The year was 2017, and I hadn’t yet realized I was being abused.
I’d only recently begun dating Clark*, the man who’d go on to abuse me for five years. We’d met as recruits in the police academy, and once we began dating (shortly after graduation) things got intense very quickly.
He’d already started exhibiting highly possessive and controlling behaviors (jealousy, physical aggression, lovebombing, gaslighting, etc.), but I’d been trained in previous toxic relationships to believe this was what passion looked like.
At the time, I was unable to properly see to navigate the dangerous environment I was living in. This left me vulnerable to situations like the one below, where my drink was spiked while I was surrounded by fellow officers.
One evening, we were at a local dive bar with a few other officers (all men) from Clark’s precinct. Being the Chill Girlfriend™ I was, I’d offered to sober drive.
As the men became drunk and rowdy, they decided they wanted to go to a strip club outside of the city. Strip clubs aren’t particularly my scene (understatement), especially not the seedy ones this group frequented. These clubs in particular weren’t places I’d consider safe for any woman; I’d already experienced groping and harassment on prior outings.
Afraid to be labeled a wet blanket in front of Clark or his comparably misogynistic friends, however, I felt pressured to agree.
I’ve since learned that no social obligation or fear of judgment is worth putting myself in situations where I feel unsafe. Saying ‘no’ isn’t being difficult, it’s being wise and strong. Unfortunately, that doesn’t always feel like an option; especially when the decision to consent is taken away from you completely.
The strip club was small and dingy, with a single stage and a saccharine vanilla smell. After each performance, dancers would walk around individually asking patrons if they’d enjoyed the dance, then berating them into tipping. They’d also not-so-subtly offer to take customers into a back room (essentially a storage closet) for a “private dance”.
The men ordered more drinks from the bar and did a round of shots. Feeling progressively less comfortable with where this evening was going, I nursed a cheap bottle of beer to make it look like I was doing something.
When one dancer approached our group, Rick* clumsily attempted to negotiate a private dance. I don’t remember exactly what was said, but I do know that he was purposefully disrespectful and rude; offering an offensively low amount and implying it was because she wasn’t attractive enough for him.
Noticing my discomfort after far too much time had passed, the men invited me to do a shot with them. I’d already turned them down earlier, but was still worried I’d be labeled stuck-up or lame. Since it didn’t seem like we’d be leaving anytime soon, I figured one shot would be fine. Maybe it’d even make this scene slightly more tolerable, although I had my doubts.
The drink was sugary and gross. I washed it down with a sip of my barely-touched beer, then offered the rest of the bottle to Clark, who’d just finished one of the two he was double-fisting.
Only a few minutes later, I began to feel dizzy, weak, and unfocused. At first, I assumed the shot must have just been stronger than I’d thought. I waited for the disorienting moment to pass but soon started to have that fuzzy, lightheaded feeling like I might pass out.
I grabbed Clark’s arm, gripping hard to signal my urgency. I tried to tell him something was wrong, but I’m not sure my mouth managed to get the words out. That was when the curtains closed and darkness fell.
The rest of the night was just clips.
Fade in on Clark slapping my face with increasing ferocity, trying to get me to drink water. I was in a plush, hideously upholstered chair Clark must have sat me in as I passed out.
I could hear one of the guys joke about the designated driver getting too drunk. Another (to his bare minimum credit), asked if I was alright. Their voices sounded far away.
“Too drunk?” I thought foggily, “But I only had one…”
Fade out.
Fade in on Clark yelling my name as I slumped onto his shoulder from the passenger seat. He was driving alarmingly fast, and I wondered why I wasn’t the one at the wheel.
I remember thinking my neck would hurt in the morning if I stayed in that awkward position, but my body felt heavy like I was under a lead blanket.
Fade out.
Fade in and Clark is half-carrying me up the stairs to my apartment. My legs were clumsy and staggering, as though trying to force my way through a rushing creek. I felt a cold spike of embarrassment that the group had to leave because of me.
