Drugged on the Outer Banks – Arrested, Jobless, and Trying t

My name is JC. As someone who’s always lived a stable, quiet life—never in trouble with the law, never without a job—I never imagined I’d be in this position. This is the hardest thing I’ve ever had to write.

Two weeks ago, I went to a local restaurant on the Outer Banks that has been part of my life for over 35 years. I moved close enough to walk there, and it became the place I went for dinner—especially on holidays when I was alone. It was never about drinking—it was just a quiet place where locals gathered and where I felt comfortable.

I used to live close enough to walk to the restaurant, but I moved away from that area years ago and now live in Grandy. That’s one of the reasons I don’t stay out late or drink more than a couple of light drinks—I always drive myself home, and I’m careful about staying in control. I’ve never been the type to go out late or party. I was just there for dinner, like I’ve done so many times before.

That night, after working 12.5 hours days,

nearly 90 hours in one week and covering long shifts for a missing co-manager, I just needed a break.

I arrived at the restaurant around 5:15 PM—like I’ve done many times before. I usually stay for about an hour or two at most. I was alone, decompressing over dinner.

I ordered dinner and had two weak drinks (mostly soda, as usual). A man sitting nearby struck up a friendly conversation and mentioned he was from Pennsylvania. At one point, he bought me a strange drink I’d never heard of. I took a couple of sips and pushed it away because I didn’t like it. I went to the restroom—and that’s the last thing I remember.

The next morning, I found out I had been arrested. I had apparently hit another car while backing out of the parking lot, and the police said I couldn’t walk or speak clearly. I don’t remember anything—not the accident, the driver or the car I hit, not talking to the police, not even leaving the restaurant. I didn’t wake up hungover. I woke up confused, slow, weak, and in shock.

About 12 days after I was arrested, I learned secondhand from someone that worked there I had been at the restaurant for almost six hours—not two. That I had danced with the man who bought me the drink. That he kissed me. I remembered none of it. A couple of days later, I went to the restaurant to ask about the video footage. That’s when the manager told me she had come outside after hearing there was an accident. She said I looked right through her—like she wasn’t even there. I was completely out of it.

I was drugged.

I wish I could say this nightmare ended the next morning—but it hasn’t. I’ve been on an emotional rollercoaster every day since. Not knowing what happened to me that night was terrifying. For days, I thought maybe I had somehow done something wrong—that maybe I drank too much or made a bad judgment. I blamed myself for something I couldn’t even remember.

But little by little, the truth started to surface—and with it, so did the grief, shame, fear, and helplessness. I’ve cried more than I ever have in my life. I’ve had moments where I didn’t recognize who I was or how I got here. This wasn’t just a bad night—this completely broke my sense of safety, stability, and self. And the hardest part is knowing how easily this could happen to someone else.

Since that night, my life has unraveled.

I lost my job as a manager because I can’t work without a car

I lost my driver’s license

I just borrowed money to buy a car I never got to buy because I had to pay a retainer on a lawyer instead.

Legal fees are piling up, and I’m now stuck with bills I can’t afford

This $3,900 goal reflects the immediate financial losses I’ve already taken—job loss, some bills do, and legal fees. I may need to raise it later depending on how things unfold, but for now, this amount would help stabilize everything and give me a chance to rebuild.

I’m asking for help to survive this. Anything you give will go toward food, bills, transportation costs, and legal expenses until I can get back on my feet. I don’t want to give up—but I’m at a point where I can’t do this alone.

Even if you can’t donate, sharing this with others would mean so much. Thank you for helping me find a way forward.