Becoming the Blackouts

It’s day 15 and I don’t know where I am or what I am doing. I woke here in a daze, not remembering how I got here or who I was. I got here and I was alone in the dark and I was feeling depressed and scared and tipsy and so many other feelings.

I puked on myself, then got up and left, searching for direction and trying not to just wander aimlessly this time.

I tried, once. I tried to get the world to understand that I wasn’t lying about the shift.

But first, I had to to stop going on those benders.

15 days? Fifteen fucking days? I was out and about and gone and lost and so many other things for that long, and I remember none of it. I wake up and it takes several minutes, sometimes hours for the fog in my head to clear.

Sometimes I wonder if I’m lost in a machine. Sometimes I wonder if I am a machine, or powering one, just a giant copper top in the Matrix, letting the world own me and tell me what is real even though I have never experienced it.

Sometimes I wonder if I am going around like the Incredible Hulk,some green monster that is just trying to find his way and just trying to not get angry.

Sometimes I ownder if I am a schizo, or a mulitple personality, some fucking whackjob that or whatever you would call that nowadways.

I wonder, but I don’t know. But I have a plan.

I am going to record myself. The only hitch is that I have to know when it is going to come over me, to take over me. And I never know.

It’s not a drunk binge, you see. Not that at all. It’s not drugs, it’s none of that but it’s all of that. It’s my life in a box, it’s pencil shavings falling from the rotary sharpener onto the floor of my third grade classsroom.

It’s a slice of life, a moment in time, thoughts blinking in and out. All I had were slices, and the slices just get shorter and fewer.

It didn’t happen again for three months and I was getting complacent, so much so that I missed it when it happened again. I didn’t catch it and didn’t set the timer to record. Jesus, I’m setting a fucking VCR on myself to record myself to see what I am.

You have to let go in order to hold, they say. You have to be weak in order to be strong, they say. I think it’s all a load of double-speak bullshit, that’s what I think; I think it’s all a fucking steaming pile and I think it’s going to come tumbling down like a deck of fucking cards.

But this time, this time it was longer. I know, you know, from keeping the date on my dead watch manually set in the mornings. I gave up on recording the blackouts, so I just time them now. I don’t know actually, if my alter ego knows what I do, or if I’m distinct and discrete and I didn’t know where it started from and how the idea came but all I know is that I know. I check by my watch, and it’s always right.

Always right.

Like that time I was in my friend’s house and I tried to look up the skirt of her friend and got caught. I denied it. But it was true, and there was no denying. It’s the same, it’s true and there’s no denying, and I caught myself in the act.

That time it was 34 days. The next time it was 42. Then 77. I don’t know who I am anymore, and it seems like I’ve switched roles and the me that I am now is only the me I am now in short bursts and the me that is him is the me that’s becoming. The me that’s being me and the me that I want to be, I think, or so I want to think. That someone is becoming and I am fading, and now we’ve reversed roles *I* am the blackouts.

3 thoughts on “Becoming the Blackouts”

  1. this was great how you captured the unsettling nature of his predicament and I liked how you switched it at the end so that the blackout state was the ‘normal’ him and the conscious one the aberration

  2. Thanks again, Marc.

    I have to admit that I don’t always know how the story will end when I start writing, but I had been teasing my kids about being forced into switching places the other day, switching places and having to be stuck until you can find someone else to switch with you.

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