I have traveled the world, volunteered, taught children and adults. I have met tens of thousands of people, broken bread and shared libations with the rich and the poor, strangers and friends. I help people when I can, and in general, believe myself to be a decent human being. But, when it comes to rape culture and roofies,  NONE of that matters.
On Saturday, November 16, I met some friends at a local hang out. The four of us had just come from a comedy show and were starting the second part of our night with good music and great drinks. I was standing at the inside bar, alone, while they chatted outside in the beer garden, ordering my third cocktail in as many hours.
I wasn’t feeling drunk, in the least. In fact, I was feeling very much alive having just returned from a whirlwind, life-changing trip to China the day before. It was thrilling to be back. The tatted, pierced DJ was spinning Beastie Boys’ “No Sleep Till Brooklyn” and that indescribable NYC nostalgia washed over me as the bartender handed me my third cocktail. Feeling compelled to share my excitement with the social media world, I set my drink down on the bar, right in front of me, to reach into my purse and grab my phone.
At 1:19am, I posted a picture on Instagram of the DJ doing the damn thing.
At 1:21am, I tweeted, “This Jameson is working, Jesus.”
At 1:28am, I started to type a text message that I never finished. “what’s wroweg nghoin; ;opijpik”
At 1:47am, I was being carried out of the bar, feet dragging. Drooling. Unable to lift my eyelids. Mumbling incoherently.
Other than waking up first at 3:49 am, face down in the foyer of my brownstone (my landlord had it on camera) and then again shortly before 5 am, face down on my couch, I have very few memories of what happened during three hours of my life. All I knew was that my head was THROBBING. I had ringing in my ears and I was completely lucid. This was NOT me drunk. This was something else, altogether.
The panic and confusion that ensued was only compounded when I looked at my phone and saw the missed calls, missed texts and missed tweets from the people I had been with that night, and from folks who I had been expected to meet up with. I had invited other friends to the bar we were at, and when they arrived, I was a no call, no show. The messages ranged from, “WTF happened to you,” to, “girl, you BETTER be okay.” I wasn’t okay, at all. I had been roofied.
After putting the pieces of my night together by answering text messages and describing my symptoms to my followers online, I figured it out. One of you %#*!?*&^#!!! roofied me. It all started to make sense. My head. Oh, my HEAD. It wouldn’t stop pounding. The numbness I vaguely remember feeling start in my hands and feet. The wave of heat and nausea I felt right before I felt like I HAD to sit down or I’d fall down. The inability to look up, or to lift my head. All of this happened in under 25 minutes. This was not drunk. This was sinister. And, I was MAD.
My tweets must have seemed eerily familiar to some of my followers because I started getting replies like, “Go to a clinic or emergency room as soon as you can!” and, “I know this sounds funny, but you should pee in a cup and take it with you.” I couldn’t understand why I needed to do that, but I took a sample anyway. And, I’m glad I did.
At just after 9 am on Sunday, I shuffled into the Urgent Care center with a container of urine in my hand, smeared eye makeup, a throbbing headache and streaming tears.
The attendant at the front desk must have seen this before because she stopped what she was doing and ushered me into a nearby exam room with an, “Oh, honey! Come with me, you’ll be okay.” She took my sample from me, helped me take my coat off, and then said, “I hate to ask you to do this, but will you put this gown on so the doctor can examine you?”