SELECTIVE AMNESIA

I Love The Nights I Can’t Remember With The Friends I Can’t Forget.

I saw this saying on a card not too long ago, and it made me smile. I purchased it and gave it to a close friend, with a warm note about how much I appreciated having her in my life. Looking back on it now, I realize how completely self-delusional and idiotic a statement of friendship that was.

I Love The Nights I Can’t Remember…

One of the calling cards of alcoholism is the selective amnesia that comes with drinking. I’d remember things in soft focus, with a warm nostalgia akin to sharing a glass of a fine vintage bourbon with an equally fine, vintage friend. I loved to recall those laugh until you cry moments, euphoric dancing under the glow of inebriation and disco lights, and the uniquely gregarious camaraderie shared when everyone at a party is three cocktails in.

But in the throes of a particularly brutal hangover — when my greatly diminished brain matter becomes an angry, pounding maelstrom of regret — I would think to myself, hmm…this sensation isn’t so great. Also — while cleaning up either the literal or figurative mess a night of debauchery left behind — I might actually catch myself questioning if it was worth the fallout.

This is the time, when one is drinking to excess, that progressive amnesia kicks in. During the reckoning phase, the bad seems exponentially worse than the good - which is probably why so many people swear off drinking on Sunday or Monday morning. But over time, the bad stuff tends to fade. Conversely, the good stuff somehow becomes more palatable, and infinitely better looking in the rear view mirror of time.

The Nights I Can’t Remember…

In addition to progressive amnesia, type A drinkers like myself (go big or go home), have also probably had more than a few go-rounds with acute amnesia — a.k.a., black-outs. I liked the saying on the card so much because it turned something scary and depressing into something soft and fluffy.

In case you are thinking that black-out means simply passing out, let me assure you — it is far more disturbing than that. It is as if someone, or something, temporarily has possession of your body, and when you finally get back inside yourself, you haven’t the slightest idea what happened while you were away.

Over the past few years, my black-outs were coming with increasing frequency, probably a couple of times a month. Apparently my brain was getting sick and tired of passively watching as I slowly fermented it in a constant stew of red wine. It finally decided enough is enough, and started simply turning out the lights and going to bed without me. Hippocampus Out.

That’s when the mayhem would begin in earnest.

I might have been possessed by a Werewolf — howling at the moon, sprouting fangs, saying fuck you to decorum, and fuck yes to my most base animal instincts. The ashes of the bridges my inner wolf burned along the way…well those would be for the other person to clean up — namely me. I would be the one to awaken a few hours later — maybe in my bed, maybe not — shaking and terrified.

I also might have been possessed by another creature — The Pod Person. Again, aptly using a horror film analogy, (think Invasion of the Body Snatchers), I would later learn that this Pod Person was quite good at concealing its identity. It could carry on relatively normal conversations with my friends, eat fried chicken at 2 am (a tell-tale clue being waking up to find a drumstick tangled up in my hair), and somehow even manage to put on my pajamas before going to bed.

I’m not sure which one is worse.

Inevitably, when my long-suffering brain wearily clicked back on, I would find myself desperately grasping for some handhold, anything — even if it was just a brief, fuzzy snippet in time. At least that would be a starting point to work off of. But I would find nothing — just a deep, dark silence.

Progressive amnesia allowed me to drink far beyond my personal tipping point, when the negatives began to outweigh the positives. But the sheer terror of acute amnesia was what finally convinced me to set down the wine glass about a month ago.

It hasn’t been easy, but every day my self-induced brain fog continues to dissipate. The spell I’ve been under for years is gradually losing its potency. I know it will be with me forever — just waiting for even the slightest weakening of my resolve —but I’m trying very hard not to repeat my past mistakes.

Life is far too precious to fast forward through entire episodes of it. Even if the episode is painful to watch, it’s still an integral part of the big picture. I would also hate to accidentally fast forward through an especially amazing or beautiful episode in my life. I find that I am infinitely more present now.

Think of life like a giant puzzle…and how screwed you would feel to discover, upon its completion, that important pieces of it have been lost forever. These days, I want all of my puzzle pieces — the good, the bad, the ugly.

With The Friends I Can’t Forget…

After all, what is the purpose of all of us being here — struggling, exalting, fighting, loving, living and dying together on this wonderful blue planet — if not to make real connections? To rejoice — even in the storm — at our shared humanity?

So this is what I choose…to no longer hide in the shadow of addiction - but instead to finally step out into the full, crystalline light of day and bask in this life’s exquisite, terrifying beauty.