Throwback Thursday: The Morning of No Identity
Below is a tale of one of my drunken escapades that ended in disaster (believe me, there were plenty of them). Remembering these times helps to serve as a reminder of why I chose sobriety.
Saturday. God, I’m hungover. Wow, I’m really, really hungover…
I begrudgingly open my eyes to look around the room and realise I’m still fully dressed in last night’s outfit. No surprise there. In fact, it was more surprising when I actually managed to get changed into my Pjays on a Friday night (read: very early hours of Saturday morning).
What happened last night? How did I get home? Where’s my phone?
I reach under my pillow and find my phone. It’s turned off and I get the tiniest flash of memory which tells me I broke it after dropping it under a running tap while in the club. I groan and put my hands over my head. Breaking phones while blackout drunk has become a specialty of mine.
I drag my poor body into the kitchen and look around. My jacket is strewn carelessly on the floor and it occurs to me that I feel exactly like that jacket looks: crumpled, discarded, lifeless.
I’m still staring at my green jacket when I admit that it’s time to do the routine check of my belongings to make sure that I brought them home. I feel the usual swell of dread. Noting what I lost is like noting my failures and these were adding up much quicker than I would like.
Today is worse than ever. It turns out that, not only have I broken my phone, I’ve lost my flat keys, driver’s licence and passport. This is all pretty bad but is made even worse by the fact that I’m in Melbourne, Australia: 10,538 miles from my home in Manchester, England. F*CK, F*ck, F*ckity, F*ck. This is not how I imagined my big exotic travelling break. I thought I’d get myself together, find myself and all that gap year crap. Instead, I’ve woken up on the other side of the globe with no way of proving who I am. I’ve literally lost my identity. I’ve really outdone myself this time….