Blackout_ Remembering the Things I Drank to Forget - Sarah Hepola
I’m in Paris on a magazine assignment, which is exactly as great as it sounds. I eat dinner at a restaurant so fancy I have to keep resisting the urge to drop my fork just to see how fast someone will pick it up. I’m drinking cognac—the booze of kings and rap stars—and I love how the snifter sinks between the crooks of my fingers, amber liquid sloshing up the sides as I move it in a figure eight. Like swirling the ocean in the palm of my hand.
I’m in Paris on a magazine assignment, which is exactly as great as it sounds. I eat dinner at a
restaurant so fancy I have to keep resisting the urge to drop my fork just to see how fast someone will
pick it up. I’m drinking cognac—the booze of kings and rap stars—and I love how the snifter sinks
between the crooks of my fingers, amber liquid sloshing up the sides as I move it in a figure eight.
Like swirling the ocean in the palm of my hand.
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I threw up seven times. Hunched over <strong>the</strong> <strong>to</strong>ilet, Kimberley at my side. The Star World manager<br />
tucked me in<strong>to</strong> bed in a room upstairs. “You’re <strong>to</strong>o young <strong>to</strong> be drinking like this,” he said. He was a<br />
sweet guy, with a hangdog face, and I nodded in agreement. He was wise and ancient, twice as old as<br />
me. He was 22.<br />
The next morning I was so shaky I could barely force blueberry yogurt in my mouth. And<br />
Kimberley was asking me weird questions. “Do you remember when you <strong>to</strong>ok your pants off last<br />
night?” And I laughed, because I knew that couldn’t have happened. I wouldn’t even undress in<br />
Kimberley’s room when she was <strong>the</strong>re. I sure as hell didn’t strip off my clo<strong>the</strong>s at a Star World party.<br />
But she had <strong>the</strong> unsmiling voice of a state’s witness. “You sat at <strong>the</strong> bot<strong>to</strong>m of <strong>the</strong> steps, crying,<br />
and you said everyone loved me more than you. You don’t remember that?”<br />
I did not.<br />
It’s such a savage thing, <strong>to</strong> lose your memory, but <strong>the</strong> crazy part is, it doesn’t hurt one bit. A<br />
blackout doesn’t sting, or stab, or leave a scar when it robs you. Close your eyes and open <strong>the</strong>m<br />
again. That’s what a blackout feels like.<br />
The blackout scattered whatever pixie dust still remained from <strong>the</strong> night before, and I was<br />
spooked by <strong>the</strong> lost time. I had no idea this could happen. You could be present and not <strong>the</strong>re at all.<br />
Those first few drinks gave me hope for escape. But I knew from Stephen King s<strong>to</strong>ries how hope<br />
could boomerang on a person and what looked like an exit door turned out <strong>to</strong> be <strong>the</strong> mouth of a more<br />
dangerous maze.<br />
So I swore I’d never drink like that again. And I kept <strong>the</strong> promise for many years. I kept drinking,<br />
but not like that. Never like that. I assured myself it was a first-time drinker’s mistake. Instead, it<br />
was a blueprint.