The Sunday after I turned 21, I got phenomenally wasted, on vodka and cranberries. I didn't really have a particular reason for it--I was hanging out in militantgeek
's dorm room and we were watching tv and I just kept drinking alcohol and I woke up stark naked in my own bed the next morning with no idea of how I'd gotten there and stumbled out to my 8:30 Latin class.
I later pulled bits and pieces of what had happened that evening together from Dani and El's stories and mockery--I'd thrown up at some point and apparently went on and on about exactly how physically attractive oliviacirce
was. (We'd been together for almost exactly three months at that point. Bless!) But that's it, that's all I have of that evening, just a few stories and a vague queasiness about the thought of vodka and a desire never to repeat the experience.
Except... last night I repeated the experience. Again, I'm unsure why. Well, I know why I started drinking--I was getting all the chametz out of my apartment, and that was *good booze* and I hadn't found a pesach goy to sell it to in time so I'd might as well drink some of it before putting it out on the curb. And I know that when I start drinking I often *keep drinking*--the feeling of being drunk gives me this unpleasant itch, it's precisely the opposite effect of my ADD meds, and I can't hold still, I have to get it out by moving around a lot or talking loudly and fast. Or I have to deaden it with more alcohol. But I don't know why, in what was a pretty conscious echo of the previous Sunday, I kept drinking past the point of oblivion, why I drunk to the point of blackout for only the second time in my life.
And once again there's a gap in my head where a period of wakefulness was. But unlike the first time, I have transcripts of that missing hour or so. My skim from this morning tells me that they are pretty much the most humiliating set of chat transcripts I've ever taken part in, and I'm both horrified and captivated by their existence. I want to run away and hide and never know that those conversations happened (or really, for those conversations never to have happened). And yet the idea of them just sitting there haunts me. It's like a scab I want to pick at, equal parts painful and captivating.
And it's nice, having the capability of filling in those gaps of my consciousness, but at the same time it's existentially terrifying to look at a screen and see words that claim to be from you, but are timestamped an hour after you thought you'd gone to sleep. A variation on Berkeley's tree keeps running through my head--if a conversation happens but everybody is blacked out for it, did it really happen? But the gchat archives are just sitting there, just like Berkeley's all-knowing, all-seeing G-d tracking every tree in every forrest.
Chag sameach, to my friends who are celebrating. So far my Passover experience has been a lot more Noahide than Moshianic*--here's hoping I make the progression this week.
* Evidently the correct adjective for "of or relating to Moses" is "Mosaic" but I reject it for its resemblance to a noun I associate largely with the Byzantine Empire and an out-of-date web browser.