Being a victim of spiking doesn’t just ruin your night, it changes your behaviour for the rest of your life

This article contains references to needle spiking. 

People were shocked when I first opened up about my spiking experience, but it wasn’t until I started speaking to other victims that I realised what happened to me wasn’t unique or unusual. 

In July 2020, in broad daylight; in a restaurant at lunchtime, when I was wearing jeans and trainers – I was found unconscious and taken to A&E. Nothing about the day was odd; we were out celebrating a birthday and reuniting after spending what felt like an eternity apart due to national lockdowns. I remember my last drink and telling my friend that I didn’t feel very well. Now, looking back at photos taken moments before I lost consciousness – my entire face had changed, and while my eyes were open, there was nothing behind them.

My memory from the moment I felt unwell to the moment I regained consciousness in an A&E cubicle is non-existent. But from what I do remember, I woke up without any of my possessions, my T-shirt stained with a mix of bodily fluids and multiple cannulas sticking out from both my arms which connected to a variety of drips. A Junior Doctor asked me if I was aware of where I was, or how I got there – I couldn’t answer; I just remember the lights hurting my eyes and the fact that I was alone. When I was discharged, one of my friends in the waiting room was hysterical -–no one had told her where I was or what had happened. It wasn’t until the next morning, over breakfast, when my friend described witnessing my body laying on the bathroom floor, eyes rolling into the back of my head, struggling to breathe, that I knew I had been spiked. 

The aftermath was horrible; I was unusually anxious and experiencing extremely low moods. I didn’t want to go out, and I didn’t want to talk to anyone. When I did speak to a friend or family member, I felt like I was being interrogated. “Did you take a drink from a stranger?” “Where were you?” – as if somehow that would’ve made it my fault. I know it came from a place of concern, but subconsciously I felt like I was being judged. Being judged for being a young woman who was out (legally) socialising while we were tackling the biggest health crisis in modern history. 

I began this article by outlining where I was, the time of day, and what I was wearing. Why do I – and so many other victims – feel the need to justify our behaviours? 

The two paramedics that took me to the hospital assumed that I was just irresponsibly drunk, telling my friends that I just needed to “go home and sleep it off.” So naturally, all that went through my mind was, ‘If the paramedics don’t believe me, will anybody else?’ 

I didn’t go to the police because the thought of constantly replaying what could’ve happened was too painful. I was tired of defending myself and talking about what happened to me hurt. I tried to get closure from the hospital. I wanted to know what drugs had been administered and what the blood tests they took had shown. I was promised that my GP and I would receive copies of the records, but I never received them.  Why would I want to go through that again? A crime without evidence will never make trial – just another ‘he said, she said’ situation. So what would be the point? 

“I didn’t go to the police because the thought of constantly replaying what could’ve happened was too painful.”

But to this day, my biggest regret is that I didn’t report what happened. I feel like I essentially let the perpetrator get away with it.