the debilitating shame one suffers after blacking out
Weve all been there. You go out, thinking youre going to get the casual level of drunk that you always strive for and yet never seem to achieve. A glass of wine was transformed into two, then four, then fuck it why not open another bottle? The diet of vodka sodas you swore to back at your apartment was transformed into shoots of fireball the second you reach the bar. Fireball was transformed into whiskey, because youre not a little bitch. The last thing you remember is whisper/ screaming into your friends ear Im not even THAT drunk, and then BAM, you wake up the next morning under your comforter but inexplicably above your sheets, face full of makeup, mouth savouring like demise warmed over, and zero recollection how you got there. Ah, blackout. We meet again.
Are you hungover? You bet your ass you are. The dry mouth, throbbing headache and body rocking nausea are old hat, symptoms youve had a longer relationship with than probably any guy. Theyll fade in a few hours, hardly even remembered come the next time you decide to casually drink AKA later that night.
Unfortunately, the hangover isnt what maintains you firmly ensconced in the fetal stance, shuddering every time your telephone vibrates for the next full day. The hangover has nothing to do with that burning ball of regret sitting in your stomach, which no sum of dry heaving will abate. That my friend, is a shameover, and its here to stay until someone else monumentally fucks up and everyone forgets all the stupid shit you did after a bottle of wine and three shoots of tequila.
Blacking out is not the source of this unrelenting shame; if it was, marriage are currently in a constant state of anxiety since we discovered Mikes Hard Lemonade at the tender age of sixteen. A shameover is a unique various kinds of hangover, one that results from you waking up and knowing that you did something horrifically embarrassing the night before, but being unable to remember what exactly it was. Call it a sixth sense, or perhaps betches hunch, but something in the back of your mind is very aware that you professed your love to an ex while karaoking Love Yourself to a room full of horrified people, but wont let you in on the gory details. The brain works in mysterious ways.
The cure? Ignorance. What others may call avoiding your problems we consider saving your sanity. A firm dont ask, dont tell policy is the only way to recover from this unfortunate instance, with the hopes that someone else will overshadow your drunken antics tonight. Lets be real, the odds are high. Fret not, Betches, for one day this too will be a hazy memory and/ or a chapter of your memoir. I entail, if Chelsea Handler can profit off of her functional alcoholism, then theres probably hope for all of us.
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