If you woke up at some point in recent weeks with the disconcerting sense that you had pulled an extreme triple reverse Rip van Winkle and found yourself back in the Seventies, well, you’ll find no comfort here.

All of a sudden, Susan Atkins, Mackenzie Phillips and Roman Polanski have been forced back into the public consciousness — not that there’s anything wrong with that — but it does tell us how far we’ve come and that is to say, not very far at all.

The first disconcerting, though not discomfiting, event was the passing of one Susan Atkins in the happy confines of a California penitentiary. Happy, of course, for the rest of us who for the last four decades didn’t need to look over our collective shoulders wondering whether Susan Atkins might be lurking somewhere, dining utensil in hand.

Atkins was a Manson girl, which is to say, a murderess.

She was a participant in the killings of a pregnant actress and seven others — the so-called Tate-LaBianca murders — in 1969 and would have died in ignominy but for the refusal of old crimes to give up their perpetrators.

The trials of Charlie Manson and his family, including Susan Atkins, occupied much of the 1970s and even now simply will not die.

Atkins’ criminal accomplishment, for instance, was excitedly lauded by Bernadine Dohrn, who declared “Dig it! First they killed those pigs, then they ate dinner in the same room with them, they even shoved a fork into a victim’s stomach! Wild!”

Bernadine Dohrn is now better known for as an honored resident of Barack Obama’s old Chicago neighborhood, along with her husband, wannabe bomber William Ayers.

Atkins’ response to revelations that actress Mackenzie Phillips at 19 was raped by and then willingly slept frequently with, her father, which came out late last week ago, is not known, in that Atkins finally checked out a week ago from the Ironbar Hotel California.

Phillips had largely disappeared since she first showed up in a movie, “American Graffiti,” and then was a regular in a Seventies sitcom, “One Day at a Time.”

She then largely disappeared, only to bob up now in a weird, bad-LSD-trip kind of way.

So, of course, has Roman Polanski, though for entirely different reasons. Polanski thought he could remain safely below the radar in France, but his ego got the best of him and he ventured into Switzerland to accept an award and was promptly arrested.

Passing lightly over the criminal ignominy of being arrested by the Swiss, we know that Polanski is waiting, we hope, uncomfortably in a Swiss jail for his extradition to LaLa Land to face charges in connection with raping a 13-year-old girl.

What was it with ’70s geezers and teenie-boppers anyway?

Polanski fled LA in 1977 after pleading guilty in connection with the incident and wouldn’t even return to the Golden State to gather up an Oscar.

Now it seems possible he’ll share a cell with one, if there is a God with a sense of humor.

Polanski’s arrest gave us the opportunity to hear incisive commentary from razor-sharp minds such as that of Whoopi Goldberg, who let it be known that a 44-year-old man plying a 13-year-old with champagne and Quaaludes does not amount to “rape-rape.”

One almost surmises that had Polanski consulted with Ted Kennedy about what to do with inconvenient females, he would be on the receiving end of a presidential medal of some sort instead of a governor’s warrant.

Not that it’s out of the question, even now.