Roofied & Raped — An Unexpected Betrayal

When ‘girl code’ clearly didn’t exist…

Photo by MART PRODUCTION

by

Melissa Corrigan, she/her

This article by Melissa Corrigan was previously published on her Substack, CounterStory Media. Blue Amp Media exists to amplify voices and stories that are central to our current political experience. BAM is grateful for the opportunity to republish this important first-person narrative.

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With the passage of the bill to release the Epstein files, the most humiliating, painful moments of those women’s lives is about to be on full display. It will be examined and repeated ad nauseam, even fetishized. The bravery it takes to demand the public release of such private information is astounding. As such, I am sharing my story. If those women see other women voluntarily telling their stories, it may ease their pain just a bit. In sisterhood and solidarity, I open my heart to you.

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*Trigger warning: sexual assault*

I was finally able to sit upright without vomiting, but the room was still spinning. Tears and mucus leaked from my face. I zipped and buttoned my jeans with shaking hands, grabbed my purse, and looked around for the door.

I stood up, noting the pain between my legs and the creeping ache in my temples, and saw myself in the mirror over the dresser: messy hair, streaks of eyeliner and mascara down my cheeks. My shirt, a sequined blue tube top, shimmered mockingly in the low light.

Opening the door, I realized I would have to walk through the living room to get out. I took a deep breath, straightened my shoulders, steadied my shaking legs, and walked towards the door.

Laughter erupted, and I looked over my shoulder to see three pretty young women sitting on the couch, watching me leave… and laughing.

I slunk out and walked a few blocks away before pulling out my Nokia ‘brick’ phone and calling a friend for a ride.

Only when I knew I had someone coming did I collapse on the ground on a bed of pine needles at the corner of a city park, draw my knees to my chest, lower my forehead to my knees, and release an anguished cry and flood of tears.

I had just been raped, and those girls knew it, facilitated it, and laughed at it.

Seeking acceptance

I was young, barely 19, and working a few service industry jobs to make ends meet. I worked at a pizza shop, and there was a sports bar next door. A couple of us walked over and offered to pick up shifts since the semester was nearly over and their mostly student staff would be leaving.

The manager gratefully accepted. We were on the schedule once or twice a week, and sometimes we’d get called if someone missed their shift.

It was an ideal set-up. We were already there and trained in the business of restaurants, which made life easy for their manager, and we got to pick up a few extra hours a week for really easy work.

During one of my shifts at the sports bar, I met Chad*. Chad was a couple of years older than me, very handsome, tanned skin and charming. He was friends with a woman our age, Brittany*, who also worked there, and they were part of a larger friend group that went out often. I had worked three or four shifts with him, casually flirting. Their friend group was mostly sorority girls and frat guys, and they hung out at the frat house and The Cock Pit, a college dive bar around the corner.

So when he was talking with Brittany about going out, he glanced over at me and said, “You wanna come out with us?”

I tried to be cool, shrugged, and replied, “Sure.” She looked less than thrilled, rolling her eyes, but I hoped to click better with some of the other women in their group.

I had a motley crew of friends, scattered across different groups, parts of town, and ages, and I missed the idea of a close-knit friend group like I’d had my freshman year when I was active in the university marching band. I hoped this could be the beginning of being a part of a group once again.

I was so naive, and so obviously desperate for that, that I cringe to think back on how easy I was to lure in.

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The day arrived

It was a Thursday. I remember because I expected they’d go out on Friday, but they’d all arranged their schedules so they didn’t have classes on Friday, thus always having a three-day weekend, enabling them to begin their partying on Thursday night.

I went home after my lunch shift, showered, blew out and flat-ironed my hair to the perfectly sleek style made popular by Christina Aguilera and other pop stars at the time, brushed on shimmery eyeshadow, a bold line of heavy eyeliner, mascara, and a nude lip with gloss. I wore low-rise jeans and one of my favorite tops: a sequined tube top in varying shades of blue. It made my blue eyes ‘pop’ and I just felt pretty in it (and it usually got compliments, so it was always in rotation — until that night). My favorite silver hoop earrings finished the look.

Because I was going out with new people and wanted to make a good impression, I was being cautious with my drinking. I ate carbs for lunch; a plan I’d come to adopt as a drinking “pregame” method to avoid getting too drunk. I was around 115 pounds soaking wet, so I had learned my limits when it came to alcohol. When I was with friends, I drank more, but with new people, I drank very little and “light” drinks.

