It’s always the same question: What went wrong that night?
And I want to take the easy answer out: It could have been something in one of my drinks. That way the blame isn’t on me. It was the drink. I was only the victim.
I know it was me. I was drinking emotionally after fighting with a friend. I was trying to keep pace with some people who had a much higher tolerance than I did. I knew I was drunker than I had ever been in my life, losing control of myself, and yet I took another shot.
I remember getting into a cab, not sure where I was going and unconcerned with that fact—and that’s where my memory stops.
I woke up to the beeping of a heart monitor, tangled up in cords, my best friends sitting at my bedside. I had drank so much the night before that I had passed out and had to be taken to the hospital.
When you’re asked how much you had had to drink that night, you should be able to answer. When you’re asked if you had been raped, you should have the memory to say no.
There was trouble with the university. There were calls to my parents that made me believe that I was hated. There were unhealthy eating habits that developed in an attempt to regain some control of my life. There was insomnia for months following because every time I closed my eyes I heard the heart monitor beeping.
It’s a collective guilt and that’s what hurts the most. One night, my friend got drunk and cried to me saying it was her fault for not being there for me when I was in trouble. It was a terrifying realization of how my decision had burdened more than just me.
She didn’t remember telling me that the next day.
I believe that everything happens for a reason. It’s cliché, but it’s the unapologetic optimism that I have relied on my whole life to make sense of all that happens to me.
But I can’t reason through this. I can’t forgive myself. I can’t say I’m sorry to every person I need to say I’m sorry to for causing this. Because I am cowardly and can’t admit out loud what I did.
This isn’t supposed to discourage going out, but be smart. Be safe. Be aware of what you’re drinking, who you’re going out with, that they’re watching out for you, and where you are.
So much time has passed, and though we’re told time heals all wounds, I still struggle to come to terms with this. As far as I have pushed myself to become better after that night, I can’t shake the memory of that drunken, reckless version of myself.
But people are slowly helping me peel that shadow of a girl from me. I am lucky to be so loved. To the people who saw what I was and left me, I don’t blame you. To those who stayed with me, I work so hard to be someone worthy of your love. You didn’t have to wait by my bedside and stay up with me the nights that followed because I was too scared to sleep and let me literally lean on you because I was crying too hard to stand. Thank God you did.
You remind me that I have made mistakes; I am not the mistake.
Interested in writing a “Her Story”? Please contact Rebecca Rogalski or Katrina Linden at notre-dame@hercampus.com
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