The last hangover I had was on the 7th June. It was the most horrendous, painful, anxiety ridden hangover I had, had for a good five years or so. I blamed everything, and everyone but myself. I was emotional, helpless and utterly ashamed of the demonic soul I had turned into the night previous. Of course, like most times that I went hard, I had complete and utter blackout. I could not remember my physical whereabouts, and had to piece them together bit by bit. I had to use a visual treasure trail made up of receipts, empty bottles and the whereabouts of my clothes to discover where I had been and what I had done. That night and the next morning is what spurred me into my sobriety journey. I was at rock bottom. I was terrified, and I knew that morning that I never wanted to drink again.
Later that morning, I did what I love. I wrote. I wrote, to try and rid myself of the anxiety, the shame and the endless self loathing. I wrote, to take me out of the deep, dark depths of rock bottom.
This is what I wrote:
“I wake up abruptly. My hands are trembling, my heart is pounding. What did she make me do? What did she make me say? I do, what I always do. Try and piece the jigsaw together, mentally. When did I leave? Who did I see? I look on the bed beside me my clothes in a heap, wet. Oh no, I’ve done it again. I slowly manoeuvre my heavy body to have a closer look, why is it wet. It’s sick. The clumpy mass of toxic waste lies beside me for another two hours before I dare to even get up. I cannot mentally, or physically deal with the wrath of anyone right now. I drift in and out of sleep, praying for the anxiety to stop, leave my body. Please, go away. The sick is in my hair, on my pillow, and laid staring me in the face. This is my reality. I scramble in my bag to look for evidence about what we did, what I did. All I can see is a dirty mass of wet receipts, my notebook and a lipstick I have never seen before. SHIT. My phone, my keys, my purse. Where the hell are they? A hot molten lava starts to build through my body, and fury takes over my mind. I jump from the sick coated sheets, and start to tare my beautiful room apart. Would I put my phone into the wardrobe, like I did once before to stop the impulsive decision to upload my antics onto social media. No, it’s not there. I quickly run to the hallway outside of my room only wearing my pants, grab the house phone and savagely stamp in the numbers of my mobile, and lost counterpart violently into the handset. Voicemail. It’s dead.”
Today marks day 64 of my sobriety journey. Sixty-four beautiful days of freedom, inspiration and kindness. Kindness to myself. The kind of kindness, that you only give yourself, when you know you deserve it and have earned it. That’ the thing about new beginnings, they can start whenever you choose them too, and that is magical. The power of choice.
You may have a fresh start any moment you choose, for this thing that we call “failure” is not the falling down, but the staying down. – Mary Pickford