I read myself in books
from Joyce Carol Oates' We Were the Mulvaneys:
It was around that time I drifted from the party, needing to escape for a few minutes. I wasn't drunk, but my head was ringing like the cowbell.
Walking blindly in this place I knew to be my mom's new home but which I didn't exactly recognize like one of those dreams in which a landscape is subtly yet irrevocably altered. Thinking If this is another time, then who am I? I'd gotten to be proud of myself for the personality I'd built, piece by piece like shingling a roof. Precisely overlapping, imbricating to prevent water damage. Not that I'd allow Mom to boast about me in my presence, so young! already editor of a newspaper! nor did I give any thought to my professional accomplishments, such as they were. But I'd built a damned sturdy personality for myself, damned if I was going to dismantle it.