Panic and fear shot through my bones before my brain even understood the severity of my situation. The sun was shining, the temperature was comfortable, yet the bed was unfamiliar and my head was throbbing. I was completely naked, and I was not alone.

Clearly my plans had not involved waking here under these conditions. How had I gotten here? How was I going to leave? Where did the bruises come from? Why was I sore? Where were my clothes? Who was lying next to me?

A brief phone call to my best friend resolved a few of my questions: She was peacefully asleep at her home but had driven there in my car. She had left me in this bed after I “appeared to be having a bad night.” Now, my only escape from this nightmare was to wake up the stranger beside me.

“What happened?”

“Well, if anyone asks, you took advantage of me,” he sneered. My stomach dropped. Few words were exchanged as he drove me to my car.

A nauseous, mind-fogging sickness accompanied my frightful awakening. I am no novice when it comes to alcohol and I knew that these were not the symptoms of the common hangover. Continuous stomach cramps paired themselves with a dull, rhythmic headache. My appetite abandoned me, while abnormally colored bruises appeared on my arms and legs. Google.com offered a shocking explanation: the drug GHB. As the hazy sickness rose, reality sank in. GHB + a stranger's bed – my clothes – my consciousness = date rape.

Shame, uncertainty, and fear trapped this secret inside me. Weeks seemed like years as the incident ate away at me. Before I knew it, my life spiraled out of control. My friends abandoned me, my boyfriend dumped me, my grades slipped, my dignity was stolen.

As Wynonna Judd sang, “When you hit rock bottom, you've got two ways to go: straight up. And sideways.” I chose up, but I needed help. I revealed my secret to Mr. Stewart, or Stewy, as I call him, whom I trust more than any other adult. We have developed a relationship closer than that of a typical bored student and repetitive teacher. I saw and still see Stewy as a father figure; whenever problems arise and my own father is unavailable, I turn to him. He always offers a practical solution to my problems. He's my adviser and improv comedian. Even on my gloomiest days, he knows how to coax a smile to my face.

Desperate for advice concerning the incident and a smile to chase away my tears, I turned to him again. After a tearful confession, his warm embrace assured me (for the first time in months) that everything would be okay. He convinced me to tell my parents. Though I feared their reactions, I reluctantly agreed.

To my surprise, my mother burst into tears. My father, the fearless police officer, was struck with a terror I had never seen. Neither parent admonished me for my lies or drinking. Rather, they focused on helping me. Within a week, I started seeing a counselor to learn how to cope with the incident.

Before this happened, I already had trouble trusting others. Today, it's even harder. I no longer enjoy the life of a typical high school girl – with parties, friends, and boys – because I constantly feel the need to watch over my shoulder. Trust is assured reliance in the character, ability, strength, and truth of someone. Trust is how I choose the people I surround myself with. Trust is how I plan my days. Trust now dictates my life. Trust has been hard for me, but I have learned to use it as a positive guiding tool.