Hangxiety, are you worth it?

I've stopped thinking in black and white. Right and Wrong have left the building. Instead, the era of nuance has arrived. Measured responses, figuring this out in proportion to how I experience this life. And it has made things so much harder, suddenly there is no All or Nothing, only a constant array of Somethings.

So here is the latest story of a Something.

I went out on Saturday night, like Out Out. And I had a wonderful time, new friends, talked to strangers, danced, and had some spectacular amaretto sours. I bloody love a cocktail. They are great. And if I had to summarise why I have never gone completely sober, it would be that. Cocktails are great, and there is no question about it. And if you get the chance, do try the cocktails at Camp in Margate, under a tenner and served by a person so pretty I nearly passed out when they called me 'babe' honestly the queer panic the hits differently from a bartender.

Nevertheless, the night passed beautifully, sunlight made way for twilight, and the obscenely large disco ball took centre stage. Then the full depth of night crept in and swallowed what was left of the July day. And inside Camp, Queers talked and drank and danced whilst Bimbeaux Collective DJ's the night away. It was a cute and safe, and gorgeous, gentle way to spend an evening.

I was transported back home by new friends, and the car ride was full of honest and funny conversation, conversations reserved for the final moments of a night out, when you all know you only have so long left together. Half wishing you could carry on all night, but knowing that reality and morning are not so far out of reach.

The next day, I woke up fine, more fine than I had been expecting. A little tired, a little achy, but all in all fine. I don't think I have yet reached the debilitating hangovers people speak of. I chose to go slowly regardless, I've been caught out by a guerrilla hangover on more than one occasion. I moved through the day smoothly, a Sunday like any other, no dramatics. A couple of hours in the local bookshop, a walk with a friend, and back to mine with no expectations of myself other than to try and get the last of the blue eyeshadow off. As I looked at myself in the mirror, I couldn't help but notice my thoughts had taken a turn. In my restful state, my mind had decided to dig through the archives of my life and examine every relationship that I had ended or had been ended for me. Quickly that turned from a bitter nostalgia to 'Was I the problem?' then on from there to 'Who made me into a problem?' and sure enough the memory of assaults and rapes and reporting it and the knowledge that I would never get a prosecution, and the true true guilt of introducing a friend to her rapist. And many other thoughts. They didn’t come quickly, they weren't an onslaught of panic or a wall I walked into, they came just as the rest of the weekend had, gently. But as I walked around my house in quiet, sipping on honey tea, I felt the washing of grief around me again and again. And with each gentle wave, I felt a little less optimistic about my own future. And whether or not I deserved a future at all.

Previously, when I had nights or days like this last weekend, I would vow to go sober for a month or so, even considering if I had the willpower for forever. And I would do well, a few months at a time. I would forfeit drinks and socialising for early nights and TV shows. It was easier in the city, there were constantly events to be entertained by, Theatre and Music ever available; always a way to feel the highs and lows without having a drop if you didn’t want to.

But here by the coast, the cultural and social scene is split firmly down the middle, between the Sober morning crowd and the Party evening crowd. I have neither the patience nor the sleep schedule to be a morning person, nor do I have the drug resistance or liver capacity to be an evening person. As ever, I flit between both groups, wondering how to figure out what moderation looks like in an increasingly polarised community.

I know I will, at some point, have a drink again, but I suppose I wonder how often I need to grieve after a good time? And before people tell me it is as simple as not drinking, know that these thoughts exist within me, if not at all times, then at least whenever I allow them to. And to avoid them in pursuit of 'Peace' doesn't interest me. I want to live. Have an expansive array of experiences, not hide from the possible weight of my past. I don't have a resolution to this yet, a choice on this feeling. I don't want to run from this mess. This writing isn't a concluded piece, preaching abstinence or therapy. It's just something, something I'm living through, living with, messing up.

Part of me wants advice, and part knows that advice would not be well received right now. I just thought I would share and get it off my chest. And drink some water.