I’m going to tell you a story. One that few have heard up until this point. Not even my family knows this (sorry, Mom). There are holes in this story, because I don’t remember much of that night. I don’t remember much of that night because I was drugged.

I wasn’t raped. But only because there were 2 people with me that night that I trusted, whom I could count on to get me home safely. Who knew me well enough to know that something was wrong.

It was a normal night out. Summer in Miami. As with most weekend nights during undergrad, I could be found on Washington Avenue on South Beach or CocoWalk in the Grove. This night we chose The Grove. Cheap drinks, a good DJ, open air, and free admission to Fat Tuesday usually won out anyway. I don’t remember the drink. Maybe it was vodka and cranberry. Maybe Jack and Coke. I do remember ordering one. Just one. I don’t remember the stranger’s face. I do remember his being in my personal space uninvited. I don’t remember leaving my drink unattended. I didn’t. I wasn’t as vigilant about keeping an eye on it, though. I think I remember my friend saying she saw him possibly put something in it. She couldn’t be sure.

I remember thinking I was too drunk after just one drink. I remember my friends thinking the same. I remember them trying to get me to leave. I think I remember the guy who drugged me trying to stop them. I don’t remember leaving Fat Tuesday. I don’t remember how I got to the car. My car that I couldn’t drive home. I remember bits and pieces of the drive home. I remember my guy friend sitting in the back seat with me, making sure I was okay. I don’t remember anything I said to him, but apparently I was hilarious. It’s good they found humor. Maybe it meant I was somewhat okay to them. I won’t let them tell me anything, though.

I don’t remember how I made it home and into my bed. I slept in my clothes. I do remember being sick that night and for days after.  Not being able to keep anything down. The anxiety of trying to remember what happened. The fear of what could have happened. I remember not wanting to drink for a long time. Not wanting to go back to CocoWalk at all. These are moments of my life I will never get back.

And I was lucky. Still, I didn’t say anything. That was over 10 years ago.

So, when I see memes and jokes on Facebook questioning the validity of a rape accusation simply because these women remember Bill Cosby drugging and raping them, I get pissed the fuck off. Because you can and do remember. Even if it’s just in flashes. You. Know.

So, fuck your defense of Bill Cosby.
Fuck his wanting to buy NBC, as if that’s more important than the safety of these women.
Fuck your ignorance of how date rape drugs work.
Fuck your victim blaming and slut shaming.
And just in general, fuck you!

And you wonder why victims don’t tell…