This Happened to Me
It sounds too absurd to be real — the night that started my long journey to sobriety
This is a real story about the worst night of my life and the aftereffects. This happened to me in April 2017, and the details are being told from flashbacks and personal accounts from witnesses.
Trigger Warning!
It was a Friday night, and I was exhausted from working all week. My girlfriend came home and asked me to go out to an event her friend was throwing at the local gay bar. I did not want to go, but after a few drinks, she convinced me. We ordered our Uber and headed downtown. We got to the bar and met her friend. I told her that I had never had a lap dance before, so she asked me who I wanted and was going to get it set up for me. This is my last lucid memory — I never got that lap dance.
My girlfriend and I went to the bar and took a couple of shots before heading to the bathroom to “party” with some dancers. At some point, I snuck back to the bar to take another shot, and my girlfriend found me … her immediate reaction was to punch me in the face. One of the dancers saw this happen and informed the event organizer, who proceeded to kick us out. Just before my girlfriend found me at the bar, she met a random man holding drugs. She invited him to come home with us when we were kicked out.
So, there I was. I had just been punched in the face, and I was surrounded by women trying to help and protect me. Until Uber showed up, and they put me into a car with the person who had just assaulted me, along with a complete stranger.
Once we were home, we continued to party. Eventually, my girlfriend was tired and went to bed, but I was not done yet and stayed downstairs with the strange man. (I blocked out what happened next until my girlfriend found a pair of underwear tucked behind the TV stand, and a flashback hit me like a ton of bricks.) The man. The strange man had taken me to the garage and raped me in my car.
Now I know many will not consider it rape since I was blackout drunk, alone, with a strange man…, so I must have ‘deserved’ it, right? Whichever way you view it, it happened. At some point after that, I made it upstairs to my bed and passed out completely naked. Less than 3 hours later, I woke up, still in a blackout — I am convinced this is the same as sleepwalking. I was not conscious, which was evident in my outfit. My 7-year-old’s pink sweatshirt (way too small for me) and my girlfriend’s pants (three sizes too big for me). I grabbed my girlfriend’s phone, wallet, and my own keys and headed out in my 5-speed Volkswagen, 1 mile to Target. (It occurred to me later that I was going to Target to get a Plan B.)
I somehow made it there without crashing the car, but I did fall asleep at the wheel at the stop light turning into the parking lot. So a good Samaritan called the police officers, thinking I had a medical emergency (technically, I was.) I woke up enough to drive into a parking space before falling asleep again with the car running. When the cops arrived, they had to break the back window to get me out of the car because they couldn’t wake me up.
Well, they made the decision to take me directly to jail instead of the hospital for some reason I do not understand. It was while I was sitting in the back of the police car driving the 35 miles to the county jail that I finally came to. I was so confused. Barely conscious, I muttered, “Where am I? I was in bed.” and the cop smugly told me that I needed help. (Obviously)
Now, a little backstory is essential here. At least three weeks before this night, I had been in regular contact with a local treatment center. I finally knew I was at a point where I required help, and I was seeking it out on my own. No one was forcing me to go. I wanted help. I required help. The problem was my insurance would only pay for me to go if I paid $2000 first, so I could not get in.
Back to the horrid night.
They took me to jail as I was having a fit, so I was put into what we inmates call the ‘turtle suit.’ A plump, green straight jacket — then they stuck me into a white padded room with nothing but a hole in the ground (no toilet). I spent the next 13 hours passed out on the floor, periodically waking up to vomit stomach acid into that hole.
Eventually, I was released, thankfully able to get bail. I didn’t have my phone, so I didn’t have a phone number for anyone to call. A correction officer gave me the number to a cab company I had to plead with for 45 minutes until they agreed to send someone to pick me up. (They feared I wouldn’t pay since I was being picked up from the jail).
After a long silent 40-minute drive home, I went inside to grab my wallet to pay the man. I grabbed my wallet… opened it… and … gone. Everything. My credit cards, my debit card, my cash. I had nothing to pay the man. He was not okay with that; he refused to leave. There was nothing I could do because the banks were closed. I finally got him to agree to take an iPhone as collateral until I could get him cash in the morning.
Now, you think my story would end there. I’m back at home from jail and all. Wrong… it gets worse.
The following weekend I was distraught. I thought my world was imploding as this was now my third DWI. So, as the excellent alcoholic I am… I binged the entire weekend with my girlfriend. It was now Sunday morning, and I fought with my girlfriend about another woman.
I was still extraordinarily drunk and, in a rash moment, screamed, “You want to be with her? Then I will leave this Earth, so you can be together,” and downed a bottle of Ritalin. I had just filled the bottle the day before. She immediately ran into my room, saw the empty prescription bottle, and called the ambulance. They came and took me to the hospital.
The next day they released me. Why didn’t I get placed on a 72-hour hold, which is the typical practice in such situations? I told the doctors how I desperately sought treatment and had obstacles getting admitted. They called the treatment center to verify that I was telling the truth — and because I was, they let me out, so I could get the help I needed. About five days later, I was checking into an LGBTQ treatment center for a 30-day in-patient program.
How was I now able to be admitted to the program?
Since I was in the hospital… I now hit my deductible. Meaning the insurance company would pay for me to go without me having to pay $2000 out of pocket up front.
Did you read that correctly?
I literally had to try and unalive myself to get the help I was begging for, for weeks!
And here is where I will end my story.
I am sure my two minutes are up, so I will not go into my rant about how unfair our healthcare system is and how desperately we need to improve our mental health care in this country.
Yes, this all really did happen to me.
*Parts of this story have been omitted due to length — so really, there is even more that happened. *