With a light spritz of perfume and body shimmer, I grabbed my purse and was out the door.

Mean Girls

When I arrived, quite a few of their friends were already there. Brittany was standing with three other young women our age, so I made my way over to them first. Brittany smiled a very big, very fake smile, and introduced me to the other three with an overly loud, “This is MeLISsa, she works with us sometimes… isn’t she cute?”

The other girls looked at each other and snickered. I instantly felt uncomfortable but still attempting to be polite, I smiled and said hi to each of them. The last one, a beautiful blonde with a sour look on her face, looked me slowly up and down, pausing to take in my blue sequined top, and then drawled in a dripping vaguely wealthy southern accent, “You look like a fish.”

41-year-old Melissa would have left right then, perhaps after slapping the brat. 19-year-old Melissa was young, a lot more timid, and distracted as at that moment, Chad walked up with a big smile asking what I wanted to drink.

Because I was being cautious with how much I was drinking, remember, I asked for a fuzzy navel (orange juice and peach schnapps; it’s a drink with the alcohol content of a mouthwash, basically) and walked up to the bar with him when he ordered. [We all had fake IDs, and this bar was very lax on checking them, anyway.]

I sipped my first drink and watched the group mingle. More of their friends arrived and some of the girls who came later were more welcoming and friendly, so I was talking to them when Chad asked if I wanted another drink. I nodded, and he set off to the bar to retrieve it.

When he walked back and handed me my drink, he accompanied it with a kiss on my cheek. He smelled like cologne. I’m sure I blushed, and the other girls giggled.

I felt like they were warming up to me. Sipping my drink, and starting to dance with some of the girls, I was feeling much more accepted than an hour before. Some of them seemed genuinely nice. I was loosening up and attributing it to the group, the music, and the vibe of the bar, which had become pretty packed.

A few songs in, and I’ve been handed another drink. Since they were small plastic cups, probably 10 oz or less, and the only alcohol was peach schnapps, I felt totally comfortable accepting a third. After only a couple of sips, though, I began feeling dizzy and hot. The bar was getting hot, being packed and all, so I pushed my way through the crowd to a table by the door. I climbed on a bar stool at a high-top table and began trying to breathe more slowly.

The room was beginning to sway and tilt. I was confused. I’d only been drinking peach schnapps. At my recent rate of drinking (hey, I was in college), I shouldn’t have been feeling a thing. Yet here I was, feeling the room move more and more and feeling absolutely green around the gills.

I was embarrassed. What a lightweight I looked like. I asked for a water and a bartender walked around the bar to hand it to me. He looked concerned, but another patron yelled for his attention and he turned back to it. He glanced over at me one last time, and then he disappeared back into the crowd at the bar.

Brittany and a couple of other girls walked over to my table and asked if I was feeling OK. One quipped, “We didn’t know you were such a lightweight, girl!” and they all laughed. I was trying to stay upright. I felt hot, nauseous, and weak.

Suddenly, Chad appeared at my side, looking worried. He leaned in.

“Hey, you doing OK? You need some fresh air?” He gestured towards the door.

We walked outside and the cooler air was refreshing, but it certainly wasn’t enough. I leaned against the brick face of the building and tried to breathe slowly. As the other girls trickled outside, he whispered to some of them and they came over with him when he invited me to come rest at his place.

“We’ve got a lot of people there right now; our frat is having a party with some of our sister sorority girls. You can lay down in my room, though- it should be pretty quiet in there. Just come back to my place and lay down for a while. You’ll feel a lot better.”

The girls nodded. They’d be there. That made me feel safe.

I agreed.

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My worst nightmares, realized.

We rode in his friend’s car the mile or two to their frat house, a 2 story colonial in a nearby neighborhood. Cars lined the street, and sure enough, a party full of college guys and girls was in full swing inside.

Chad held my elbow as he swiftly steered me through the house and into his room. I was so dizzy I could barely keep upright, and so weak. My legs felt so heavy.

We got to his room and I lay on the blue and white plaid bedspread pulled loosely over his sheets. He dragged a trash can over next to me and retrieved a bottle of water. I closed my eyes tightly and breathed slowly through pursed lips, trying to stop the spinning. I was so confused.

