Why Hangover Anxiety Is The Absolute Devil


Just an FYI when reading this post – I’m putting this live whilst in Budapest and (am pretty sure) I’m not suffering any of the emotions written in the below post whilst there. It’s something I wrote in advance whilst swimming in feelings of anxiety and despair following a night of heavy drinking and bleurgh.

When I think about people like Zoella and Tanya Burr who don’t really drink, I think they’re a bit mental. Alcohol has played such a huge part in my life – it’s been a ridiculously gigantic part of me growing up, becoming an adult. It’s been involved in my life at least once a week for the past decade, it’s been there for me as much as McDonald’s and Friends and cats, it has been the very reason my life has played out as it has. The very reason for most of my favourite memories, for a lot of my arguments, for my tears and for my mistakes. But also, if I’m entirely honest – the very reason I even met Chris in the first place.

Anyway, back to today.

I woke up feeling like death. I didn’t have a headache, I didn’t feel nauseous (aside from a niggling feeling of PASS ME ALL THE CARBS) and yeah, OK, I was a bit groggy and sleepy because alcohol stops you getting into a deep sleep or whatever, but most of my pain and discomfort was coming from my emotions in the pit of my belly.

I felt plagued with anxiety, I was literally drowning in negativity. Fuck my 17 ways to feel happier post, I was beyond that and heck, I had no energy to even attempt to get myself on board with any of those points. I wanted to just roll myself up in my king size duvet and stay there for eternity, forever, to never have to face civilization again.

It’s not like I’d even done anything aggressively wrong. I hadn’t even drunk myself into that sort of stupour when you wake up and think FUCK I HAVE NO MEMORIES, which just FYI has been me so many times, I just felt wrong all over. I’d been drinking with old friends in London, i’d wanted to leave early enough so that Chris would still be awake to pick me up from the station, I wanted to be glamorous and graceful, I wanted to snap up a healthy little summin summin from Liverpool station, I wanted to be happy.

I scrapped it all and spent ALL the money on Prosecco. I left really late. I ate a double cheeseburger on the train. I napped. I probably snored or dribbled or did something disgustingly embarrassing for all the train folk to see. I spent more money on a cab home.

I had walked into the bar I spent the night in with these sudden pangs of OMG I MISS LONDON, I MISS MY FLAT, I MISS THIS LIFE. They weren’t overwhelming, they were just subtle reflective vibes of missing a moment in time when things were different. Because I don’t miss that life, not at all. But I wanted to get weeknight drunk and have a half an hour battle with the Jubilee line home and bump into other drunk Londoners just doing their thing, I didn’t want a two hour commute home feeling like a bit of a mess.

You know when you’ve stayed at a club til the very end and they turn the lights on and suddenly everything’s very grotty and real? That’s how I felt leaving London. That as flash and chic as drinking fizzy wine with my pals was, I felt disgusted by my own being, and disgusted by the immense feelings of not being in control. I hated that I’d lost control of my situation, that I hadn’t gone home early like I’d wanted to, that I’d drunk more than I’d planned, that I’d probably come across as a bit of a dick.

My life is moving so quickly at the moment that it’s hard for me to keep up, so when people ask about my blog or my work or my life in Ipswich, there is SO much to tell, so much new information, and it’s becoming incredibly hard to learn to tailor my responses, keep them short and snappy and to the point. I want to spend as long talking about the other person’s life in the conversation as we do mine, but when I’m drinking that’s not how it happens. I become self-centered and I don’t even mean to and then I hate myself for being that person. For coming across like a self-absorbed, arrogant, boastful dick. An absolute fucking dick.

No-one likes that person, no-one wants to be that person, but I feel like at the stage I am in my life, alcohol has this habit of turning me into that girl.

I feel like Britney Spears unable to cope with fame at 16.

Except, well, I’m not famous and I’m not drowning in drug offers and dollar bills. More like drowning in emails and candles and new nail varnishes.

My alcohol comedown has made me feel like the worst version of myself. I feel that I have worsened everyone’s perceptions of me and I hate that, I hate the idea of anyone liking me less, that anyone thinks I’m doing things wrong. Because alcohol makes me, it makes us all, lose control. And control is the thing that keeps us all sane, the thing that stops us acting like massive twats, the thing that stops us getting obese, the thing that keeps our life in order.

And right now I feel like I’ve failed myself. And I feel like Zoella and Tanya are probably one step ahead of the game and that it’s so fucking hard to remain a good, dignified drunk when you have SO much going on.

So yeah, here’s me peeling myself off the booze wagon. Yes, I’m still going to drink wine, like erm, all the time. But not in excess and not when it ruins the plans I’ve already built up in my head because I like those plans, they’re the plans that keep me happy and content.

Over and out, hope this makes SOME sense.

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