Sobriety is hard

Even over eighteen months in

Lately, it feels like my brain is in a vice, with its most tender spots singeing under the spotlight, like an ant under a sadist’s microscope. If I’m not convinced that I’m dying of some rare terminal illness, or that my face has aged in the last half a decade with unparalleled velocity, I’m captivated by actors on TV drinking fake prosecco, crying about not being able to partake in the merry-making they so convincingly convey.

I want a holiday from my brain.

It won’t be a surprise to know that I’m descending into the depths of this month’s luteal phase. Living with PMDD is like having hormonal bipolar, except you can’t properly medicate it without ripping out some organs and ushering in an early onset of menopause. Not at the top of my list of choices at 32. But to live almost half of my life in this state of suicidal molasses feels unbearable.

When I was a bona fide pisshead, I created my own rhythm of chaos, so dysfunctionally functional that it eclipsed the effects of both my circadian and menstrual cycles. When you shrink your life to a drunk/hungover vortex, everything bad is because of the alcohol (which will ‘wear off’), and everything good is definitely because of the alcohol (so you need more).

Health anxiety didn’t have enough time to manifest: I let my brain chalk up every twinge and ache to a hangover, and was drunk again by the time I could register any longevity. Now, I am hyperaware of everything that my body does.

Anxiety itself becomes a beast tamed only pharmaceutically, whilst my psychiatrist chides in my ear that I ought not to take too many lest I kickstart a new addiction. Someone being twenty minutes late after saying they’re going to be at your house at half past, irrefutably means that they have crashed their car and are, in fact, dead.

I know that sobriety in the long term is the better option, but fuck me, sometimes I want to press the off switch and let blackout Eb take the reins. I’m not going to; this too shall pass — please take my whining with a pinch of salt. Once my period comes, I’ll be back to standard programming.

Until then, you can find me under a blanket on the sofa, despondently crying to the same angsty music I cried to at fifteen. I love and miss you all.

If these themes are something you’d like to read more about, and I’m not just ranting into the ether about my slightly bonkers brain on this one, do let me know in the comments.

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