What it was really like

What it was really like

Like many other people my age, I used to go to the bar quite often,  to fend off the pain from being under-treated and to fend off loneliness. The bar I went to had an interesting mix of people from various backgrounds; most of them had something interesting to say. I met Robin and his friend by proximity, we just started talking. We had a few things in common, web design, and Robin was from a farm so we talked horses.

This went on for a couple years, it was just small talk, about Monty Roberts the horse trainer, and that sort of thing, all I knew is that his name was Robin, his parents had a Black Angus farm in Saskatewan, and he made the soup bases that went to restaurants like Earl’s. He had short, mousey brown hair, old 80’s style round glasses, ice blue-grey eyes, and a slight acne problem. He was medium built and maybe 5’ 11”.

I’d just gotten out of a bad abusive relationship and was taking some time to myself. Robin asked me if I’d like to go home with him. I said I’d rather not, that it was too soon after this bad boyfriend. He asked me out. Same answer. Besides, there was something “off” about him that I couldn’t put my finger on, but he was a little creepy at times. For example, he told me about a photo he has in his living room of a horse defecating, he said he thought it was funny. I thought that was gross and tasteless but I didn’t think it was reason enough to just dump someone as an acquaintance. I thought he was fine with the “let’s be friends” and the subject was dropped and he didn’t bother e about it again.

At the time I had terrible boundaries. If someone made an off-color joke I would laugh along, I didn’t want to be the wet blanket to stop it. I wanted to be “one of the guys” and accepted… by everyone. I worked very hard at that.

So when he brought a friend from work, I tried to laugh politely about the rape and GHB jokes… but they just didn’t stop. This guy was short and stocky with red hair, unshaven and a green lumber jacket on. Was this guy deliberately trying to push my buttons? I started to object, “I had no sense of humor” and “these were just harmless jokes” and “I don’t actually think they are planning on raping me are they?” I felt ashamed and said no. But they went on and on and became worse and worse. I said to the friend “enough of these jokes. I’m going to the bathroom and when I come back I want the subject changed please”. Stupidest move EVER. I thought Robin was my friend. I thought I could trust him with my drink. It didn’t occur to me that these “jokes” were outlining what my near future was.

I came back and very soon I was feeling very very detached. I remember Robin sort of holding me to him and him telling my friends that I was very drunk and he is just taking me home so I would be safe. My friends said ok.

Next thing I was in his car, a small white coupe with red seats and lots of stickers on it. Then we were in the apartment. He handed me The Man Who Listens to Horses by Monty Roberts. I was sitting on the floor for some reason, trying to take off my boots. It was very difficult.

I woke up out of my body looking down on two people… well… in bed. The bed and sheets were dirty and the room was sparse. There was a desk lamp, a clock and a picture of an arial view of a Black Angus farm on the bedside table. The girl wasn’t moving and looked asleep. Nothing seemed strange about this, I’ve dissassociated before. But what was going on down there? It seemed as though something was wrong… I thought about “Real Dolls”. Real Dolls are anatomically correct mannequins that men use as masturbation aids. I felt dead like a doll. I felt my hip bone get grabbed and I felt vertigo as I was being flipped and a deep cracking sound in my back and… oh my God this is me what is going on here stop this must end immediately. I did not want to be touched by this man. Especially not like this. I felt naked and vulnerable. I was naked and vulnerable. I began to panic. I remember feeling around for my clothes and then I was stuck to the ceiling at the corner of the room again. “Move!” I tried to command by body. I wondered if this was like what it felt like to be a “Real Doll”. Nothing happened, there was just a crumpled up shell being assaulted. It was like being a passenger in your own car with a bad driver at the wheel. “Move get out of there don’t worry about your clothes, run!” No response. I was the puppeteer and the marionette strings had been cut. My back hurt so much where it was snapped, each and every time he moved.

Next thing I knew it was daytime. Maybe 11 am. I got dressed and felt really dizzy and sat down in the hallway. I had no memory of the previous night. I got my riding boots on and I managed to find my way out of the three story walkup apartment, the door opened to a parking lot and past that a hilly park with people sunbathing. It was hard to get oriented but I managed to get home and went to sleep. I threw up a lot. My back throbbed.

It was the following day and I called the Sexual Assault Center. They said that from what I had to say, that it sounded like GHB and they said I could come in later that day to talk to someone. I went into the Pain Clinic. The doctor there examined me. He did a blood test for HIV and a pregnancy test. He asked if I wanted to call the police. See, the thing was, at the time I didn’t know if Robin was guilty; if he knew about the drugs. I figured the red headed friend put the drugs in to play a prank on Robin. I didn’t think Robin would intentionally do such a thing.

What they don’t tell you about disasscociatives like GHB is that the memories come creeping back over time, one puzzle piece by one. Later the key unlocked… the one thing that I needed to know. When I was flipped over was his voice, “Do you like me now, bitch?”

I saw him once. He looked happy to see me. “You drugged me,” I said. He went white as a sheet and ran. Too fast to get the police. Some skank staggered up to me and wagged her head like a chicken and said that he was very sweet and would never do that. I said “Yeah I used to think that too.” She swore at me and staggered back to her chair.

I looked for someone to accompany me to the police for help. Of all people that you think would be there to help you after an incident like this is your mom. Sadly, this is less often the case than we think. My mom was too busy and blamed me for being in the wrong place. Now they call that “victim blaming”. The bartender said “I was really drunk” well duh, that the effect those drugs do on you, give the appearance of extreme inebriation. That not an excuse for rape.

I went between wanting to forget about it, not being ABLE to forget about it because my back hurt so much, and worrying about my responsibility to press charges because of reoccurrence. The system makes it very hard to press charges. I’d had trouble pressing charges with baddan and the cops are rude, condescending, and they question you and your motives. I needed support to go through this.