November 17, 2014: Today marks the 20-year anniversary of the day one of Harlan Ellison’s ubiquitous monsters with teeth came into my life
Her name was Dawn H., I was seven months sober when I met her. She was not in AA. We met through the personal ads in the Wichita Eagle. I was 31, and she was 38, an older MILF with a smoking-hot stripper body. She spent an hour working out in the gym before she went off to teach at a nearby elementary school and another two hours in the evening after class.
When I crawled into the sacred rooms of Alcoholics Anonymous, I jumped into this God thing wholeheartedly. I was terrified. As Step One states, my life had become unmanageable.
At the same time, I had a lot of trepidation about turning my will and my life over to the care of a Higher Power as I understood Him/Her/It. Did I really want to be powerless before God? Could I relinquish my will and my life? What if God’s will for me was to be a soft, mushy, chewable assclown? What if God wanted to take away all of my strength and all of my fighter’s spirit?
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The doctors have a name for it: confabulation. The filling in gaps in memory by unconstrained fabrication.
In the latter half of the 19th Century, there was this Russian psychiatrist named Sergei Sergeyevich Korsakov observed this behavior in chronic alcoholics. Most often, these patients resorted to imagination to compensate for irregular memory loss and impaired ability to acquire new information.
The phenomenon is called Korsakov's psychosis.
Listen: most of this blog is true ...