Time to do some talking, I suppose. Ironic, how I’m so shit at actually talking, and yet put a keyboard in front of me, and I can type for hours, words flowing out of my brain and onto a screen. Sums up my generation, I suppose.
On Wednesday night, I went to a party. I’d been at work all day, spending my time in a London office for 5-6 hours, before heading straight off to a friend’s house, in order to get ready for said party. The journey was difficult enough; there had, extremely sadly, been a fatality on the railway, and London Waterloo ground to a rather undignified holt. Regardless, I made it to my friend’s house, where I got dressed, redressed and redressed once again; let’s admit it, I was terrified. When I’m anxious about an event — a party, for example —, I overthink my appearance endlessly. Maybe it’s because I think I can hide behind whatever I choose to wear, maybe it’s because I think first impressions are vital; it’s besides the point. We left, and drove the 20 minutes to the party.
Allow me to explain the situation I found myself in. I was going to a party, alongside one friend who I have known for around 8 years now. Besides the person whose party it was — who I have known only since December, and met in person just twice —, I knew no one else at the party. I was terrified: social occasions aren’t my forte at the best of times, but when I know just two people, they turn into a little bit of a nightmare experience for me. Alas, I wanted to go — strangely enough —, because the person whose party it was has been such a great friend over the last few months, and I appreciate them endlessly. We get on really well, and I didn’t want to miss this event.
Of course, everything turned out fine. As I walked in, Abba was playing on the speakers — a sure sign of a good night to come —, and a can of sider pressed into my hand (upon my acceptance, I should add). The night went on. I made new friends, laughed and stepped out of my comfort zone, and got a little too drunk. It was a warm evening in London, and the 30-or-so people at the party spread out around the house and the garden. It was, by all accounts, the perfect party, and an evening that I really enjoyed.
I found myself in a corner, behind the backdoor, just in the garden. I was sat on the ground; I remember how I got there literally, but have no clue as to why or what was going on. I remember telling the person whose party it was that, due to alcohol most likely, I wasn’t OK, and we went off and found an empty, quiet room to sit and talk.
I have never cried so much. It was 100% alcohol induced, but once I start talking, everything just comes out. I am having a bit of a crappy mental health period at the moment — they happen —, and I just cried, strung the occasional sad sentence together, and told him how I was so, so sorry. I meant it, as well.
This event, more than anything else, just showed me how lucky I am to have some amazingly lovely friends. My friend gave me the longest hug I think I’ve ever had, let me cry n him for over an hour, and was so supportive, calm and caring. I was scared — scared of talking, scared of saying something that would frighten him off, or make him think I am just pathetic, or weird. But he stayed, and made sure I was OK until I left, and I just don’t know how to repay him.
Honestly, since the party, and the hangover which followed, I’ve been feeling a bit shit. It’s like talking helped in the moment — it’s the first step to feeling better, I guess. But in the short term, it’s just brought all of the crappy feelings I used to know so well back up to the surface, and I don’t know how to deal with that right now. The friend has been so supportive, although I’m sure he’s sick of reading my messages — I just wish I could do something for him, to demonstrate that I really, really appreciate him. I’m sure I’ll come up with something soon enough. All the same, I’m feeling quite low at the moment, and struggling to stay positive.
Knowing that I have a friend, like this one, is comforting though. I’m lucky, in that respect, and although I have waves of absolute fear that, at some point, he will decide he hates me, or doesn’t care, I know in a logical sense that that won’t happen, for now anyway. Talking felt good, at the time, just letting a load of cooped-up shit out; I just need to work out how to keep that up, and make a long-term difference to my own mental health.