stranger self

I have been thoroughly and most convincingly divorced from the lumpish, unhappy and jealous self I saw in the old home videos from twelve years ago. What startles me, though, is that I cannot remember how I felt, so how can I guard against once more sinking back into the couch, leaning forward so my hair covers my face? I can't atone for those failings, and I can't communicate back to who I was to warn, clawing at the soft arms and sad face, that I should stop, and hold steady, because it's true--I beg, on behalf of a dozen years onward and the stranger I did become--that with this poison, I am being held accountable for the actions of a miserable alien.