‘The Fear’: spiralling after a night of drinking

‘The Fear’ is the sense that you have done yourself some lasting damage after a night of drinking - via urban dictionary.

Why do I do this to myself? 

Every. Single. Time. 

Flashbacks of no salt, no lime, no hope of cutting the violent assault I overpaid for. Over and over again. I feel like I'm dead. 

Maybe this is the end.

It begins in my head, the pulsating in my brain, punctuating each word.  

Every. Single. Time. Poor man's iambic pentameter.

It always starts the same. I test that my mouth still functions by muttering the words aloud. Vowels fumble into one another due to a severe case of cottonmouth. My teeth, whilst seemingly all there, feel on the cusp of decay. My tongue tasted like the cigarettes I swore to have given up. 

I'm alive.

My limbs are reminiscent of a newborn calf's - weak from lack of use and comically floppy. Each step from my bed feels like I'm pushing against the force of gravity.  The outfit graveyard under my toes like landmines. The trip to the bathroom in my creased clothes from the night before is my flatmate's 30-second opportunity to question if she lives with a real adult. This exact moment is the only time I won't be offended if she thinks this. 

Sometimes, the sweat and remaining scum of foundation clogging my pores makes me look radiant. 5 steps to achieve that hungover glow! The leftover mascara rimming my eyes brings out the green in them. I look attractive and mysterious, like a woman written by a man in a 90s rom-com. My guts feel like they'll pour out of my belly button, but at least I'll die sexy. 

Most times, I think I look the worst I ever have. Red, blotchy face as if I have completed my first marathon mid-REM. Cheeks that don't look youthfully plump or sweetly round but the 10 pounds I need to lose. The intricate network of blood-filled vessels in my eyes provide an insight into fragments of my anatomy that I have never seen, a detailed map of parts unknown. It's not chilly, but my hair resembles fire kindling. 

This cycle of alcohol-induced self-hatred - full of nothing but pre-vomit and off-brand paracetamol, is a humbling comfort. It confirms that I had a good night, even if I cannot remember any of it. This ranking system is extremely flawed. I am all too aware that a night shouldn't be judged based on how close to blacking out you are. Unfortunately, I'm just being honest. Enjoying nights without consuming a gruesome cocktail of bottom-shelf tequila and cheap Sauv Blanc is on my New Year's Resolution List for 2024. It has been on there for the past 3 years.

I vomit. 

Sunglasses in the supermarket are an essential. I think it gives off the energy that I'm a D-list celebrity who thinks they can't exist in public supermarkets. In the freezer-aisle-cum-house -of mirrors, I realize this is not reality. I just look hungover. I cannot help but to hold out hope that the cute cashier may ask me for my number while he scans my organic produce purchases: a family size bag of Doritos and can of sugar-free Red Bull. 

He doesn't, and I spiral. 

Every now and again, I fear I am strolling along the path to alcoholism. A voice in my mind repeats this whenever I stew in such hungover regret. Deep down, I know I'm not, yet I cannot help but give into the same fear each time. Most nights, thoughts of drinking do not occupy much space in my brain. Bottles of wine are reserved for gossip-fuelled dinners with friends, and spirits for midnights where I want to pretend that I hold more than one grain of confidence in a sticky-floored club. But you are the voice chants in a soothing crescendo: you are, you are. The carnivorous black hole somewhere inside that convinces me of this is cut off abruptly. 

It's when I'm almost out the door of the overstimulating corner store of horrors, and suddenly, there is a ray of glimmering golden light cutting through the clinical LEDs. Calling to me are the rich chocolate-coloured bottles of sparkling gut-saving Kombucha, no- and low-alcohol seltzers in their pretty flowery packaging, mocktails and their flamboyant names screaming to be bought in bulk with money I don't have. Time stands still as I am held hostage there, imagining my new life of sobriety.

A vision of no more acrid morning after disgust or strategic 13.5% spews. This new path sans alcohol is a hand held out welcoming me into the world of clean girls and Goop women who care about what toxins do to their annoyingly perfect skin. Or perhaps, more deliciously, it will be the key to unlocking the next level of Maslow's Hierarchy of needs. Self-actualization now available in flavours of cherry, pineapple and lime.

In this moment, I care not if this is what their marketing is tricking me into believing. That all my woes will be solved by thinking sober thoughts all the time, no matter how painful that change will be. My hand doesn't reach for this new offering just yet, but my enlightened self is glowing anew as the door's bell rings behind me. 

Still in this moment, the only things that can resurrect me from my preordained self-loathing are chicken nuggets, 2 portions of hashbrowns from the grease pit on the corner and a pint of freshly squeezed orange juice. NO PULP! It has to be in this order. The chaos brings out the umami. The non-existent nutritional value is something I'm vaguely aware of but cannot bring myself to care about. The top tier of the food pyramid - where all the mouthwatering ose words live - fructose, sucrose, glucose, dextrose, lactose, maltose - is the closest thing to Heaven I have ever encountered. 

Loneliness hangs putrid in the air above my bed and smoothers. Suddenly, I master time travel and am now a 19th-century ill child longing for their mother. I feel at one with Alcott's Beth in Little Women. Like her, I had Scarlet Fever when I was only 8. I was retching blood and couldn't eat for days; I felt like I might die then, too. For those 2 weeks, I slept in my mother's bed and wanted to be held all the time. I am 8 years old again. Cozy in my pit of despair, I come embarrassingly close to impulsively booking a flight home. Regrettably, I have established myself as an overbearingly independent young woman. 

I take it back.

Instead, I long to have found success on one of those dating apps that are a disguised punishment for not finding the love of your life via childhood sweetheart. Technology doesn't have the capacity to harvest men who want to coddle me and kiss my forehead and feed me expensive fruits directly into my mouth like I'm Cleopatra. Alternatively, I could call a friend and beg for attention. Plead like I'm on my way out swift and fierce and this is my last request. I convince myself that vulnerability is endearing and would not reduce me to a clingy lump of flesh and raging hormones.

I don't pick up the phone.

This part of the cycle is the chance for me to start over. To never force my body into submission like this again. To commit to the bi-weekly Vinyasa yoga classes, getting my dead-ends trimmed every two months and taking that leap toward sobriety. Manifestations will be the first thing out of my mouth each morning, and I will be grateful for everything. If my phone gets stolen at the bus stop or my grocery bag splits on my way home, it was meant to happen. What is for me won't pass me, and I attract only positive things into my life.

On the cusp of sleep, I mutter that first affirmation. I solemnly swear to never drink again. Cross my heart and hope to die. 

The cycle repeats.

Leah Commandeur is an arts and culture writer, with a focus on film, music and contemporary art.