This is a bit sad

[NotAllThere]

When I was a teenager I had a blackout at a party, through drink. Apparently I was quite coherent and behaving relatively normally. I just have no recollection of what I did. One moment I was in the garden, then next, I was sitting on the sofa, having lost about 2 hours.

It happened a few times after that I've had to piece together what happened the night before, but never an actual blackout since.

I stopped drinking heavily quite a while ago and hope I never get into the habit again.

[SueEllen]

I thought I'd read that quote somewhere else...

You have a few times.

The Mail is a bit late on this one.

[Gumbo Robot]

Oh she's still trying to pedal her book around. It was mentioned in some the other papers last year.

Anyway the long and short of it is she is an alcoholic.

I thought I'd read that quote somewhere else...

[SueEllen]

Oh she's still trying to pedal her book around. It was mentioned in some the other papers last year.

Anyway the long and short of it is she is an alcoholic.

[Gumbo Robot]

When men are in a blackout, they do things to the world. When women are in a blackout, things are done to them.

Personally, I find the whole concept of waking up and not remembering what you did the night before very disturbing.

I'm sure quite a few of us have been there though.

[vetran]

Blackouts: A writer reflects on the drunken blackouts that stole huge chunks of her 20s and 30s | Daily Mail Online

'How did I end up in a stranger’s bed?': A writer reflects on the drunken blackouts that stole huge chunks of her 20s and 30s

I’m in Paris for work, which is exactly as great as it sounds. I eat dinner at a fancy restaurant and drink cognac — the booze of kings and rap stars.

Somewhere near midnight, I tumble into a cab with my friend and the night starts to stutter and skip. How did we get back so fast?

I walk through the front door of my hotel alone. I exchange a few pleasantries with the concierge, a bit of theatre to prove I’m not too drunk.

The last thing I hear is my heels, steady as a metronome, echoing through the lobby. And then there is nothing.

This happens to me sometimes; a curtain falling in the middle of the act, leaving minutes and sometimes hours in the dark. But anyone watching me wouldn’t notice.

I don’t know how much time I lose in this darkness or what takes place. When the curtain lifts again, this is what I see: there is a bed.

The lights are low. Sheets are wrapped around my ankles. I’m on top of a man I’ve never seen before, and we’re having sex.

Can this be right? It’s as if the universe dropped me into someone else’s body. I wonder if I should be worried, but I’m not.

I don’t mean to suggest I’m brave. I mean to suggest that you could break a piece of plywood over my head and I would smile, nod and keep going.

The guy isn’t bad-looking.

‘You really know how to wear a guy out,’ he says.

It seems unfair that he should know me and I don’t know him, but I’m unsure of the etiquette.

‘I should go,’ I tell him.