To the anonymous woman who was brave enough to bring her story to the center of media attention this past summer:

I think the thing that struck me most was how utterly alone a person can feel. It’s kind of ridiculous when you realize you live in a world inhabited by billions of people to think that you could ever feel like there is not one person out there that understands you. But there I was, starting the summer after my freshman year of college, feeling as if I had nobody behind me. And then I heard from you.

I remember telling my very best friend, and having her ask me something along the lines of “What do you want to do about this? Do you want to tell someone or act like it didn’t happen?” At the time, acting like it didn’t happen seemed like the best option. I mean, there was no way this could happen to me. I was in complete shock. This was the kind of thing I read about in books, or saw on the news, or watched on television shows and movies. There was no way this could be my reality; I wouldn’t allow it. So I did my best to put it at the back of my mind and focus on enjoying my summer.

At first, it seemed to work. I enjoyed a vacation to Aruba with my best friends, I went to the beach, I ate lots of Dairy Queen ice cream. I was living out all my favorite parts of summer. And then I remember the entire story of Brock Turner came to the center of media attention over the summer. Your story. And I remember the feeling of pure disgust at his father’s response to his son’s rape allegations, at the media amplifying how Turner would lose his hope of a bright future in swimming but not how you, the actual victim, would be affected for the rest of your life, and finally at the judge’s final, very lenient decision. And then came the crying. I remember reading Vice President Joe Biden’s letter to you, which brought me to tears. And then the letter that you wrote yourself, when it came your time to face your rapist in court, which really made me bawl my eyes out. You were brave enough to come forward with your story, to try to find justice in what had been done to you. Braver than I had been. The very last part of your letter to your attacker started with “And finally, to girls everywhere, I am with you. On nights when you feel alone, I am with you. When people doubt you or dismiss you, I am with you. I fought every day for you. So never stop fighting, I believe you.” Your letter helped remind me at a time of feeling like I had nobody, that there were people who understood, people who knew that what happened was wrong. That no, it was not my fault; that no, I did not ask for it, no matter how drunk or how much I had flirted, that no means no, means no, means NO.

Still, I found myself in a place I had never been. I had fallen down the deepest, darkest hole one could imagine for themselves. I found myself staying up until 5am because I didn’t feel safe enough to do something as routine as sleep, even in my own home. I found myself avoiding friends and plans to go out, because I couldn’t manage to get out of bed to face the day and the world. I felt anxiety almost all day, every day, even when I was with people I trusted most. It got to the point where I even found myself ready to end my life, thinking that death would be the only place I could find peace. I remember breaking a blade out of one of my razors, and sitting on the floor in my bedroom, crying so hard I couldn’t even see. Holding that razor to my wrist, and knowing if I just pressed down hard enough, it could all be over.

I’m not really sure what held me back that summer night from following through on such a terrible, and irrevocable action, but I’d like to think it was in part the words you had shared with the world. Shortly after this night, I found myself confiding in my Aunt Jude, whom I trusted with the truth, who also immediately sprang into action to get me the help I needed. She helped me do what I wasn’t strong enough to do on my own: to stop denying the truth. She also did something that I had yet to have: she hugged me and told me it was all going to be okay.

As I now know, denial and deceiving yourself can be normal responses to any trauma. And when it finally came time to face the truth, I wasn’t sure I’d be strong enough, I wasn’t sure it would make anything better, that it would take away the anxiety, the depression, the PTSD, the guilt, the anger, the fear, the feeling of being completely alone in this world. I didn’t think the truth would do anything but make me feel worse. But your words rang true for me in my mind when I felt ready to give up. It’s like I could feel you with me. And I did feel worse for awhile. And I was heartbroken. I still am. I don’t know if I’ll ever completely be healed, and there are still some days where I sit and think to myself, “Is this all a bad dream, and one day I’m going to wake up?” I wonder if there will come a day where I wake up and my first thought is not consumed by my trauma, that it’s not my last thought before I fall asleep.

I was raped. There’s no way around, there’s no way to face a partial truth, and it’s no way to live in acting like it did not happen. And no, it was not my fault. It took me a few months, some counseling, and even starting some medication to realize this. But the first person to comfort me, the person who inspired me to do these things to better myself is you.

I truly wish that there was no connection for us, that the terrible trauma that ties us together had not happened to either of us, or anybody anywhere. But I wanted you to know that your bravery has in fact touched my life, that you are the beacon of light from the lighthouse that you wrote about in your letter for survivors everywhere. And I thank you for that.

All my love,

Lexxie Lewin

My hope is that sharing my story and my struggle will help other girls and boys out there, even if it’s only one person. That it’ll help them realize that they are never alone in their experience or their feelings, and that they will survive this horrible trauma, even on the darkest days when it doesn’t feel like it. Because that’s what we are. We are survivors.