Being Drugged Doesn't Make It Less Traumatic

Trigger warning: Very raw confessions about sexual assault

I've survived several forms of sexual assault in my life.

Being molested by the man under the blanket at four. My ex-husband, getting drunk and overpowering me habitually. Being shamed and humiliated into sex. Having sex weaponized against me in relationships. It's a typical world. And while I teach my daughters not to accept it, I have quietly resigned to the fact that I'm just another stat.

But the one sexual assault I haven't really processed is the one where I was drugged first by an ex-boyfriend in my own home, in my room, where across and down the hall my daughters and sister slept. Multiple times.

That was the one sexual assault I went to the hospital and reported to the police.

Not sure why I bothered. It's not like the police care about rape victims. Especially when the investigation was so easy as: "Did you do this?" and all that had to be said to dismiss my injuries, hospitalization, police report, pictures of my bruises, bite marks, and shame: "We were dating. She liked it rough. I didn't drug her. Of course, that medication is in her system! That's her sleeping medication. The doctors have her on it for insomnia."

The reason I know it happened multiple times. After reporting the incident I was speaking to my sister who said that for the last few weeks, I'd been acting funny.

"How?" I asked because I genuinely did not remember much of the last couple of weeks - something that I only realized as I was trying to figure out what the fuck happened to me.

"You slept a lot. That's not like you. You couldn't wake up, and you were so groggy some days you couldn't function. You had bruises but didn't remember where they came from. You just weren't acting like yourself."

Then Giselle Pelicot happened about two years after. I remember sobbing in secret. I was ashamed of being triggered because I couldn't even remember what happened to me. So I took my phone outside and found a spot in my forest, where I read, and then I cried. And cried. And cried. And cried. And I thought: how stupid. My situation doesn't compare.

One man had done it to me. I couldn't imagine the crushing weight of knowing her husband had done it to her - and sold her unconscious body to DOZENS AND DOZENS of strange men who went out looking to rape a woman.

For a long time, I closed my eyes and said, "I don't remember what happened. So I am fine."

But I still have nightmares, waking up drenched in sweat, tears streaming down my face. Heart racing, body trembling, and even pain in my body, as if I had been really fighting for my life. I can't recall the dream, but I recall the fight. My body hurts from being tense in a ball all night and fighting in my sleep.

I know it happened more than once. My sister and I just didn't catch on until after he marked me up so bad the last time he attacked me that he had to run. There was no hiding it. The bite mark on my leg near my vagina had broken some skin. The fingerprints on my neck, legs, and arms.

The nurse said, "There's no vaginal tearing, but there is DNA."

Funny thing about the medical and law enforcement field: They all just assume a rapists penis is big enough to tear an unwilling vagina.

Well, they aren't. I'm not sure if his one-inch manhood at max hardness is the reason he felt he needed to subjugate, maim, bruise, bite, and hit me. To drug me with my own sleeping medication, and then brutally fuck my unconscious body. I've heard men get fucked up in the head when they think their manhood isn't big enough.

Remember: I was already dating this man. If he needed relief in his itty bitty teeny little ween, I would have helped. I didn't particularly like him, and it was a relationship that spawned from a fling that grew out of control when he suddenly plopped a bunch of his stuff in my house and TOLD me he was staying with me because he got a job near me. To be "closer." But he didn't know ANY of this. He had no qualms about asking for handouts about anything else.

It was already out of control. I was looking for an out. Trying to find somewhere to drop this dude off where he wouldn't have been homeless or hungry, and he could keep the job he got suddenly and excitedly. I had already gotten red flag vibes from him when he spontaneously did a hostile takeover of my house all of a sudden.

This process happened in less than a month, by the way. So it's not like I was in a long-term relationship with this freak. I was desperately trying to get away from a man who had very aggressively inserted himself into my life so fast.

I had notions of being taken advantage of, of being leeched off of. This dude was invading my personal space and way-too-quickly decided he was gonna try and play 'daddy' to my girls. That alone scared the shit out of me, and I knew I needed to get him gone. Dudes who take an interest in your kids too fast are a RED FLAG - ABORT ASAP.

I had already learned my lesson about all of these red flags. I was trying to get out. He was a vulnerable dude with no real stable home, and he had JUST been hired. I didn't want to leave him high and dry. I wanted to make good decisions for my household's safety, while also not compromising my moral standards.

What a fucking joke.....

A woman's first mistake is trying to help a man.

If he needs to be RESCUED like a princess - then he's a secret fucking predator, and the only rescuing you need to do is to for yourself by getting as FAR AWAY AS POSSIBLE AS FAST AS POSSIBLE.

Boys - that goes for you too - if a woman/future partner is screeching damsel in distress while trying to get you between her legs - she's a using manipulative cumbag who doesn't need to be saved, she just needs an emotional punching bag and a credit card that she doesn't pay for and a sap who will fall for her sob story.

The thing about true survivors: We don't EVER need to be saved. We save ourselves. And keep that in mind when trying to sort out your co-dependency problems.

I'll never get justice. I'll never feel safe. I will never take sleeping medication for my insomnia again. And I do not think I'll ever sleep soundly again.

My current husband provides the balm that I need to feel safe now. When I have night terrors, he wakes me up and holds me.

But I will have nightmares about this event that happened to me for the rest of my life. Along with the shame and humiliation that comes with it.

I do not remember the exact event.

But I'm finally brave enough to admit that just because I don't remember, it doesn't mean I am less traumatized by it.

And it's okay for you to say it too, if you have been in my shoes.