Trauma narrative

Content warning: drugging, rape

So I was roofied by my (now former) coworker the other night. The worst part was that he had a mullet. No – maybe it’s worse that he plans to work at an elementary school, or that he’ll probably get away with all this, or that he’ll probably do it again, or that, god save his soul, he is a ginger with a mullet.

He spiked my water, which is ironic because we’re baristas. I didn’t think a coworker I’d just worked with all week would go ahead and ruin our relationship and his job like that (especially when he’s about to be evicted), but I guess in a world where mullets are coming back into fashion, nothing is sacred.

As far as rapes go it was probably a 3/5 on the WTF scale. Could have been way worse, but still kinda uncomfy to be drugged into a stupor and feel my brain shutting down while being held hostage in an unfamiliar house. I never fully passed out, so he (and his friend, another nice and nerdy-seeming fellow but a monster nonetheless) didn’t get away with much. After his unanswered pleas to have me “cuddle” and “hug” and “lay down together” (a ploy to get my dazed self to pass completely out), I somehow miraculously sobered up and secured a ride home from my lovely friend Mr. Spock, who, I assure you, is extremely horrified by how illogical all of this is, and is doing everything in his power to help me.

I’m safe. My loved ones have been supportive. There’s been a bit of thousand-yard-staring and some nightmares, and there’s probably going to be more of that. Having to cover his shift (he quit) was annoying, and now we’re short-staffed at the café, but, whatever – I’m just grateful my managers were on my side.

I know the world doesn’t really believe people who say they’re raped; it’s not my first rodeo. But to the world, I’ll say that if I got a box of chocolates and a “Wow, you’re so strong and beautiful” every time I told someone I was raped, I’d want it tattooed on my forehead.

Anyway, I’m not ashamed of the rape because it’s not my fault. I’m not ashamed that I was drugged because people shouldn’t drug me. I’m not ashamed that I wasn’t thinking straight because rohypnol makes you feel like you’ve barely got one braincell and that’s why rapists use it. Someone else’s criminal behavior doesn’t define me.

I never asked for any of this at all; it makes absolutely no sense. It’s an unfunny situation, but I want to laugh about it anyway. This is probably not the healthiest coping mechanism, but it’s what I have right now and it’s free. I’ll grow out of it.

Just waiting for the day that our culture will finally grow out of mullets.

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