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.
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.