I Went Out
On Friday, Nov. 12, 2021, I went out.
I wanted to hang out by myself in the downtown area where I used to work in my mid-20s. My favorite brewery was right across a one-way street from my favorite restaurant, and I was going to catch a beer or two at the brewery before the restaurant opened for dinner.
My partner and I had just split up the month before, and I was trying to feel like myself. I’d put on a cropped graphic tee, a flannel over top, some faux leather shorts, a pair of fishnets, and my Doc Martens. I felt like I could kick anyone in the face if I wanted to. It was a gorgeous fall day with only a slight chill in the air, so I took my prized denim jacket my partner gave me a while back.
In my purse were the necessities — chapstick, keys, wallet, phone, journal, word search, an extra pen, and my vape. I’d driven my Prius the 30 minutes to town and parked in the garage, as I’d done countless times for work years before. That area of town had been home, and I knew it as such. I knew the bartenders at my favorite restaurant. I knew where to walk, where to shop, what to avoid, when to avoid it, and the directions that lady asked for.
I was comfortable. Confident. An idiot.
When I sat down at the brewery’s counter with my first beer, I got my journal out and was dawdling, as you do, trying to avoid being on my phone and take everything in. The bar wasn’t busy, but it was a Friday afternoon, so people were slowly trickling in. There was a small group of men four or five seats down from me at the bar, but I only noticed them, and didn’t pay them much mind.
I was still on my first beer when another man entered the bar and sat with the group next to me. This put him only 5 or 6 feet away from me. He was dressed in tattered denim, a beanie, and a leather jacket — similar to my style. I saw a bad tattoo of a spider on his hand and complimented it, feeling like a friendly bar neighbor. He thanked me and commented on my own tattoos, and we started chatting. I got a second beer.
Chatting turned into flirting, but this is where my memory gets hazy. I got a third beer. I went to the bathroom.
The next thing I remember is sitting over a plate of food at the bar of my favorite restaurant, alone, and I was crying. It was 9 p.m. I didn’t feel right and words weren’t coming out of my mouth. It’s like I could feel my brain trying desperately to pull the right levers to make my mouth make the words to get help and get out, but the gears weren’t catching. The bartender I knew, who was so friendly and kind, was asking if I was OK. If I needed coffee or water.
I got down from the barstool and went to the host desk, hoping to get my parking validated and return to my car to figure something out. I don’t know if I planned to drive, I was just determined to get to my car because it was mine and it was safe. I couldn’t find the words, except for “fuck” or “shit,” and it was making the host uncomfortable. They even said at one point, “I can’t help you if you keep swearing at me.”
My two friends and I had a group chat, where I’d been sending updates that were getting more and more incoherent throughout the day. These were treated with laughter and encouragement, as it was assumed I was just drunk. But then I started sending messages like, “HELP. HELP ME.”
I didn’t have my purse or anything inside it except my phone. I’d get a Lyft back to the restaurant to retrieve it and my car, and everything would be right as rain.
One of those friends was out of the state that night. She told me afterward that she asked my other friend to pick me up and take me home. That friend did. I was a mess that car ride home. I was embarrassed because I’d never been that drunk before. I oscillated terrifyingly between crying, laughing, apologizing, singing to the songs playing, and asking if she was mad at me.
This friend dropped me off, made sure I got inside safe, and made the hour drive back to her house.
There was a text from a number I didn’t recognize. It was Dennis, the man I’d been chatting up at the brewery. He was complaining about me being a tease and how “y’all are all the same.”
The next day, I could barely move. I got out of bed to throw up in the bathroom, but only bile came up. Bile and the taste of chemicals, like when I let my anxiety meds sit on my tongue too long. I noted it. This was the worst hangover I’d ever experienced, and I’d only had three beers. It wasn’t making sense, but I was too distracted by the overwhelming embarrassment and guilt being tossed around my brain for every little thing I’d done the night before. I was 30, and felt way too old for this shit.
I felt like walking influenza. I was weak, shaky, cold, nauseous, foggy, and dead tired. The cold sweats brought the chemical taste I’d experienced while vomiting to my nose. I smelled like drugs. It hit me. Gently at first, like a question.
The group chat was quieter, as it usually was after a night of drama. I was trying to make amends and get as much information as possible about my behavior the night before from two people who weren’t there. It felt impossible, and I felt even more guilt for dragging them (especially the friend who physically helped me) into my shit. But as soon as I dropped the notion that I was drugged by Dennis, they agreed that it made perfect sense.
“But there were women bartending,” I said at one point. “How were they not more aware?”
Because that’s the point of a drug that makes you look drunk. That’s the point of a drug that can be administered in a split-second swipe over someone’s drink.
The restaurant was closed Saturday, but their website said they were open for brunch on Sunday. That’s fine, I decided, because I was in no condition to drive or be driven without dry heaving.
Around that time, I’d been looking to adopt a dog named Nina from a local shelter. She was a black and white pitbull with a happy face. I’d met her a few days before and agreed to foster her, but they’d let me know when she was ready to be picked up.
Saturday, Nov. 13, 2021, the shelter called and asked if I could pick her up. Embarrassed, I lied and said my car was in the shop and I wouldn’t be able to pick her up until Monday. But they were wonderful and dropped her off. I renamed her Grandma, after the dog Grandpa in the 2013 movie Evil Dead. She was shy and scared and abused. I was scared and hurt and confused. She slept at my feet that night, and it felt like she was taking care of me.
