Hang up, it's just a hangover.
"It's like the first day of kindergarten; you're not apprehensive about showing your true colors to your playmate. You don't have a clue about how openness and vulnerability can be harmful. You learn that as you grow."
I used to get them, but my pact with pre-bedtime ibuprofen has shooed them away. I'm responsible enough to know when I'm not drinking responsibly— but that doesn't slow the flow of irresponsibility
entering my bloodstream. All in all, I know my body well enough to know what the safety net looks like underneath when I come tumbling down.
I can't remember the last time my head weighed like stone against the feathers in my pillow. I lie down, filled to the brim with intoxication, with an added dose of water to give me faith of productivity for the next day.
The magic occurs over night.
Of course, part of the magic includes repetitive trips to the toilet with an offering of vodka-saturated urine. I shuffle back to bed to obediently gulp down water from a straw-garnished glass— I’m in control, for now.
For the sake of this not seeming as self centered, pretend you—the reader— are me. Have you ever woken up from a booze-busied night to find that your dear friend, alcohol, has made you act drastically different than yourself? Or at least the you that you set up to be, well, you? I’m not glorifying the unproductive outcomes of consuming too much alcohol like texting an ex or taking part in a bar brawl; I’m talking about the alternate side of it all, the moment where your walls come down.
Alcohol has made me do some things that weren't all that bad— perhaps, not to most people. I’ve told someone I didn’t want to love that I love them. I've forgiven people I had no intention of reconciling with, assuring them that it was all water under the bridge. I’ve smiled more than my sober self may have allowed me to. It sounds like everything PBS would pour into my ears when I was a toddler: be kind to others, smile when you're sad— be the light the world needs to see. Barney would be proud of me, not for the alcohol but I digress.
This, as odd as it sounds, is my new hangover. It's louder than the percussive headache that drums in your head the morning after. It buries you deeper in the bedsheets, with the world spinning about, as you remain a stagnant point in the universe. The standard hangovers were easier to deal with. Those were the days when the body could outrun the mind; how drunk you were the night before was merely a small hurdle your twenties could easily jump over. Now, I'm slowing down and observing all that settles when the sun rises after pummeling my liver the night before.
I'm greeted with a newfound sense of morning regret. I wanted so much to take back to the lack of discipline my intoxicated self had exhibited. I went throughout the next day scolding myself for the way in which I had pried myself open for people to see. How could I be so reckless? This is not who you are, I would think to myself. It's like the first day of kindergarten; you're not apprehensive about showing your true colors to your playmate. You don't have any clue of how openness and vulnerability can be harmful. You learn that as you grow.
Vulnerability is a fickle subject. We are allowed to hold hands with it in our younger years; we can sob if we fall and scrape our knees or wince when we get a shot from the doctor. We can tell people we love them when we are kids and nobody will consider you weird or desperate, you're celebrated for your display of affection. But as we get older, we are told that adorning our sleeves with that blood-pumping organ is foolish. We are told that the heart will lead us to regrettable places while the mind steers us with wisdom.
I've been infected with that outlook as an adult— but alcohol tells that outlook to fuck off. Alcohol turns me into someone who I deem a recognizable imposter. I can hear his joy against my bitterness, his unblemished heart beating. It's taken me some time to pinpoint where I've met him before, but I realize that he's just the courageous, light-hearted kindergartner. He's me.
I realized that somewhere beyond adolescence, I let go of his hand. I ignored the lesson he was trying to teach me. Vulnerability is not a burden—not for everyone, at least. It is a weapon, wielded by the most qualified warrior to master. It isn't easy to navigate through adulthood, knowing the horrors of what being vulnerable can bring on, but I've never felt stronger than when I've succumbed to the beauty of emotion. I've also never felt more...myself.
So, these days, I suppose I'm finding more than a buzz at the bottom of a bottle. I'm discovering that protecting yourself from natural emotion is as exhausting as it is futile. I'm inspired by the courage of my younger self; he held onto love and light so tightly before I came along and loosened his tiny fingers from it. I'm finding that I'm becoming more welcoming to the essence of love, joy and forgiveness. I don't know where I dropped them before this, but I would like to think that our accessibility to these fleeting emotions doesn't die as we get older.
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