When I left the bathroom at my sister’s place on the night of December 30, 2017, I had the distinct feeling that nothing would ever be the same again. In more ways than I could possibly imagine or guess at the time, I was right.
I decided I would go to the couch, sit next to my wife, try to watch the movie and act “Normal,” though I was rapidly losing track or what that meant as I continued to sink deeper and deeper into the feeling of being completely disconnected from this current moment and uncomfortably aware of the infinite multitude of possible alternate realities surrounding me. I did watch the movie, though now “I, Tanya” took on a strangely suggestive tone for some reason, seeming to indicate through its entire premise and storytelling method that it, too, was acutely aware of the multitude of possibilities, outcomes, and alternative ways that this, like any story, could turn out. It was almost as if we were in on a joke together, “I, Tanya” and me, secretly laughing at the cosmic joke of our existence and the complete happenstance of it all. For a moment in that realization I felt a sense of relief that someone else, albeit a movie, or the creators of that movie, or the actors, or whoever, understood what I was going through in that moment.
That moment was interrupted, however, by the sound of my 1-year-old son crying on the baby monitor. After a few cries, the movie was paused and my wife, Dahlia, stood up to go upstairs and tend to him. In that moment, acutely and almost painfully aware of the strangeness of everything I was experiencing, I stood up too, said quietly, “I’ll go too,” grabbed Dahlia‘s hand tightly and tentatively followed her upstairs. To say that I was having trouble keeping my balance wouldn’t be entirely accurate – it was more like I felt almost completely untethered from my physical body and experience, hanging on by the tiniest of threads, and I needed Dahlia‘s hand to remind myself that I was indeed still in this moment and connected to my physical being.
When we got to the top of the stairs I pulled Dahlia close to me and whispered, “I think I’m having a panic attack!” Which was true to the extent that I had no idea what was happening to me or what I was experiencing, it was beginning to terrify me, and I was indeed panicking that this might be something very, very bad, beyond my otherworldly interpretation of what was happening. She asked me to explain, and I believe I mumbled something about feeling weird and not knowing what was going on, though my mind was beginning to race at that point, and along with everything else it was becoming increasingly difficult to focus on things I wanted to say, or even form the words in my mouth. She said she had to go in to Jimmy and nurse him, even though I didn’t want to be left alone, but she said she’d be right back, so I sat in a huddled corner near the door to our/Jimmy’s room at the top of the stairs.
After what felt like quite a long time, Dahlia walked out of the room, walked me carefully back downstairs and sat me on the couch. It was then that she and I decided it was time to inform my sister and brother in law what was happening. I did my best to explain, though again talking was becoming increasingly difficult… I mentioned things like “Time” and “reality,” and I kept saying something to the effect that everything was going to be alright, and that the people in this room were the ones I would most want to share this experience with, and that someday I’d be able to explain this all much better and I’d tell them all about it. This was all true of my thinking at the time – I was feeling incredibly optimistic about the whole situation and I did indeed want to share it with my family as best I could.
At some point I asked for (or found on my own) my work notebook where I keep track of all my current projects. I was having so many interesting thoughts at such an incredible rate that I wanted to write them all down so that I wouldn’t forget. They all felt incredibly profound and insightful at the time. I did indeed write down many, many of these thoughts and ideas, but looking back at them now they are almost impossible to decipher. But I continued to write and write, and occasionally say various strange things to my family. Apparently I would also occasionally enter a state where I closed my eyes very tight and held them closed for long periods of time, and I would not respond to anyone when they tried to rouse me…
I vaguely remember all of this occurring, and I remember the times when I was unresponsive: in these moments is when I felt very similar to my first strange experience in the bathroom in that I felt time and experience splitting apart, much more intensely every time, with alternate versions of my life and experience seeming to flash like lightning around me, making it impossible to focus on the here and now. That’s what I remember, and when my family would finally break through my stupor and bring me back, every time this happened I felt as though I had been gone for an indescribably long period of time.
Where at first I had embraced it to a degree and was curious in some ways about it, as it happened again and again with increasing intensity every time, I started to just want it to stop, as though I was trapped on a horrible, mind-bending amusement park ride that continued over and over again to circle by the exit, but the insane operator in charge refused to let me off. I also had the realization, possibly most disturbingly of all I had experienced, that in this out of control tailspin through reality and time, I had no idea if I would ultimately land back in this reality of the here and now, or if I might possibly find myself conscious in some other, alternate existence, in which everything I knew and loved, my son, my wife, all my family and all of my life as I knew it might completely vanish and I might not even remember them when I finally “landed” with all of this. This prospect terrified me above all else, and it then very quickly became my primary goal to STOP this from happening. I WANTED, more than anything I’ve ever wanted in my life, to REMAIN being myself, in THIS reality, with everything that this may mean. I wanted off the ride, and I wanted it to be at THIS stop, MY stop.
The Absolute Center of Everything 