Enemy of the Fugue State

I was bopping around downtown, feeling sad for various reasons, when, after a mere two drink, I suddenly found myself catapulted into what has always been (for me) my riskiest psychological state. It happened slowly, and then all at once. I looked in the mirror, and *boom* out of nowhere – it was happening again. Another dissociative episode.

Ugh, fantastic.

I saw myself in the mirror, and I said to myself, “Damn. I’m hot. Bet I could fuck anyone I wanted.” And, while, sure, yeah, I think that to myself on a daily basis, this was different. It was coupled with this feeling like my consciousness had crash landed like a stranger in a strange land. Like an alien arrival. I saw myself, and I knew, “I can do this. I can be this person in this body.”

I walked out of the bathroom feeling rich because of course this dissociative state has been galvanized by a hypomanic episode. I felt like I could see through every person in the room, like a fucking super power – I knew they were all transparent and held nothing inside them. I felt like a lion in a room full of marks, with gold plated fangs and an ass fantastic.

Having a dissociative episode is weirdly like taking a vacation from yourself and then also becoming someone else, but that someone else you’ve become is now doing their best impersonation of the person you used to be, and you can only hope that those two things sync up. Could you imagine just waking up in someone else’s body and based on the physical cues do your best to pass off as them? When I’m in a dissociative state, I don’t always hit the nail on the head unfortunately. I wonder if the people who know me could sense it, or maybe they thought that I was just drunk and high on blow or some shit. Who knows. I’m definitely not going to ask.

Feeling that way always reduces me down to my most base desires: eat, fuck, sleep. Except, the hypomania eliminated the need to eat and sleep, so fuck it was. Pretty sure I wrote a whole blog about that, so let’s just gloss over the dirty details and land back at something slightly more salubrious.

I was a couple days into dissociating when my article came out in the paper. My picture was next to it, too, and for some reason that was the scariest part of the dissociative episode (somehow the binge drinking was not that scary by comparison). It was scary because I had this foreboding feeling, like I was going to open the paper and see my face and read my article and not know who the fuck that person is or why that person said those things. (Sure, it’s entirely possible that this whole episode was stress induced. I’ll accept this.) I was afraid I’d break in half, like I’d know for sure that I wasn’t the person whose picture was in the paper and my mind might explode.

Luckily, I opened the paper and saw myself, and while it didn’t quite look like me, I read the article and thought, “Yeah, I can be that person. Or not. It’s fine.” Which is the most that I can ask for right now because lately every day I ask myself when I wake up, “Who am I?” And all I can think is, “Don’t know, don’t care.”

Maybe one day I’ll figure it out, but until then I’m going to be driving this body around town doing whatever the fuck I want. As usual.

 

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