How Emotional Hangovers Are Actually Worse Than Actual Hangovers.

It has been on my mind for quite some time to start blogging.  A (sort of) valid excuse to ramble excessively and then hope that people read it.  The egotistical part of me wanted to start writing many months ago, but the coward and procrastinator in me pleaded sickness, lack of inspiration, and convinced me that no one would want to read yet another blog, especially one written by me, so what on earth are you thinking let’s just get pizza and watch Gossip Girl.

It has taken me until now, this very moment, to strike that proverbial iron whilst it is blisteringly hot.  And why?  Because I am currently sitting here, on my bed, in my dressing gown, at 12.56pm, with the mother of all emotional hangovers.

I would expect that each one of you who reads this will have suffered from an emotional hangover at least once in your alcohol-fueled adult lives.  If you don’t drink, congratulations for not being forced to peer into your soul on the one day that you should be eating shitloads of carbs, and sleeping until you realise that your face isn’t falling off anymore.  However, I hope that there is another avenue that you can take in order to create a similar effect.  As much as I want to cry and push away my emotional hangover right this very second, and fall into a box of delicious pepperoni pizza ming, there is something raw and revealing about it.  Perhaps a binge on chocolate cake instead will do the trick for you t-totallers?  Let me know.

As we all aware (well, most of us), hangovers come in many forms and last for differing amounts of time.  Waking up and, for a good ten minutes, thinking that you’re actually alright until you’re kicked face down into the toilet bowl by your stomach and brutally attacked until you can prominently feel the gap between your rib cage from so much retching.  Or not even being able to move your head for a good two hours, because the merest hint of a tilt completely fucks up your delicately balanced state and throws your entire body into turbulent unrest, making you moan incessantly because your vocal chords are the only thing you can move without throwing up.

Emotional hangovers are more insidious.  You wake up.  Perhaps a slight headache, but you relish the delight of getting away with a monster hangover despite the three+ bottles of wine you may or may not have drunk the night before.  You make coffee, perhaps have a cigarette.  Check your emails.  Consider showering, because that is a definite link in the chain of curing yourself the morning after.  But you think, no, fuck it.  I’m ok, I’ll just maybe job hunt or do something else productive.


Thinking that you’ve been given a free pass because you don’t have an actual hangover is a BIG MISTAKE.  Why?  Because as soon as you think you’re ok, and decide to do something proactive that involves your brain, it kicks in.  Not the OTT kicking the door to your soul down in an aggressive Jason Statham manner.  It’s sneaky, it creeps up and steals its way in and before you realise what has happened – BANG – your mind goes into hyper drive thinking about all your failures as a person, all your flaws, all your secrets and dirty thoughts.

So, there you are, curled up in a ball crying like a babe, wishing you had a hangover that involved toilet bowls and slow movements and carby salty goodness.  Because this is worse, so much worse.  Getting thoughts out of your head that are stuck there is, frankly, one of the most difficult things to accomplish.  Think how annoying an earworm is (I always seem to get ‘California Dreamin’), and then multiply that by a zillion and add a pinch of a headache and there’s your emotional hangover.  Hello.

And, since I am sat here right now, writing this blog whilst suffering from the exact thing I have just described, I guess that means I am also on the hunt for a cure.  As with regular hangovers, you just have to nurse your sufferings until they eventually go away.  So, instead of a Domino’s in my face, I have elected to write the pain away, by listening to my soul berate and shame me, mock me and laugh at me, and writing about it.  It’s like therapy!  I might have the Domino’s later, to applaud myself for a job well done.  Let’s face it, carbs help, too.

So, remember that the next time you wake up the morning after a night of debauchery, and you think you’re ok, just wait ten minutes.  After that, you’ll either need a bathroom, a pillow, or a laptop.  Good Luck!


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