The following day I spent $70 on Lyft rides to find out that not only was the restaurant closed and working on an adjusted COVID-19 schedule, but they didn’t have any of my belongings. No keys. No wallet. No nothing.
I needed new car keys. A new wallet. A new debit card. I called my step-mom and told her what happened, and she said I should change my house locks, because it was likely the person who drugged me also took my stuff.
Everything was on fire. My body was still reeling from the effects, my brain was blaming me for it all. There was this precious animal in my home that was relying on me. I had to work the next day, like everything wasn’t falling apart.
I wanted to sincerely thank my friend for helping me that night, but she was being cagey. I sent flowers, and got a short thank you. I asked if she was available for lunch or dinner, and was told no. When I shared in the group chat that I was breaking out as a result of being drugged, she sent a video pointing out her own blemishes, saying, “It’s fine.” She wasn’t engaging with me the way she’d done in the past when shit happened. I asked if she was OK. She was fine! She was just busy. I felt blown off and ashamed. She shared updates about her life, and we cheered her on.
So I sent a video message to her. I said I needed her, and she was avoiding me, and I didn’t appreciate it. She said this was the second time I’d called her out for not being there for me, and she’d had it. She was triggered by what happened to me. She’d had an early morning after she drove me home, but she’d picked me up anyway, because she’s a good friend. She had an autoimmune disease. She had an abusive mother. She was raising a child. She had her own trauma. She can’t be everything to everyone. I was the one who hurt her.
She ended our call, and I never heard from her again.
My other friend, the one who’d been out of the state that night, visited the week after it happened and gave me the first hug I’d gotten since. She gave me a stuffed sloth and said I should hug it whenever she can’t be there. She said I didn’t do anything wrong, that night, or with the other friend.
She asked if I wanted to report Dennis. Did I want to ask the bar manager to review video tape to identify Dennis and report him? All I could think of is, “What if they see me, drugged, and try to tell me I was just drunk? What if I see more than I want to? What if the Black man who did this is horribly, irreparably harmed? What if no one cares?”
I said I didn’t want to do any of that. I was terrified and knew from past experience that the police can’t be bothered. I was already an irresponsible, idiot slut. Why would I invite more to the show?
A few days later, that friend helped me retrieve my car. It felt like getting a piece of myself back.
Talking about it was similar to talking about my suicide attempt — I didn’t, and when I did, I was keenly aware of everyone’s body language, and responses from men. My dad called me to make me feel better but ultimately left me with the message, “You can’t trust men. Your step-mom knows how to not get drugged. You’re a naive girl.” My friend didn’t really seem to care about it anymore, and I tried not to bring attention to myself in conversation. When I hung out with my former therapist and told her, she cried. I was so confused.
Over the next few months, I isolated myself, even though I told myself I wasn’t. I didn’t go out much, except to lunch with my one friend, and to fly to visit family. It was nice just being Grandma’s mom. I started an LGBTQIA+ horror podcast because I wanted to talk to creators about timely topics. I was published in a horror essay anthology, and then made an editor for the second volume. I was hired to edit for a dream magazine. But I was terrified of everything. Especially needing anyone.
Ending a relationship with one friend put a spotlight on the other, and I was aware that I was placing more importance on my relationships than they were. I stopped accepting the second and third reschedule for dates. I stopped making adjustments to my life to be a “better friend” to them. She was still hanging out with our other friend. I realized we didn’t value the same things, but we could have fun together when I had money. I didn’t have money, though. I was a single 31-year-old with a mortgage and school loans. She wanted experiences. I wanted intimacy. Eventually, I asked her to give me space, and she’s respected that.
A few months ago, in early summer, Grandma began barking wildly in the kitchen. When I ran out, I saw she was barking at the back door, where I caught a glimpse of someone’s arm. Someone entered my backyard through the fence and was at my back door.
It was someone with the electric company coming to read my meter, but that glimpse of a stranger told me immediately that it was Dennis, and in the two seconds it took for me to see what Grandma was barking at and understand what was happening, adrenaline shot right through me.
I swung open the back door with force. “Why? Why are you here? Thank you for helping yourself onto my property and not knocking. I don’t give a shit. Do what you need to do and get out.”
You don’t know me, but that’s not how I speak to people. That’s how someone with PTSD responds to a trigger. I now lock every entrance to my house every single time I use it, and check the locks several times a day. I also have an alarm set as a reminder. My drinking is nil and nervous. I’m rarely comfortable. I don’t keep close friends. And I’m deeply disappointed in myself. I blame myself.
My partner and I reconnected earlier this year, and he and the dog we raised together moved back in two months ago. For two months, I had the love of my life and the two best dogs in the house, all loving and playing and happy together. This was the life I wanted. This was safe. This was contentment.
A week ago, Grandma and our other dog got into a random fight that put our other dog in the hospital. When we tried to reintroduce them two days later, they fought and we had to hospitalize our other dog again. So I’m rehoming Grandma. The dog who was there for me when no one else was. The dog who listens so well. Who went everywhere with me. Who took care of me. I failed her. All I can do now is help her get to the family she deserves, because she deserves to be safe and happy.
On Friday, Nov. 12, 2021, I went out. I didn’t come back. Not as me, but as who I am now. And I’m just doing my best.
