Blink
“I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead;
I lift my lids and all is born again.
(I think I made you up inside my head.)
The stars go waltzing out in blue and red, And arbitrary blackness gallops in…”
~Sylvia Plath, “Mad Girl’s Love Song”
I don’t recall when it all started. Wait, that’s not true.
One morning I woke up, and a voice in my head told me something remarkable. Then I vividly recalled everything that happened.
First, something had compelled me to blink. Hard. But that morning, I kept my eyes shut for a heartbeat longer than usual. When I opened my eyes again, things had changed. The bright sunlit sky was tinged red-pink, and the trees and grass were…blue. Huh?
Blink.
Shit, am I still asleep?!
Pure darkness. Somehow, I knew why. I didn’t survive when my mother dropped me on my head as a baby. Panic flushed my senses.
Blink.
I’m a rockstar, standing on stage, facing a huge crowd screaming at me, flashbulbs going off with regularity, the thrum of amplifiers still pulsing over my skin. Baffling. I wanted to stick around, find a way to observe, but was much more curious to know if there might be a pattern or parameters to this sudden phenomenon.
So, I blinked again, rapidly.
Blinkblinkblink.
But nothing changed that I could see. The crowd was getting rowdy, that’s for sure.
Blink.
I’m lying on the floor of a smelly, derelict house, a crack den, spaced out souls surrounding me, some of whom are unconscious, maybe even dead. I didn’t want to linger here.
Blink.
I’m in bed, but not my bed, a different one. It’s a spacious, lovely four poster bed. A bed straight out of my dreams. The sun’s shining, and a rooster is crowing. I’m living on a sizable farm, married to a farmer, with four kids. Chores need to be done. I’m panicking because I overslept. But I’m… I’m happy. But before I could stop myself, I did it again.
Blink.
Again, pure darkness, and I couldn’t breathe. I’m in a universe where life never developed on Earth, as the sun went supernova a millennia ago.
Blink.
I’m in a padded room wearing a straitjacket. I’m drugged. My mind is muddled, murky. I stare at the floor for several heartbeats, but then, slowly, I do it again.
Blink.
I’m lying on the ground inside a… a cave, I think. Humans never evolved and Neanderthals have thrived. A huge bear hovers over me, growling, a challenge for dominance.
Blink.
I’m in a large room stuffed to the rafters with beds, some empty, others containing people barely conscious. A voice blares from a loudspeaker. “Arbeit macht frei” is repeated every five seconds or so. I’m in a world where the Nazis won.
Blink.
I’m an only child.
Blink.
Darkness again. I’m in a universe with no visible spectrum.
Blink.
I’m lying on a platform, gauzy curtains surrounding me, blowing in a slight wind. The sound of chirping birds is combined with soft laughter, and then I hear a voice, “Good morning, my goddess.” I’m startled to see someone lying in bed next to me. Not a man, but a… devil? No, a… tiefling? He’s a horned, male figure with long black hair and glowing eyes, a wide smile on his face. His skin is dark, blood red. He’s muscular, beautiful. The whole scene is like something out of a fairy tale. I’m a fae deity, well-worshipped, sated, loved. For the first time I made a substantial effort not to blink, but apparently even goddesses need to blink, because despite my best efforts, my eyes started to water and burn. The tiefling at my elbow expressed concern. “Aine?!? Love? What’s the matter?” I wanted to fall into his arms. I felt tears welling and I began to shake. I wanted to stay. But even though I’m exerting considerable effort to keep my eyes open, I realized it’s no use. I smiled at him, stroked his face once, and I let it happen.
Blink.
I’ve moved beyond my curiosity. In the throes of grief, I methodically spun and wove my way through other universes. How I could perceive the truth of each one was still unknowable. To help me cope, I wondered if anything was real, not necessarily a healthy practice at that moment. The oddest questions surfaced. One led to another possible permutation. And then another.
What would happen in the absence of the British monarchy?
What would life be like if the Twin Towers never fell?
What would happen if there were no Russian revolutions, no Bolsheviks to execute the Romanov family?
What if Columbine never happened?
Why should I care? Against my better judgement, my neurodivergence pushed me forward.
Blink.
I’m a twin.
Blink.
Dinosaurs are at the top of the food chain, as the asteroid never landed on Earth.
Blink.
The colonies lost the American Revolution.
Blink.
I’m married to a woman.
Blink.
I’m in a world where Deaf culture is dominant; there are hearing enclaves, but they are ostracized.
Blink.
The Cuban Missile Crisis escalated, and Earth is now a nuclear wasteland.
Blink.
I’m in a place so odd and foreign, I couldn’t comprehend what I’ve just witnessed.
Blink.
I’m a trans man.
Blink.
I’m on the verge of carrying out a mass shooting.
Blink.
The Big Bang never happened.
Blink.
Napoleon won at Waterloo.
Blink.
Somehow, I recalled every detail of every moment as I moved throughout time and space. The collective knowledge was making my Madness worse. But what was more horrifying is how so many of these dimensions, these realities were far from repellent. They were almost desirable, preferable even. I’m compelled to do it yet again and again.
Blink.
Superheroes are real.
Blink.
The world is a cinder, the result of a massive solar flare.
I had to laugh because maybe I’m imagining all these situations. Some seemed a lot like movie plots, similar to the ones I’ve watched over the years. Coincidence? I had no clue. The continued pivots were either completely outrageous or one minor detail of my life was different. But there was no reasonable explanation as to why this started happening nor why I had instant knowledge of each universe as I travailed all of reality; how could I possibly know if I was never born or died as a baby?
Blink.
I was now back home, in my bed, alone. It’s the same bed I fell asleep in the night before, but something felt different, off. I realized the world was… too quiet. There were sounds that I should have heard: The constant noise of the highway 200 yards down the street. Dogs barking. My husband playing his video games. My son pacing the floors. After a few heartbeats, I realized why. I’m in a world where only 1% of the world’s population survived the worst of the Covid pandemic. Civilization has practically collapsed. What did I do? I blinked rapidly, again.
Blinkblinkblink.
As I expected, there was no change. What should I have done? How could I have fixed this skipping across realities? My mind slipped into the most cruel and nightmarish of thoughts. Do I… do I try to cover my eyes somehow? I thought of even worse things I might try—blinding myself, tearing my eyes out of their sockets—but I resisted all of them. Perhaps I should keep going until I could find the universe where there might be an explanation. A realistic coping mechanism. One where I don’t have to speculate nor suffer. One that will take me back to the beginning. I realized no matter what, I had no choice. I felt the urge to keep going.
I blink.
Read poetry and a review of Disability and the Superhero: Essays on Ableism and Representation in Comic Media by Rachael A. Zubal-Ruggieri in this issue of Wordgathering.
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About the Author
Rachael A. Zubal-Ruggieri (she/her/hers, they/them/theirs) is a long-time employee at Syracuse University. She co-created (with Diane R. Wiener) “Cripping” the Comic Con, the first of its kind interdisciplinary and international symposium on disability and popular culture, previously held at SU. At conferences and as a guest lecturer for many years, Rachael has presented on the X-Men comic books, popular culture, and disability rights and identities from her perspective as a Neurodivergent person and as a Mad Queer Crip. Entries in their “Micro Mutant Postcard Project” have been published in Wordgathering: A Journal of Disability Poetry and Literature and Stone of Madness. Their most recent publications include two articles (co-authored with Diane R. Wiener) in the Journal of Literary & Cultural Disability Studies‘ Special Issue, “Cripping Graphic Medicine I: Negotiating Empathy and the Lived Experiences of Disability in and through Comics” (Volume 17, Issue 3).