Fade out.
Fade in on a glimpse of the sky, now pink with the rising sun. Clark was just returning, having gone back out to a casino with his friends. Far be it from him to let a little thing like his girlfriend’s apparent drugging ruin his good time.
He must have left me at my front door when dropping me off because I’d passed out just inside the entrance. The front door was still slightly ajar when he arrived, partially blocked by my unconscious body. He’d had to push past me to get inside.
The tile was cold and my face was wet. I must have been crying.
I felt the weight of my beautiful lab retriever sitting next to me. Later, I’d be massively grateful she’d stayed inside.
Fade out.
Fade in and I was somehow lying on my bed, feet dangling off the side. I was still crying, fighting with Clark as he tried to pull off my shoes and jeans.
I didn’t even register that it was him; I was disoriented and seasick and my body wouldn’t work right. I heard my own voice whimpering, “No no no no no”, much softer than intended. It sounded far away from wherever my consciousness drifted.
Clark would later tell me I kicked him hard in the leg as I thrashed. As horrifying as the entire experience was, I felt a tiny bit proud of my body for that instinct.
When I finally awoke alone in my room, I was terrified. My clothes were on the floor and I was on top of the covers. I didn’t remember any of it at first, but there was a horrible feeling of shame and fear roiling in my gut.
I found Clark asleep on the living room couch. He told me I wouldn’t stop moaning and flailing, trying to fight him as he tried to lay down with me.
I felt hungover and humiliated. I was nervous to ask what happened, knowing even this early in our relationship that I’d pay for embarrassing him in front of his friends.
In a rare moment of understanding, he said the group realized someone must have spiked my drink since I hadn’t been drinking prior to taking that shot. Piecing together the details of the night to the best of our ability, we concluded the spiked drink was likely meant for Rick, who’d offended the dancer.
I felt massively sick the rest of the day. Relieved as I was to know I hadn’t been physically harmed, I felt violated and soiled. I took a scalding hot bath and put on my biggest, comfiest pair of sweatpants.
There was a lingering worry that although Clark had acknowledged the frightening implications of what happened to me, I was still at risk of future repercussions the next time the mood struck him.
As much as I wanted to speak up, reporting the incident would have certainly done more harm than good. In the male-dominated environment I worked in at the time, any perceived weakness or vulnerability could damage a woman’s reputation beyond repair.
I was already mortified that I’d been so out of it in front of the officers present; reporting would have surely churned around the toxic law enforcement rumor mill and damaged my reputation. Being a minority in that space also meant it’d likely negatively impact attitudes toward women in law enforcement as a whole.
Although I knew the drink was likely intended for someone else, I couldn’t shake the feeling that it was somehow my fault. I replayed the night again and again, wondering if I could have somehow seen it coming.
The reality is, no one deserves to be drugged against their will. No one should have to carry guilt for someone else’s malicious actions. It took me years to accept that the blame never belonged to me — just as it doesn’t belong to any victim who’s had their safety and ability to consent violated.
The real shame belongs to those who create a culture that keeps victims silent, one that questions and invalidates our experiences instead of holding those responsible accountable.
About a year after this incident, I heard from another friend who’d ended up at the same strip club after an evening drinking with her coworkers. She awoke the next day with a similar story of blacking out without explanation; luckily, another female friend got her home safely.
I hated learning that this had happened to another woman, especially one with whom I was so close. Hearing her experience brought back all the feelings I’d tried to bury. It also reminded me that I wasn’t alone in what happened to me. Neither of us had done anything wrong, yet we both carried this invisible burden of shame.
This is something I still regularly struggle with when discussing the many abuses I’ve endured. I’m still learning to forgive myself for the harmful actions of others.
In the years since, I’ve realized that sharing our stories — whether with friends, support groups, or even anonymous blogs — can be a powerful healing tool. It doesn’t erase the past, but helps survivors reclaim our power. It’s our way of saying something horrible happened to us, but it doesn’t own us.