It always seems like you've done something really bad that you can't remember, a side effect of blackout from the night before. Is that blood on your arm yours? Did you murder someone? Where the fuck did all these bruises come from? Why can't I move my neck? Was I in a car accident?
Sometimes you have done something really cringeworthy, but mostly there's an anxiety about imagined outrages. Then the usual bite when you come to terms with how much money you rinsed in the binge, the fact your girlfriend isn't speaking to you because you grabbed her sister's arse right up the crease of her shuck, your mate is raging because you spilled half a bottle of wine down the back of his stack, the bouncers in your local had to escort you from the premises, and some amateur pap has photographs of the whole evening and tagged you on facebook in a video "erotically" dancing to Lady Gaga.
And never check your sent texts. Ever. Delete the whole folder and pretend you didn't send outpourings of undying love to the barmaid.
There is no cure for The Fear, but I find a fry and a couple of beers takes the worst of the edge of it. Try and resist the temptation to turn it into another session, however. The Fear will wait for you on the other side and grows in might exponentially with each day of the bender.
Last couple of days have been terrifying, spiritually, psychologically and physically.
Flew to Glasgow on 16th and flew back on 21st with no day off the lash in between. Managed a few breakfasts and a couple of evening meals, but mostly a non-stop 18hr a day diet of beer, red wine and rum. 6 days solid. Oh, and then took a pill and a rake of nose-gunk within an hour of arriving back in Belfast.
The Fear kicked in the next day as expected, but this was nothing like I have ever felt before. Squirting rusty battery acid out of my shuck every hour. Puking up every time I tried to drink a glass of water. Disturbing red flecks in said puke. Stomach on fire. Pissing a painful deep orange and cloudy reeking matter. Needed to go back to work the next day so I took to my bed and tried to rest. Not a fucking chance. Shrieking head-goblins every time I closed my eyes. Imagined that every car door slamming in the street was a murder squad come for me. Sweats, shivers, too hot, too cold, everything too wrong. Genuinely scared of even turning on the tv or looking out the curtains in case of seeing bad things.
And then, in a moment of sheer genius, got up and checked my online balance to find I had spent a grand in a week (not including flights, hotels or gig tickets all pre-paid) and I had a tenner left in my account. I think at that point there may have been some weeping. The Fear had won again.
Managed a pint yesterday after work, got paid by work, and the weekend may be ahead, but something has changed in me. Some irreparable damage, perhaps. I feel like a haunted man. My stomach still isn't processing stuff properly. The moral of the story: by the age of 44, I should have realised that 6 days non-stop should have a cost; the cost is 3 days in the ninth circle of hell. As the prison bitch of The Fear.
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