Dear Blackout,
You had me running up to cars past midnight, my mom in my right ear — sitting eight hours away — while I begged strangers to get me an Uber because I couldn’t control my own mind. I’d abandoned my car somewhere I wouldn’t find until morning, when I’d retrace my steps with another Uber driver using my phone’s location from the night before.
“Me and you both don’t know what we’re about to pull up on,” I told my driver that morning, a sickness boiling in the pit of my stomach, adrenaline still high.
We pulled up to find my 1996 Buick Century parked diagonal in the corner of an apartment complex lot, half on the curb, half in the lines.
You showed up more often than I’d like to admit — the drunk drives, the long belligerent nights, the many yards I’d almost sleep in.
The strangers who’d carry me back into safety.
My mom, who sat in my ear, whose time froze each time I lost mine.
The soiled sheets, the broken distances, the false revivals.
You arrived like a dare.
You left like a shame.
It’s almost grotesque that you exist at all. How did I ever let you strip me of awareness? You twisted faces, bent stories, pushed words out of my mouth I would never have spoken sober.
You manipulated me with every second you consumed.
Who was I when I was with you?
The first time I blacked out, I thought it was strange, almost fascinating. But fascination gave way to fear. How do you explain something you know happened but can never remember? You were a thief, taking pieces of me I’ll never get back.
You ripped me of my dignity and invented an alter-person inside me — someone less kind, unfair, unaccountable, with esteem buried six feet deep, unable to tell right from toxic.
Shame on you for trying to destroy my canvas.
How could you do that to me? You were supposed to keep me occupied, happy.
You weren’t supposed to make me miss so many hours of my life.
And yet, I remember enough now. Enough to know I will never let you write another night for me.
Forever and always,
CJ
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