I’ve had a consistent companion: Shiraz. Two bottles a day, roughly 1–9pm. It’s a rhythm I’ve fallen into — not because I’m in denial, not because I’m out of control, but because it works for me. Mostly.
I’m healthy. I haven’t been sick in close to a decade. I function well, I work professionally, I live independently, and I’ve weathered enough storms to know what’s really hurting me and what isn’t.
That said, I’m also aware of something peculiar — I simply don’t remember. I can hold conversations, make dinner, send emails, but the next morning those hours are often blank. Though strangely, when something out of the ordinary happens — a visitor, a surprise call, a change in routine — I remember. It’s as if my memory only records disruption, not routine.
I compare it to the way I used to fall asleep twenty years ago — drifting off during the news, fading out after a predictable evening conversation.
Of course, I’ve been told this is bad — unhealthy, dangerous, addictive. Maybe. But those words don’t quite fit how it feels from the inside. I feel functional. Present. Self-aware. I know what I’m doing, and why. This form of unconsciousness hasn’t destroyed my life; it’s accompanied me through it. It makes things feel softer, less jagged. More balm than bomb.
Still, I’m curious. Am I ready to stop? Am I ready to observe more closely? To wonder: What am I avoiding? What am I missing out on? What might I remember if I changed the way I engaged with this pattern, even slightly?
This isn’t a confessional. It’s not a cry for help or a declaration of recovery. It’s simply an honest reflection on my unique relationship with my unconsciousness — complex, consistent and, for now, continuing.
