“Forbidden to remember, terrified to forget; it was a hard line to walk.” — Stephenie Meyer, New Moon
The mind is a complex entity. It holds our history, offers insights into who we are, and shapes our future. It is both a vault of memories and a canvas for our thoughts, responsible for intuition and muscle memory. Yet, despite its capabilities, my mind is haunted by an event from nearly a decade ago that I cannot fully grasp. It’s a dark chapter that I struggle to remember, but I fear forgetting. What is this unsettling secret? I still can’t say for certain whether I was a victim of date rape after being slipped a roofie one summer day in Atlantic City.
Ironically, my memories of that day are quite vivid. I arrived at the charming Tropicana Hotel around noon and made my way to a beach bar for a daiquiri, sipping as I jotted down my thoughts. Afterward, I wandered the Boardwalk, enjoying the sights until hunger struck, leading me to Hooters for a table for one.
The afternoon was uneventful. I ate, wrote, and ordered a few more drinks. In my twenties, my ambition was only rivaled by my ability to handle alcohol. But as the sun dipped below the horizon, the atmosphere shifted. Around 9:00 p.m., I was approached by a man who seemed friendly but was overly inquisitive about my solo adventure.
You might wonder how I know I was drugged. Isn’t it hard to distinguish between being roofied and simply being blackout drunk? It’s a valid concern, one I wish I didn’t have to answer. I’ve experienced both. The loss of time and memory is similar, yes, but with blackout drunkenness, you remember being inebriated. You recall moments of laughter or even vomiting. With roofies, everything fades to black instantly. One moment I felt tipsy, and the next, I was completely out of it.
I managed to leave cash on the bar while my new “friend” was in the restroom and called my husband in a panic, abandoning my drink. During our brief conversation — which I cannot remember — he noticed a sudden change in my voice and grew concerned, repeatedly asking if I was alone.
What happened that night remains a mystery. I lost nearly 12 hours of my life, with no recollection of events. I woke up dressed in my hotel room, which was locked but not secured with a chain. I told my husband there was a man with me, but I’ll never know for sure. The uncertainty lingers, and I often try to push it from my mind, but it’s a constant presence.
I have never shared this story before — not in therapy, with friends, or publicly. For almost a decade, I’ve kept this secret for three main reasons. Firstly, there’s shame. I feel guilty and somewhat naive; I believed, and still believe, that this was somehow my fault. I was a woman alone in a bar, after all, with a drink.
Secondly, there’s anger directed at both the man who drugged me and myself. I regret not going to the police or seeking medical help. I didn’t have a rape kit done, leaving me with unanswered questions. I feel ashamed for having engaged in conversation with him when I knew better.
Finally, the primary reason I’ve kept quiet is because I don’t know what to say. Everything stopped that night. My mind went blank. How does one discuss an experience so vague, so devoid of details?
Yet I choose to share my story now, hoping it resonates with others. I want those who may have experienced something similar to know they are not alone, that they are not to blame, and to feel less isolated in their feelings.
If you or someone you know has experienced sexual assault, you can find support by reaching out to resources like RAINN.
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Summary
In this deeply personal account, the author reflects on an unsettling experience from nearly a decade ago when they were potentially drugged and may have been a victim of date rape. Despite clear memories of the day leading up to the incident, significant gaps remain. The author expresses feelings of shame, guilt, and anger, grappling with the trauma of not knowing what happened during those lost hours. Through sharing their story, they hope to connect with others who have faced similar challenges and to encourage openness about such experiences.
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