Why Bill Cosby's Accusers Remained Silent: Patch Editor's Notebook

I don’t know if Bill Cosby is innocent or guilty of the allegations an ever-growing number of women have been making against him.

I do know their eerily similar stories are plausible.

I was in my 30s when it happened to me.

I wasn’t engaging in risky behavior. I was at a professional conference, and was hosting a gathering in my hotel room for a dozen or so colleagues.

That’s what I thought, anyway. As I pieced together what had happened later, I had made arrangements with only one person, who had assured me he would pass the invitation along to the others.

When he showed up at my door, he said they were on the way. I had no reason not to trust that. We each cracked open a beer from the 12-pack I’d brought from a microbrewery in my hometown the group had raved about when they visited.

That’s the last thing I remember until I awoke several hours later, completely nude and feeling like I was having that strange dream so many of us have had, where we’re naked on the bus, or in the classroom, and frantically searching for something to cover ourselves.

He was lying on the other bed in the room, propped up on his elbow and wearing only his boxers, looking at me. I can’t, as they say, unsee that. It’s in my head. It nagged me for years. What happened? I can’t say for sure, and never will have that answer unless the man in question, whose whereabouts I don’t know, fills in the blanks.

But here’s what didn’t happen:

I didn’t black out from drinking too much. Ten of the 12 bottles of beer went home with me. I didn’t neatly fold the clothes I had been wearing in the chair – another sign in that drowsy state of semi-consciousness that, besides my nakedness, told me something wasn’t right. I’m a flinger when I travel, and my clothes stay where they land until it’s time to pack them up again. And I didn’t decide to have a wild weekend out of town and cheat on my boyfriend.

Related:

• Michigan Woman Latest to Accuse Bill Cosby
• Florida Woman Joins List of Bill Cosby Accusers

Some years passed before I figured it out. I distinctly recall the moment the light bulb went off. I was watching a news program about date rape and learned about “roofies” for the first time. At that moment, my mind flashed back to that image of the man lying on the bed just looking at me, and I knew.

Don’t feel sorry for me. I don’t. I’m not a victim, so I’m not a survivor, either. I’m in a sort of netherworld, where I suspect at least some of those women accusing Bill Cosby reside.

Why am I saying this now? Because I identify with them. What they describe began with overtures of professional friendship, too.

How seriously would they have been taken years ago if they had, individually and in isolation, tarnished the fatherly image of an American icon with accusations they couldn’t prove because the drugs they allege they were slipped left them fuzzy and unable to recall specifics?

And I am saying it now because until enough women speak out and give witness to such occurrences as more common than anyone would like to believe, it’s too easy for society to vilify those courageous women who have broken an insidious code of silence that allows such violations to continue.