The motive remains unclear. The method: a mystery. The persons involved: unknown. Yet, the fact stands; I was slipped bath salts and lived.

Well, perhaps, part of this is known. I went to enjoy a bowl of cereal I had saved as leftovers. Did I mention it was retrieved from a public fridge? Well, it was.

I arrived home on a Thursday night, after a long day, ready to relax and eat. Taking a seat at the kitchen table, I prepared to take some new medicine. Having been diagnosed with a terrible eye injury days prior, I was dreaming of getting much-needed rest. At a pause, I ate and drank some food and milk that I had stored in a fridge where I worked earlier that day. My name was written on the containers that held them.

Concurrently, I began to feel nausea, dizzy and strange, yet separated from my normal, mental faculties. My throat tightened and weakness stole my vitality. As I looked around the familiar room, things began to cloud and blur. I sensed different colors and lights. Thinking I was just getting tired or that the medication was doing its job, I decided to call it a night. However, that evening, everything happened rapidly. As I decided to get up, my legs flailed from under me.

My heart pumped resoundingly in between both my ears as I heard “a thump a thump a thump.” With every contraction, I felt a ripple encircle my hollow insides. The pulse was strong, yet my spirit was drained. I climbed up the staircase holding tight to the railing. Something was off, but my efficient brain could not fix it.

When I got to my room, a lightness and lethargy directed me to bed as my skeleton nearly folded into sections. As I settled, I became startled that this something wrong might be something really bad. An intrinsic voice warned me with a whisper not to pass out.

I had no choice but to fight the urge to sleep and sat up immediately feeling very ill. After a minute, maybe two, vomit began to shoot out of my feeble mouth. As limp as I was, the force was amazingly strong. Blinded and propelled, I could hardly hold onto the bucket as every piece of nutrition inside my stomach was emptied into the shadows, while I sat in the middle of my bare floor.

Tears streamed down my face as I clung to a plastic pail. Exhausted and dirty by the turbulence, I decided to get to the bathroom to clean up. At around nine o'clock that night, I dragged my listless figure down a lonely corridor and onto the cold, bathroom floor. I proceeded to hook my shoulder over the side of the tub void of zest.

Then, I got sick more and crawled back to my bedroom. Alone in the starless veil of a hot, summer night, I laid injured, languid and unknowingly poisoned. Death and sickness appeared to me as ugly and unforgiving. It's a place where pleasantries are kicked to the curb. Being uneducated in crassness didn't help a gently-mannered person like myself to understand the harsh capabilities of my fellow men. Worse of all, had I known, no one would have believed me, none the less, assisted.

I grasped this because I tried. People walked away, abandoning what was left. No one came swooping down to save me, at least, not for about a week later. Even then, there was no sensational rescue. I merely knocked on one, last door, which probably would have been my final attempt to get aid. Since all of my other tries had failed miserably, I couldn't go on and had that door not opened, I'd have perished.

I wasn't ready to go yet, but I remember thinking,"If this is it, then I guess it's ok."

On the first night at 4 am, I awoke with a tremendous inability to sleep despite having taken a sturdy pain pill. My logic centered on the new prescription and my predisposition to reject extreme things taken internally. What's sad is that little predilection of mine was exactly the reason why I never tried drugs. I instinctively knew my body would not be able to handle them and it'd be like playing Russian roulette via experimentation. The person who did this didn't care about my history or intolerance and in doing so, practically signed my death certificate. At this point, however, I wrote it off as a medical reaction.

Always resourceful, I descended to the basement. Running in place seemed like a grand idea because I knew everything that went into my body. "It's anxiety," I concluded. The excessive hyperactivity would drain soon and then, I could make my way back to slumber and get quality shut eye. But, that expected leveling out never occurred. So, I ran harder, yet felt no less stress. Confused, I went for a walk and tried sprinting outside in the dead of night.

After a while, I happened to see things that weren't there. Rationally, I figured these images weren't actual, but a stinging, mental prick ruthlessly tried to convince me of other realities. Convinced that I saw ghosts in a nearby cemetery, I bolted towards my car and crawled into the back seat, certain that it was the only, safe refuge. Once inside, I felt spiders crawling all over me. I'd found a web weeks before and imagined, "Surely, it's infested." I squirmed and scratched my skin pensive that I was losing my mind.

Once daylight set in, I went for a ride, skipping breakfast and water without registering it. At a stop sign, my eyes kept going. They nearly bulged out of their sockets while the sentiment was weird, albeit slow.

