthouse guiding lost ships home. Do not let them diminish the warrior that you are by calling you a “victim”.
I read your story on a Saturday, while browsing Buzzfeed as I do every morning to wake myself up. About a paragraph in, I sat up in awe as I read through a story with a beginning which resembled my own in so many ways. In January of 2016, a series of events which is not necessarily relevant to the story lead me to drinking a bit too much. I got a call from my friend. The same friend that tried to make a move on me a few weeks before when I was sober, to which I rejected. The same guy that obsessively called me multiple times a day, which I sent straight to voicemail. In my drunken, crying haze, I picked up this time.
He picked me up at my house five minutes later. He heard me sob with drunken hiccups. He heard my slurred words followed by me vomiting on his Honda. He was sober enough to drive to my house and back to his apartment, there is no doubt in my mind that he was sober enough to be aware that I was impaired.
I don’t remember anything else from that night. My guess is he drove me to his apartment, we, or at least I drank more, and then I passed out. I woke up the next morning, naked, falling so far off the bed my head touched the ground.
When I got home the first thing I did was take a bath. I let the water cover my body, washing off the contamination. I longed for different skin, for a body that had not been touched and prodded the night before. For the first time in my life, I wished I was someone else.
My friends were supportive. “It’s not your fault” they said, “we still love you they said”. Their words of encouragement touching but empty. I felt myself pushing them away, wallowing in solitude, wishing for an end to their sympathies and the “you okay’s?” Their support was long-lasting but eventually their support turned into asking “what’s wrong?” It’s been 2… 3… 4 months, maybe my grieving period should be over now. I was violated, it’s time to move on but I just can’t.
Four months after the incidence, I gained the courage to tell my roommate. A few deep breaths and a moment of courage later, everything spilled out like word vomit. “Megan, I fucked up. I went to a friend’s house and passed out and I was assaulted”.
Then I heard the four words I expected everyone was thinking but I never wanted anyone to say: “what did you expect?”
She’s right, in a way. It is my fault for drinking so much. It is my fault for going to his apartment. But I expected a hangover. Maybe some vomiting. A killer headache and a day on the couch watching friends re-runs while wearing sunglasses and taking Advil.
I did not expect to be at Planned Parenthood getting tested for sexually transmitted diseases.
I did not expect to sit on the toilet of my dorm bathroom sobbing as I wait for the results of a pregnancy test.
I did not expect to worry my friends or make them cry for me or even lose some of them.
I did not expect to spend every waking moment of my life filled with guilt and regret and disgust for my body and what has touched and prodded and hurt it.
No, I did not expect any of that but that is what I received.
So here I sat, on a Saturday morning with tears falling from my cheeks as I read your letter to rapist Brock Turner when I realize that I am not alone. Your words have inspired me. I can do this. I am brave. I am strong. We are warriors.
On June 6th 2016 I reported my rape to the police. As your legal battle comes to an end, mine is just now beginning. I never thought I would be strong enough to do this, but you showed me I am. Thank you for being a lighthouse which shows me the way.
You will probably never read this. If you do, I hope by now that you will have the justice that you deserve. But I also know that no matter what happens in my trial, there will be a piece of me that is always altered because of what happened to me. Maybe you feel it to, so I just want to let you know that you matter, and I hope you receive the help and support you need.
I support you as do the million American’s who read your letter and were moved in the same way I was. You inspired me, and I know you inspired many other girls who felt hopeless, worthless, and alone. Thank you, you are a warrior. Maybe we both are.