Three fuzzy navels did this? Maybe the bartender made screwdrivers instead (vodka instead of peach schnapps). Even then, three of those small drinks shouldn’t have me feeling that way, even if they were vodka. Hell, even if they were Everclear or moonshine… I should not be feeling this way. I typically drank more than this while pregaming for other nights out.

Chad asked one more time if I was OK, and I said I probably just needed to lie down for a little longer. He nodded and left the room, closing the door behind him with a little ‘click.’ I stared at the ceiling and tried to will it to stop moving, and then… darkness.

I awoke to the horror that every woman fears.

Between my legs, Chad.

Beside the bed, two of his friends, watching.

On the floor beside me, a trash can with my vomit and lingering traces of it in my mouth.

Tears streaming down my face.

Whispers… “…stop… please.”

The laughter of his friends at my plight.

The ceiling fan spun lazily above me, bouncing a shadow on the wall with every turn. I watched it turn. I watched the shadow appear and disappear once, twice, four times, six times.

I was counting. I lost count.

He finished on my stomach. I lurched forward and he sprang out of the way, tossing my leg aside, just missing me vomiting again in the general direction of his trash can.

His face contorted in disgust, he simply remarked, “Gross,” before looking to his friends and they walked out, laughing.

The party was still in full swing. Music thumped the floorboards. I sat upright and knew I had to get out, right then. Everything was still spinning and my legs felt heavy, but the repeated vomiting seemed to be ridding my body of whatever had been given to me.

I willed myself to pull my jeans up, pausing every few seconds to listen for footsteps and to attempt to not vomit on myself.

Breathe. Focus. Get out.

I buttoned my jeans, grabbed my purse.

Breathe. Focus. Get out.

I cracked the door open and saw no one between myself and the front door.

Breathe. Focus. Get out.

I stepped out of the room.

I saw those young women on the couch.

They saw me.

They laughed.

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It wasn’t over.

The following week, I had one shift at the sports bar.

After that night, when I went home and showered for over an hour, vomited some more, threw my blue sequined tube top in the dumpster behind my apartment building, and smoked a ton of weed, I spoke to no one and thought the worst was over. I hadn’t even told my friend who picked me up that night, so she assumed I’d had a drunken hookup and was doing the walk of shame when I needed a ride.

When I’d first met Chad, his friends had a running joke about his daddy being a lawyer; recalling that then, I knew what I’d be up against if I reported him. I had no resources. No one in my corner with any kind of authority or power. It would be even more of a public humiliation for me.

I dreaded the upcoming shift, but I needed the cash for bills. When I arrived, I breathed a sigh of relief that neither Chad nor Brittany was working. I was about halfway through my shift when another coworker, a friend of Chad’s, yelled loudly across the kitchen to me, “Oh hey, Chad left you a note. It’s behind your time card.”

Since I hadn’t seen it when I clocked in, I assumed they put it there, and the smirks on their faces meant it wasn’t something good.

They both watched me walk from behind the bar to the far side of the kitchen where the old time clock was affixed to the wall. I lifted my time card, and a folded note fell out. I unfolded and skimmed it, and my blood turned to ice.

“Fun time. Sorry I didn’t tell you before, but I’m HIV +. Might want to get checked out.”

I blinked and then looked up to see his two friends staring at me and they burst out laughing at my reaction.

I felt numb.

I stepped into the manager’s office, tossed the note in his trash can, and said, “Don’t put me on any more shifts. Sorry.”

I walked out, my utter humiliation complete.

Aftermath

I did get tested. I had nothing. I also was not pregnant. I got a follow-up HIV test four months later. Still negative. There was virtually no lasting ‘evidence’ of what happened to me, at least not physically.

Mentally and emotionally? I was in a dark pit. And I told no one, so all my friends saw was my self-destruction. I used cocaine for the first time, and whatever pills anyone handed me. I smoked massive amounts of marijuana and drank heavily so I could sleep, so I then took Yellow Jackets and occasionally other pills to wake up and function at work.

I slept with other men, I assume to take back control of my body and my sexuality. I developed a habit for a few months — I would sleep with a man, and sneak out in the middle of the night and never speak to him again. This happened about four times.

