Unashamed Truths of a Middle Class Twenty Something

I'm figuring it out as I go.

I Was Drugged Last Weekend

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Friday, I was drugged. I went out with a friend for some drinks. I didn’t over due it, not even close. I had my wits about me. I had a few drinks in a few hours, barely enough to be tipsy. I’ve always been careful with drinks. You know the boogey man stories, “Never accept a drink from someone you don’t know.” Well, Friday throws this all out the window. My drink went from my waitress’ hand to mine and never left it as I sat at a table with just my friend. After long consideration, it had to have happened before it got to me. Luckily I was with a trusted friend who took me home and took care of me all night. From what I’ve been told, I went from completely functional, barely tipsy to incredibly trashed in minutes. We got food, which I don’t remember. I barely remember walking to the car. I spent the rest of the night throwing up. 

Whatever drug was used really messed with my body. I have allergic reactions to most drugs stronger than ibuprofen. I continued throwing up until mid-morning Saturday. The rest of the day I oscillated between napping and feeling like crap. Saturday night, I fell asleep around 9:15 p.m. and slept until 12:30 p.m. Sunday. It felt nothing like a hang over. The more I tried to remember Friday night, the more I realized it is just blank. There is nothing. Nothing at all. I’ve blacked out drinking before. That’s only for an hour or two, if that, and there are always glimpses. I’ll remember bits and pieces. Drinking is like a fog where I can’t see the road ahead of me, but I know the road is still there. But Friday, it’s all gone. Everything. I lost hours. I trust my friend, and I know I was safe, but it bothers me still. It could have been horrible.

My friend had deduced I was drugged Saturday morning when I finally regained my sense of self within the moment. Then Saturday afternoon, I told my best friend what happened, and she told me I’d been drugged. I hadn’t wanted to admit it. I guess that’s a problem I have, accepting bad things that happen to me. Saturday, as I felt like crap all day, it didn’t bother me. I looked at it as a night that could have been better. The few people I told were incredibly worried and wanted to make sure nothing happened. I figured since nothing had happened it wasn’t a big deal.

What stresses me out more than the actuality of being drugged is my thought process about the situation. If I hadn’t been taken to my friend’s, there is a huge chance something would have happened. Something bad, the origination of the boogey man stories. When I first thought about it… I didn’t care if something would have happened because I didn’t remember. It’s so fucked up. I don’t care what happens to my body anymore, especially if I can’t remember. If I don’t recall, I can’t be haunted. I have lost so much of myself over the years. My body has experienced so much pain, abuse, and just being used. I don’t care anymore. My body is just the place my mind inhabits. I’ve lost autonomy. There’s a dissociation between my mind and body. My mind can easily go somewhere else when it needs to. It was easy accepting my body could have been used for whatever. The only thing that saved me from whatever was my very tall and imposing friend in all probability.

My history of rape, repeated rape, has desensitized me. I have accepted it as a possibility due to the precedent, the pattern over the past seven years. Then again, not much in my life helped. My, already damaged, soul feels more like an object to be used at the whim of a man. It’s such an easy role to fall into now: physical, visual, emotional, pleasure vessel. Maybe it’s why I don’t like dating, being an object is nothing more than a comfort zone. I think I’m finally realizing I’m worth more than objectification. Sex, sexual things are hard for me to separate being used from love or feelings or intimacy. They are not mutually exclusive, but to me, emotionally, they are. I can remove my mind from my body, but I can’t separate intimacy from objectification. To me intimacy doesn’t really feel like intimacy at all unless I’m being used.

I was drugged, and it didn’t phase me, which in turn phased me.


Author: Midwestern Twenty Something

RaeAnna is a wanderer on a mission; though, she's not always sure what that mission is. Taking on adulthood with a sense of humor, a book, and her dog, she's ready to conquer the world. Unafraid to celebrate her faults or photograph her tumbles, she aims to help people see life as an ever-rolling, lopsided wheel instead of the perfectly manicured and Instagrammably stationary square we wish it were.

One thought on “I Was Drugged Last Weekend

  1. Raeanna, this is the first of your posts I read. Whatever happened to you in your life I have fear, that if I keep on reading your older posts, I will find the sad things that my mind is capable of imagining.

    If I say I am sorry about what happened to you last weekend and that I am more than sorry about the wrong that has been done to you in your young life, then it does not even come close to what I am actually feeling. And I feel pretty helpless about how things are. Does it even make sense to write a reply to such posts when all I want to say is, I wish I could take away and relieve you from some of the pain that you have gone through and that is still there preventing you living your life. Writing this reply already feels like a personal failure.

    Take good care of youself, Raeanna!



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