I knew unnatural and inexplicable things were occurring, but I didn't know why. Even when I was eventually told the truth, I scoffed in disbelief. It's easy to doubt this experience, but it called on me regardless, to the consent of something I never saw or knew about, but readily had to embrace. And I grappled with that because the crime committed was invisible, almost as sheer as the entity that pulled me back from it's jaws. I finally figured, "if I could believe in a God and how He saved me, then I can entrust in the events that took place, even though, they were concealed."

For days when I tried to doze, I could only get a all handful of minutes of genuine respite until my body would involuntarily jolt me back to consciousness. After a while of this, I was terrified to snooze knowing I might not wake up. Sleep deprived and without sustenance, I didn't know what sort of danger I was in. Days went by without eating and a weekend passed before I felt thirst.

As I poured clear water down my throat, it felt like heaven to the sandpaper of my linings. My body violently compressed with each needed sip. It occurred to me, "Wow. I didn't even observe that I hadn't drunken any water these last few days." Still, there was no cause for alarm in my dreamlike detachment to living.

This went on, and I pursued assistance. With all accustomed avenues blocked, I fought desperation to reclaim a former self and eventually, prayed. As unbearable thoughts invaded my mind, I slammed my eyes shut and obsessively recited every religious prose I'd ever memorized. For hours on end, I said these phrases as I rode out a startling wave of instability. "I want to get off," I cringed.

Instantaneously, I heard a message along with all of the other discombobulated ones. The number three kept flashing in my mind as I heard,"You will be ok in three days. Hang on for three days and you will be saved."

I approached three people during that period and told them I had been sent to them by God. Ever since the number three had affixed to my core, I held onto it for dear sanity. Never before had I done such a thing.

The third time, I was knocking on a neighbor's door three days after I picked up that information. A woman answered and I spoke,"God sent me here." Fully expecting her to laugh or slam the door in my face, she lightly closed it instead with an unmoved gaze and told me to wait. "She believed me!" I rejoiced.

A courageous knock on an unknown panel led me to salvation.

For anonymous purposes, I was brought inside this dwelling to the services of a man we'll call Mr. Z. Within a few minutes of meeting him, he determined what happened and informed me to both my horror and dropped jaw. Next, he fed, comforted and checked on me for weeks. Under his wing, he told me,"you were 50% dead when I met you."

I might have looked like a pretend zombie here, but the costume I wore was very real and didn't wash away with soap.

Years led to a spot of return and marks remained on my body. My skin abruptly turned pale and erupted with lesions. Before that, it was smooth and flawless. For a year, I walked around like a wounded soldier, unrecognizable and defeated. I had days where I could hardly leave my bed and all I could do was stare ahead in shock.

When I saw my reflection, it brought fright and I didn't identify the individual looking back. In the chill of my apartment, my face glowed and I could see neon under my skin. Nothing was there, but I saw something.

The bath salts destroyed my appearance, mangled my body and left internal scars that were damning. I didn't know how to get back to who I once was or if it were remotely possible.

If asked for advice on my trial, I'm not sure what guidance I'd give.
Thoughts that arise run the gamut from: “Don’t accept food from others. Don't store your food in a community fridge. Don't piss off the wrong person."

It’s hard to say without being completely paranoid because obviously, the intended receiver was me. It had been a deliberate act, yet I don't know why or who did it. Although, I do know that they nearly killed me.

What did occur was a dramatic change in which I view the sphere where we reside and how unsafe it can be. Also, I assessed how often and many people take daily levels of comfort for granted.

I would love to never worry about my drink if it's out of sight, but I know, I'll never be able to. I would relish to tell my future kids that they can share food and that it's no big deal, but I can't.

There is a reason I've been forced to proceed uniquely since this event. Maybe part of it is because I'm an acutely sensitive person already. However, sometimes I wonder if that gives some an extra incentive to try and do damage knowing it will wreak havoc. Maybe, it's all too easy to get a result.

Mostly, I learned to trust no one and who can blame me?

My chips were down and alas, that prevented someone who saw an opportunity to make me hurt more from moving on to another. They chose me as Mr. Z said,"they knew you were already sick." That heartless statement alone, caused me to question everything I knew about humanity. Where was the mercy, goodness and compassion? These traits I embody unto others, yet they weren't spared for my existence.

I'm grateful that I survived, but pained by reminders. A little remnant on my hand protrudes and although, it's barely visible, I know why it's there. I know I didn't want it. I know I did nothing to cause it.

In my own way, I will never wholly understand this experience, but feel fortunate that my supernatural faith emancipated me. Also, I appreciate how many won't grasp this. How can they?

However, I've been given a second chance for some unknown reason and for that I am blessed. And rightfully so; I'm doggedly determined not to let anyone ever drug me again. Which leads me to ask those who didn't undergo what I have: "Can you honestly tell meyou'd have done any differently if you were me?"