My overindulgences often leave me with a headache. I think of them as overenthusiasms. Too much wine, cheese, chocolate, fucking. Too long spent with my nose stuck in a book. Happy pursuits all, though I apply myself to them with a little too much gusto on occasion. But on Saturday night I drank too many margaritas and almost poisoned myself. I could make excuses and say it was the sugar, the salt, the special offers, but really it was my obnoxious overconfidence and complete lack of common sense and self control that saw me in such a state. I don't get sloppy or obnoxious when I drink, and I confuse this with thinking that I am impervious to alcohol. Turns out I'm as pervious as the next arrogant prick.
And so I had a Very Bad Day on Monday.
Sunday, of course, was awful. I spent it paying for Saturday's sin with pieces of my soul. In vomit, and hot salty tears. Andrew looked after me, got me to drink glass after glass of water and patiently reassured me that I'd be okay. And by Sunday night I was, more or less. We watched Run, Fat Boy, Run and I laughed a little bit. I ate a bowl of rice pudding. We went to bed and he read to me. He said that my hangover put his in perspective.
It certainly put me in perspective. Gone was the tequila gleam from my eyes, replaced by a soggy, saggy blear. I thought a good night’s sleep would fix me, but when Monday morning rolled around I rolled over and covered my face in horror. Dread was standing at the foot of the bed, nudging Despair with his elbow and daring him to pull back my covers. They followed me into the shower, knocked the soap from my hands and watched me scrabble for it on the floor. They sat in the back seat of the car as I drove to work, pulling faces each time I checked the rearview mirror. They crawled in under my desk at work and took it in turns to pinch my feet and sour the milk in my tea.
Shame showed up to join them after lunch. I was feeling moderately better, or at least reassured to have made it through the morning, when he said his quiet hello. I hung my head, my customary greeting, and started on my act of contrition. "Do you still love me? Do you still want me?" I whispered, and the whole world sighed and said “I do”. I don’t think it was meant, but I took heart to hear it said so and then got the fuck on with my day.
Dread and Despair insisted on a lift home. They wanted to listen to Matt Cooper, but I stuck on Sedaris’ The Santaland Diaries instead. My rictus grin held til I got home. Andrew looked after me, got me to drink glass after glass of water and patiently reassured me that I'd be okay. He’d had Gloom snapping at his heels all day. We walked down the banks of the black-dark canal to Ranelagh for some pasta, and on the way home I tried to explain to him how I was feeling. Not violently suicidal, I said, but like I’d like to lie down, and for everything to stop. It’s very frightening, and I don’t have the energy to be frightened of it. He understood, and was frightened for me. We talked some more, and when we got back home he held me softly and stroked my skin til I slept.
I woke on Tuesday morning to the smell of clean sheets and a better day. Surf Small and Mighty smells of optimism.
And so I had a Very Bad Day on Monday.
Sunday, of course, was awful. I spent it paying for Saturday's sin with pieces of my soul. In vomit, and hot salty tears. Andrew looked after me, got me to drink glass after glass of water and patiently reassured me that I'd be okay. And by Sunday night I was, more or less. We watched Run, Fat Boy, Run and I laughed a little bit. I ate a bowl of rice pudding. We went to bed and he read to me. He said that my hangover put his in perspective.
It certainly put me in perspective. Gone was the tequila gleam from my eyes, replaced by a soggy, saggy blear. I thought a good night’s sleep would fix me, but when Monday morning rolled around I rolled over and covered my face in horror. Dread was standing at the foot of the bed, nudging Despair with his elbow and daring him to pull back my covers. They followed me into the shower, knocked the soap from my hands and watched me scrabble for it on the floor. They sat in the back seat of the car as I drove to work, pulling faces each time I checked the rearview mirror. They crawled in under my desk at work and took it in turns to pinch my feet and sour the milk in my tea.
Shame showed up to join them after lunch. I was feeling moderately better, or at least reassured to have made it through the morning, when he said his quiet hello. I hung my head, my customary greeting, and started on my act of contrition. "Do you still love me? Do you still want me?" I whispered, and the whole world sighed and said “I do”. I don’t think it was meant, but I took heart to hear it said so and then got the fuck on with my day.
Dread and Despair insisted on a lift home. They wanted to listen to Matt Cooper, but I stuck on Sedaris’ The Santaland Diaries instead. My rictus grin held til I got home. Andrew looked after me, got me to drink glass after glass of water and patiently reassured me that I'd be okay. He’d had Gloom snapping at his heels all day. We walked down the banks of the black-dark canal to Ranelagh for some pasta, and on the way home I tried to explain to him how I was feeling. Not violently suicidal, I said, but like I’d like to lie down, and for everything to stop. It’s very frightening, and I don’t have the energy to be frightened of it. He understood, and was frightened for me. We talked some more, and when we got back home he held me softly and stroked my skin til I slept.
I woke on Tuesday morning to the smell of clean sheets and a better day. Surf Small and Mighty smells of optimism.
