Damage Control
Confessions of a blackout drunk
The moment the glass touches my lips, I enter a portal into another dimension. The person who is writing this, the “me” who I think I am, isn’t able to access the goings-on of the “other dimension” me. She is free to wander this earth as her own entity. I have no control over what she does, what she says, or what she thinks.
I shouldn’t be held responsible for her actions, but unfortunately, I will be. It seems her wants and needs are different from mine, based on the little evidence I have of her existence. I have no access to memories of her. When I return to my “me” state of consciousness, I lose her totally. Although, when I say “me” or “I”, I actually I don’t even know who the fuck it is I’m referring to. I am a stranger to myself, in all forms of consciousness.
Mornings are spent searching for clues, I play detective in my own real-life mystery. Always waking up in a panic, it’s a huge relief if I discover that I’m home, in my bed. Blind without my contact lenses, I feel around in the sheets, searching for my phone, hoping that it’s the only thing I find.
I’m impressed how the “other dimension me” never loses anything. Phone, keys, credit cards, drugs, purse, cigarettes, clothes, everything is usually in it’s right place. I feel proud of her for this fact. She must be obsessive-compulsive, like me. I scroll through the phone, trying to figure out her whereabouts, and who she was talking to, like a suspicious lover, terrified of what I might find. She makes a lot of calls.
It seems pretty obvious that she doesn’t like to be alone, which is interesting, because I only want to be alone. She calls people that I have sworn off, and promised myself I’d never be caught dead with, for the rest of my days. She stays on FaceTime with Dan P. for three hours. I wonder what they talk about. Its highly likely that he too, is in his “other dimension” state of self, and they are having a conversation that will never be known in our realm.
Sometimes, people message me to ask if I’m okay. Eric, another guy I thought I was done with, tells me that she called him crying, and told him that she doesn’t want to be alive anymore. I try to laugh it off, but I can’t help but worry about what she might do, behind my back, without my knowledge.
When I try to break it off with Brett, he wails, “but you told me you loved me!” This is a shock to me.
