When they ask, “Why? Why do you care so much — Have you ever been assaulted?”

At 23, in an effort to shake off the stress of being unemployed, I went out drinking with my closest guy friends. It was a weeknight and everyone else was busy. We started with beer and eventually got to hard liquor and shots. We bumped into other friends, some mutual, some new. Knowing my limits (and knowing that my guy friends usually don’t know theirs), I started to slow down and grabbed a glass of water. That’s when ‘he’ came by and offered to take me to the VIP room where he was sure I’d bump into other mutual friends. We walked past the brightly lit corridors and the music changed. He offered to buy me a drink and I said no. With my water in hand, I turned to meet his friends and talk for a minute. That’s the last, clear thing I remember.

From that moment, everything else are flashes. Stumbling past the lit corridor. Feeling nauseous. Leaning up against a couch. Pushing off people leaning in towards me. Drinking something cold. Feeling numb. Stumbling down stairs. Headlights.

I woke up the next morning in a room I did not recognise. In clothes I did not own. On a bed I had never seen before. In a place where absolutely nothing felt familiar. I was by myself, and never have I felt so alone. I heard stirring in the next room, but walked the opposite direction towards what I assumed was the bathroom. Stared at myself in the mirror. No earrings, a broken necklace, and noticed bruises on my arms. My eyes were bloodshot, swollen and puffy as if I’d been crying for hours. I don’t remember those tears. My hair was disheveled, my throat felt sore. I looked down and noticed the VIP stamp on my wrist. I threw up.

I stepped out and met the stranger in the next room. He wasn’t even someone familiar, no one I knew. He offered me a glass of water, food, and his cellphone. I called home and found out that I was gone for almost 8 hours. He told me he found me in a far corner of the parking lot, lying on the pavement, alone. I was unresponsive and lifeless. He found my purse nearby, but my phone was already gone. With the help of a cab driver, they carried me over to his place. Nothing he said sounded familiar to me. Nothing sounded real. 8 hours, and I remembered absolutely nothing. How could that have happened? How could I have let that happen? 8 hours, gone.

So much had been stolen from me that night.

It has been years since and until now I have never uttered the words. To those that have asked the question in passing, I’ve always answered what I thought was most appropriate at that moment. Usually a flat out lie like, “No, because I stopped it,” or “Of course not. I was not assaulted.” Because my truth is far, far more frightening to write down, much less say out loud.

This is hard because I’ve felt like I’ve never had the right to tell the truth.

This is hard because I’ve never felt safe enough to.

This is hard because I feel just as alone now as I did that morning.

This is hard because while I know my story could probably help someone else feel less alone, I’ve erased and re-written this so many times over the years (in my head and on paper), hoping someone else would speak up.

This is hard because I still don’t understand.

I accepted the anger and disappointment from my parents who thought all I did was lose my phone (again), and that I slept over a friend’s house without permission. I accepted that it was my fault. That I was reckless, disobedient and simply irresponsible. I let this happen. Then, I decided nothing happened, especially since I remembered nothing.

This is hard because — I think I was raped, but I don’t remember anything.

I was sick for days after that night, and cried myself to sleep for weeks. I secretly consulted with a doctor who concluded that whatever little I remembered, combined with the symptoms that followed were indicative of drug use. It could have been GHB, ecstasy, or ketamine. I did not agree to take any of these. I do not remember taking any of these. By the time I had the courage to ask questions, the drugs had already left my system.

This is hard because — I wasn’t drunk. I was drugged. And I can’t even be sure who did it.

I don’t remember what happened, but I have never forgotten how it felt. I have never forgotten what it felt to wake up alone, in an unfamiliar place without any memory of the night that passed. I have never forgotten how empty, confusing, and inexplicably numbing it is have a part of your life stolen from you. When your own body doesn’t feel familiar. When you can’t even trust your mind. When it feels like you’re living a secondary half-life; perpetually afraid of being found out and judged for the choices you were robbed of making. When all you want to do is forget that you’ve forgotten.

I’ve kept this a secret for years, and I really don’t know how long I will keep this online. I have cried, and fought through my shaking hands this entire time. And as much as I wanted to end this with some inspirational anecdote about being kind, doing better, and finding your strength through pain and adversity— I can not. Not just yet.

Truth is, this continues to be hard because I’m still learning to forgive myself. I’m still learning to accept that it wasn’t my fault.

A part of me is still broken, but that does not encompass my entirety. Yes, I am a victim, but I am also a survivor. Thankfully, I am human. And for all these reasons and more, I will fight, defend, respect and support whoever needs it. My silence hasn’t helped me — maybe, my truth will.

Rape, or any version of sexual assault is not about sex, attraction or promiscuity. It is about consent — or more accurately, the absence or wilful degradation of consent. A person may be walking butt-naked; but if they never agreed, consented, or said yes explicitly with words and their body, then there is absolutely no justification for rape.

THERE IS NO SUCH THING AS IMPLIED CONSENT.