I asked if he put something … different … in it. It's just strong, he said. But I was dizzy, felt like I was being pushed down by weights. I could no longer sit upright, so I found my way to the floor and started to crawl into the hallway, toward the front door.

He continued to walk around, chatting excitedly about his life, his friends, his travels. He was fine. I collapsed in the hallway, unable to move at all at this point, barely able to speak, still aware of my surroundings. He appeared over me suddenly and I managed to whisper that I couldn't move. He leaned down, picked me up and put me on the bed in the adjoining living/bedroom.

And then he kissed me. I asked him to stop, tried to move my lead limbs. He berated me for not being the person he thought I was, not being worthy of meeting his friends, not being mature enough to be in his home. Then he kissed me again.

I don't know if it was adrenalin that got me out of there, or what. All I know is, somehow I managed to get out from under him, get to my car. I drove a couple of blocks and then just sat in my car for a long time. It was 20 years before I'd go anywhere near that neighbourhood again.

I never filed any kind of complaint or report. I blamed myself for going to his place, for putting myself in that position. And even my friends at the time told me I was making too much of it.

Talking with a friend about Jian Ghomeshi, this weekend, I told him I understood why Ghomeshi's alleged victims never went to the police. My friend pointed out that every woman he knows has been victim of some form of assault or aggression.

And, indeed, the Twitter hashtag #BeenRapedNeverReported, started by former Toronto Star reporter Antonia Zerbisias, is full of stories by women who have been sexually assaulted and never went to the police.

So let's keep the conversation going, out in the open, where they can't hide. And hopefully, eventually, attitudes will start to change.

Sheryl@sherylnadler.com