Some of my female friends distanced themselves. I saw one of them on campus and her face… she was clearly disgusted. She pretended to not see me and walked past.

I was called a slut. I still said nothing.

What could I say?

When women tell people they are raped, they are immediately suspected of lying, of being a slutty woman who had sex and regretted it so she cried rape. There was such an insurmountable barrier of disbelief, assumptions, and victim-blaming at that time that it was almost a fool’s mission to report a rape.

The woman would inevitably be retraumatized again and again while the man went scot-free. I’d seen it play out with other women, students in my dorm, and acquaintances. I knew what would happen.

So, I said nothing.

Chad quit the sports bar after that semester. I quit the pizza shop several months later, after 9/11, after still seeing the ghost of Chad’s face in the windows of the sports bar whenever I went to work, still seeing some of his friends around, still being labeled some pathetic slut, and seeing some of my own coworkers at the pizza shop looking at me differently and starting to snicker. Feeling their eyes on me. Feeling the residual shame day after day.

I stopped walking around campus. I stayed around the outskirts of town, in bars that played loud punk bands, and I would get in the mosh pit and slam myself into others until I bled, drinking enough PBR and Captain Morgan to not feel a thing, attempting to never feel another thing.

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A new beginning and a lasting resentment

I met my first husband a couple of years later, at one of those shows, and while I found some measure of peace with him, my darkness still persisted in our marriage. I shipped out to boot camp and found stability in the military, and training that enabled me to defend myself, physically, should I ever be in that position again, but the drinking and sleepless nights persisted for a few years yet.

I became a sailor, a wife, and a mother, and then I found myself with more good days than bad, more joy and light, and I felt that I’d reconstructed everything about myself that Chad ripped away.

But of course, I haven’t.

Still to this day, a part of me is fundamentally and irretrievably gone, and he’ll never experience a moment of retribution for that.

I assume he’s out there, with a good career, a pretty wife and 2.5 kids and a picket fence, a picture-perfect life hiding his trail of destruction; for if there’s one thing I’m sure of, it’s that I was not the only one. There’s no way he, and potentially his frat brothers, didn’t engage in this behavior on a regular basis. They were all so comfortable with it. It was just another Thursday night at the frat house.

And that, you know, that’s one thing. “Boys will be boys” and all. But the most devastating part, the part I still have trouble rectifying in my mind, is the behavior of those young women.

It doesn’t take a detective or private eye to follow what happened that night. If the sorority girls weren’t actually in on it, they certainly were aware of what was going on. It was very obvious. Chad didn’t attempt to stop me or challenge the narrative while I was leaving his house — he was in the kitchen doing shots like nothing ever happened.

Those girls saw, they knew, and they not only did nothing to stop it, they laughed.

They laughed.

I don’t know if I’ll ever let go of the resentment towards those young women. Just one of them stepping up and stopping what was happening would have changed my life forever, and what would it have cost her? Social graces? A place in a group of people so vile they participated in drugging and raping women?

Also somewhere out there are a group of now-middle-aged women who watched, laughing, as I, and probably other women, were roofied, raped, and humiliated. Those women also came from families with means, so they most likely also now have comfortable lives, the kids, the picket fence.

They also will never experience a moment of retribution for what they participated in.

Those women do not participate in the sisterhood of women. They betrayed women for social clout. They watched as women’s lives were destroyed, and they laughed.

I wonder if they have daughters now?

I wonder if their daughters are going to college.

I wonder if their daughters will be roofied and raped.

I wonder if they will still laugh when it’s their heart breaking and their daughter’s life smashed to pieces.

I wonder how karma will come to haunt their lives, or if it already has.

The happily ever after

I have come back from that pit of darkness; my life now is full of light and warmth and safety. It took decades to build that. I am in a fortress of security and happiness that Chad could never touch.

I am married, to a kind and good man who embraces my past, my darkness, and has offered me kindness, acceptance, and unconditional love.

I am living a pretty great happily ever after, despite everything. And yet, on some nights, my husband sleeps and the light is low and I lay awake watching our bedroom ceiling fan slowly spinning, casting a shadow on the wall, and I stop breathing while I count… one… two… three… I lose count.

I still remember.

I always will.

*names have been changed to protect the dastardly, the disgusting, the guilty, but mostly my legal liability*

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