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“Do you think you got roofied?” my friend asked me. Once, I’d got so blasted at a party, I woke up in a dog’s bed, in someone else’s house. Sometimes they wondered aloud what being unattached in their 30s would be like, careening around the city at 2am. Most of my friends were married by this point. These were the responses I got from female friends when I told them about my drunken escapades. “I had sex with some random dude and woke up on a leaking air mattress,” I texted my friend Stephanie.Īwesome. The best evenings were the ones you might regret. I wanted stories, and I understood drinking to be the fuel of all adventure. This was the kind of excitement I wanted from a single life in New York, the kind of excitement I was hoping to find when I left Texas at the age of 31. “Do not go home with that guy,” she said, and I said, “I promise.” Then I went back into the bar and he ordered us another round. The last thing I remembered was talking to my friend Lisa the night before. One morning, I woke up in the living room of a good-looking guy’s apartment. In fact, I had a different drinking problem, although I wouldn’t have used the word “problem”, at least not without air quotes. Every once in a while, motherly types (including my actual mother) worried I might be vulnerable to this invisible menace. This was 2007, but I’d been hearing about roofies since the late 1990s: odourless, colourless substances dropped into a drink to erase memory, like something out of a sci-fi movie. I remember one segment about “roofies”, or date rape drugs. I watched talk shows about all the things that could secretly harm me: my soap, my boyfriend, my diet. I was a freelance writer, which meant I spent most days hungover in front of the TV. But for the blackout drinker, it’s the question that launches another shitty Saturday. In literature, it’s the question that launches grand journeys, because heroes are often dropped into deep, dark jungles and forced to machete their way out. As I lie in the crook of his arm, I have so many questions. So I stay with the stranger in the shadows of a room I do not recognise, looking out on to a city that is not my home. It seems unfair that he should know me and I don’t know him, but I’m unsure of the etiquette.
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“You really know how to wear a guy out,” he says. I mean to suggest you could break a piece of plywood over my head, and I would smile, nod, and keep going. I wonder if I should be worried right now, but I’m not scared. I collapse beside him and weave my legs through his. It’s as if the universe dropped me into someone else’s body. Can this be right? I’m having sex with a man, and I’ve never seen him before. 'For the blackout drinker, it’s the question that launches another shitty Saturday. I’m on top of a guy I’ve never seen before, and we’re having sex. Sheets are wrapped around my ankles, soft and cool against my skin. When the curtain lifts again, this is what I see: there is a bed, and I’m on it.
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I don’t know how much time I lose in this darkness. But if you’re like me, you know the thunderbolt of waking up to discover a blank space where pivotal scenes should be. Maybe you are one of those lucky people who can slurp your whisky all afternoon and never disappear. Maybe you’re a moderate drinker who baby-sips two glasses of wine and leaves every party at a reasonable hour. It’s possible you don’t know what I’m talking about. They’d simply see a woman on her way to somewhere else, with no idea her memory just snapped in half.
A curtain falling in the middle of the act, leaving minutes and sometimes hours in the dark.