It was a small piece of glass wedged into my shoulder that did it. Where did it come from? I could not remember. I’d spent the night downing shots and requesting to play Sophie Ellis-Bextor in a South London gay bar…but so much of it was still hazy. There were gaping holes in my memory that my hungover brain began to fill with a host of worst-case scenarios, a rush of anxiety that was starting to become all-too familiar.
The pattern back then went like this: hit the booze hard and then wake up hating myself (to the extent I’d physically pick at my skin), terrified of what I might have said or done the night before. I’d text my friends and most of the time the answer was, “Nothing! You are paranoid!”.
