Hangovers... real and metaphorical

The overwhelming anxiety I was feeling last week has abated somewhat, eased by time, space, good friends and alcohol. Some of these are a good and sensible solution. Some are not. It has also helped to have four days in a row where, very conveniently, I have not had to cycle home via the Path of Doom and Angry Bloke.

On Friday we went to the park, in the opposite direction.

On Monday the Path of Doom was closed by the council for resurfacing works.

On Tuesday LittleBear has an after school club, so we go home an hour and a half after Angry Bloke and the Path Blockers.

Today I collected LittleFriend as well as LittleBear, and used the car, thus leaving school in the opposite direction.

Hooray!

Meanwhile, my friend invited me out to listen to live music and drink Pimms on Friday night, and on a whim I went, because I didn't have time to over-think it, and I had a lovely time sitting in the evening sun, drinking, chatting and singing along to pop hits of my youth. Having managed to socialise without the world crumbling around me, I girded my loins and went to a 40th birthday party on Saturday night.

There were so many people there, but so few that I knew, that I was able to sit at a table with a handful of good friends, and not worry about who I was or how I seemed to strangers. I didn't have to put on a brave face, or make awkward social chit-chat. It was a seventies-themed night, and I drank too much wine, talked nonsense with my friends and danced to 70s disco hits, occasionally borrowing a friend's large, blonde afro wig for strutting my stuff. And it was brilliant. It was life-affirming, and reassuring, and simple, unadulterated fun.

And then I woke up on Sunday morning. Ouch. I'd gone to bed without rehydrating and had a miserable hangover. Fortunately, I have lovely bears, and they allowed me to stay in bed until I felt a little bit more human.

Meanwhile, I have had the metaphorical equivalent of that same hangover. I am coming to think of it as my anxiety-blogging hangover. I gorge myself on feelings and thoughts and emotions, and allow them to spill all over the page. I hope that my words reach people who feel the same way, or enlighten those that don't. And then I go to bed. And when I wake in the morning, I start to feel the after-effects of my honesty as I read the responses to my post. There are indeed those who reach out to me, to say "I didn't know you felt that way, I do too, thank you so much for saying it out loud." And there are those who say, "goodness, you're brave for admitting to all that." And there are those who say, "I had no idea, you hide it well." None of the responses are anything beyond that which I either expected or hoped for.

Nevertheless, I begin to feel slightly alarmed, and a bit queasy at the thought that I have just washed my dirty linen in public, and that I now have to speak to, and smile at, a wide range of people who may be fearing that the crazy lady is going to suddenly start crying, or do something erratic or eccentric at any moment. Because a large proportion of my audience are people I know. People I meet in the street. People I see in the playground. Conceivably teachers in LittleBear's school. The desire to hide from anyone and everyone becomes remarkably strong, as the idea of actually talking about any of this is anathema to me. I may be able to write honestly about how I feel, but face-to-face I'm generally up to a thoroughly British, "I'm fine," with a nervous grin.

After a few days, I begin to relax again, and feel moderately confident that I won't be ostracised for my oddities or honesties. The feelings of fear pass and I start to believe that there are not judgemental glances being thrown my way, and I am neither being avoided nor treated with kid gloves. But it takes time.

Half a day for a real hangover. Several days for an emotional hangover.

Drinking is beginning to look like a better option than blogging...