Chicken or the Egg?
People talk about “hangxiety,” and that bitch is REAL. It begs the question…which came first, the chicken or the egg? I know that having started therapy at the ripe old age of 14, I definitely had some anxiety and depression creeping in, though I couldn’t grasp what it really meant or how it was affecting everyday life. Also having started drinking at an age younger than I’d like to admit, I wouldn’t come to live through the hangxiety until somewhere in my 20s. Even though it’s known as the morning-after shame spiral (at least that’s what I call it), I started to notice it seeping into everything even days after the drinking binge. Feeling irritable at work, too anxious to go to a group fitness class or even the grocery store, was becoming a regular occurrence and no longer felt like it was isolated to the hangovers.
In the ‘typical’ sense of hangxiety, I would often wake up after a night out, and the first thing I’d do was check my purse to see if I lost anything or went home without my card(s). I’d then spend the day feverishly going through text messages (and even Instagram DMs), lamenting over what I might have said or done that warranted an apology, or how badly I embarrassed myself. All while simultaneously telling myself I deserved to feel every second of that hangover. The problem was that drunk me, in an assumed effort to protect sober me, got in a habit of deleting calls and messages. That made the morning after anxiety level skyrocket because, well, I couldn’t even explain my antics to myself. I’d send out “test” messages and if someone didn’t respond, I’d assume I was a dick to them the night before and they never wanted to speak to me again. History has proven that I’ve done things to deserve that exact reaction, so the assumption really wasn’t far off. I’d call my best friend out of state and cry about how embarrassed and/or ashamed I was, how stupid I was to spend/waste money when I’m trying to do and be better (and when I know better) …and the cycle of self-loathing would begin. The spiral would continue throughout the day, the sadness of losing a friendship would set in, the frustration at not even being able to remember whether I had something to apologize for kicking me in the gut…and then I’d get a response that let me know it wasn’t life-altering and I was (am) a lunatic. Until the next time…
Any progress I’d made in therapy, in working through traumas, or in the gym, would feel immediately reduced to zero. It’s hard to get your head out of that gutter, especially when you’re the one who put it there. I often felt depression closing in on me and the ‘dark thoughts' were so regular it was alarming…and another vicious cycle of drinking to numb the thoughts and feelings would begin, which only led to shame and regret, which lead to more dark thoughts, and the pattern continues. It wasn’t until I became sober curious that I started to analyze that level of anxiety and depression, solely based on how much I drank the night/weekend before. On the off weekends that I didn’t go out or drink, I felt pretty good – not great, but good was a-ok with me, considering the alternative. Once the pattern was crystal clear and right in front of my face, it was undeniable. I had a problem that could easily be solved…or so I thought.
My attempts to cut back have been futile at best, and my willpower seems to wane at the first sniff of a happy hour invite, but I know that I won’t be able to enjoy any kind of life if I continue to allow the drink to be at the helm of the ship. In order to course correct, I have to sit with the discomfort of missing out on social events until I feel my determination is strong enough to say no (and mean it). At this point, I’m willing to do whatever it takes to avoid being cloaked in shame the day after a drinking binge…ever again. So bring on the outdoor adventures, exploring parts of my hometown I’ve never seen and perhaps finding some sober friends to lend a bit of support.
