Hangover Insanity

I shouldn’t drink. I know this about myself. I fucking hate that I know it and still choose to do it. I’m lying in bed right now feeling like a complete bag of dicks. Physically I want to vomit; my head is throbbing, body aches. As much as I hate this physical feeling, it’s the mental and emotional ones that are eating at me. Last night I hit a partner. Straight up slapped him across the face, not during kink play and without consent or permission. I was an out-of-control hysterical mess. Nothing he could say to me would get me to calm down. I blacked out from far too many shots of Fireball, and my head went deep down a dark hole. Like deep as you can fucking go. You don’t realize how completely head fucked you are until you wake up and realize the state you let yourself go to.

This isn’t the first time I have been like this in a relationship. Last night triggered me, and I was brought back to the times that MF was using. That he got doped up instead of thinking of me, and my reaction was to make it disappear in a bottle of cinnamon whiskey. I would then get nasty. Legit off the rocker nasty. One specific night he got high, and I got wasted because I felt it was the only way I could get through the night. I had nowhere to turn. If I called friends or family to stay with them, I would have to deal with their reactions and feelings toward MF; endure their comments and advice on leaving him. I wanted so badly for everybody to see why I loved him and stayed. Still, anytime they saw him falter, he would fall back down the ladder, and it made everything worse for him and me. It sucks feeling like that, and I now sit in his shoes, knowing what sliding down everyone’s ladder of standards is like. You can’t fucking win. Might as well just keep drowning in the shit.

Sorry, I am rambling… MF used, and I drank. That became our system. Like I said, I was all alone. I stayed in a hotel a couple times, but that changed with COVID. I even slept in my car one night. Legit brought blankets and pillows in my vehicle in the parking lot and locked myself in there so I wouldn’t have to see him fucked up in the house. Now you know why I drank during those nights. I could get myself to a point where I could pass out and not feel the gut-wrenching anxiety I felt while watching the love of my life succumb to a drug. Heroin did a number on him; he wasn’t just silently nodding off in the corner somewhere. He would hop, slap, yell, pace, make weird voices and noises. He would be sweaty and red and tear our house apart. He broke his bed once from uncontrollably jumping up and down on it. He almost always ended up hurting himself from falling into something or breaking a glass. Ripped his clothes to pieces. It was so unbearable to watch. This sweet, beautiful, silly man that I adored to my core would become a complete monster, unrecognizable for hours and hours. And I had zero places to turn, so I was forced to watch the torture until we could finally get him to sleep.

The anxiety that was caused by witnessing that physically made me ill. I’m feeling it now… SUDS are at a 50. My heart is throbbing in my chest, my stomach is churning, and I want to vomit. I did vomit many, many times during nights he was using. I couldn’t eat; I couldn’t sleep. So, I turned to the booze. I would get myself so fucking drunk that I would just pass out and pray he wouldn’t use more. But before passing out, I would get mean, very repulsively mean. The night I referenced above was the worst. I straight up told him hysterically that he was a useless fucking addict, and I wish that he would die. I said that. Singlehandedly, my biggest regret in my life is saying that to him. I miss him with all my being, and I wish I could take it all back. I crave I could have him with me, snuggling me right now. God, I am lost without him. But when he was using, he made me so angry, sick, anxious, and frustrated.

Last night I somehow got back into that horrible headspace. The one where I was hysterical, saying nasty ass shit and deciding it was okay to physically touch a partner aggressively. I hate that I can be like that. I hate that such evil can come out of me. I said mean things to my partner last night, and I would say mean things to MF. I even destroyed our spare bedroom door one night. I’m rarely like this when drinking. Most of the time, I am fun and playful, and the life of the party, I usually get more emotional than aggressive. But yesterday, I got triggered. I was taken down a deep place I didn’t want to go, and it released the devil. Seriously hell on fucking wheels, I am. I hate that I carry these demons. I hate that I am so head fucked and broken and troubled that I can spiral to a terrifying level. A control freak with ZERO control.

Now I am sitting here feeling even worse, and all I want is a god damn drink. Or it to just be over. Seriously, I have a desire to put a gun in my mouth and just end it. I already tried that once, though, with a cocktail of pills… I don’t want to deal with the repercussions of that again, either. It’s so fucking terrifying to know you are that dangerous to yourself. Eight plus years in an abusive relationship, being told nasty ass things that trained me to fire back just as hard. I watched MF almost die once and then actually die. Finding half of your soul soulless on the bed… God damn, that’s a mind fuck. A serious mind fuck. And why my mind is fucked. And why I cannot fucking drink. Drinking makes me want to die; the hangovers make me want to die. I have reached the level where I am lost in mental health. I need pills to keep me sane. I need pills to sleep. I have been diagnosed with anxiety, PTSD, depression, and substance abuse. All of which makes me feel like I want to die right now. I feel like I let the world down when I get in this state. It is all I can think of right now.

I’m too sick with brown bottle fever to do anything that could help or distract me. I would die in yoga. Going on a walk seems so burdensome right now. I can’t stand listening to the fucking chainsaw going at the neighbor’s or a roommate loudly bitching about the doctors. I have literally put myself into a suicidal state. Why the fuck do I do that? I know it happens. I know I hate it but somehow, I still ignore all that. What is the mother fucking point? God, that god damn chainsaw needs to fucking stop. I think I’m going to take a z bar and a bath and hope that this day just goes the fuck away. I’m sorry this is all just useless rambling, but welcome inside the madness in my head right now. Just insanity. Torture, sadness, and insanity. I apologize for the absurd amount of f-bombs here, but it’s where my head is at. I promised you raw, unfiltered honesty. So there ya go, a peek into the mind of a hungover widow. Does anyone else ever feel like this?