Le Festibière and why you shouldn't try to drink your anxiety away
Le Festibière is a beer festival in Québec that my boyfriend and I stumbled into. His cousins were going this weekend and invited us along. I am an amateur craft beer enthusiast, and thought an event celebrating that sounded great. It was pretty great. But it was also difficult at times to get through.
To begin with, we had to navigate the busy city streets to get to the festival. I'm not a great lover of cities on the best of days (I like the idea of them, but being there is a totally different story), and walking narrow sidewalks with sounds and smells assaulting us from all sides certainly didn't help. I find when I'm very anxious, I get very sensitive to stimuli and overwhelm easily.
Unsurprisingly, the large tent the festival was in was absolutely stuffed to the brim with people. People who spoke French. The overwhelming feeling of "you are an outsider here" was difficult to get past. I didn't fit in. I didn't belong. These are things the demon has told me all my life, and while usually it is easy to ignore, here it is harder. I don't fit in here.
My boyfriend's cousins and their friends are accommodating, the vendors are friendly, nobody makes fun of me for not speaking French. Joe translates for me when needed, and feeds me words when I don't know what to say. The vendors volunteer to speak English. But I can't shake the feeling of otherness. I start drinking my drinks faster.
Alcohol has always been a pleasant excuse to cut loose. The whole point is that it lowers your inhibitions. The problem is that more often than not, I use it as a way to fight my anxiety. I'm a lot better about it now, but I used to use it to silence the screaming in my brain when I was uncomfortable at a party. Or sad after a hard day. Or just, you know. Because feelings are hard.
It's easy. It's socially acceptable. And that's honestly what makes it so dangerous. If I busted out a needle full of heroin at a party, my friends would be worried about me, and rightly so. But if I drink too much, I'm just enjoying myself. There isn't even anything wrong with drinking, just when it's used as a placeholder for coping mechanisms. Because then it becomes the coping mechanism. Then you're an alcoholic.
Drinking too much, especially when the point is to combat my anxiety, has gotten me into some bad places. It's gotten me into situations where I've been extremely uncomfortable but too drunk to bother caring. Dangerous situations. The kind of situations that could have gone very, very badly and I'm extremely lucky that they didn't.
The worst part of the whole thing is that alcohol doesn't silence the demon. It gives him power. His words are clearer, his points more forceful. The more control I lose to the drink, the more he gains. It doesn't help me feel more relaxed at a party. It doesn't make my bad mood go away. It makes everything worse. It makes me worse. The lie that things will be better comes from the demon. Self-medicating doesn't help. It's a band-aid over a bullet hole.
Instead of trying to drink my discomfort away, I've been working on discovering why I'm not comfortable at these places. If I'm overwhelmed by sensory stimulus, I need to get away from the noise and sit in a quiet place. If the anxiety is from interacting with people I don't know (an exercise in draining my energy), making sure I have someone I can talk to nearby is important. Having my boyfriend, who is very sensitive to how I'm feeling and often does temperature checks, accompany me places I'm not comfortable with going has been really good for keeping myself grounded.
It's easy for the demon to try and squeeze himself into these positive strategies. "You're pathetic for needing this much help." But I'm not. Different people need different things to succeed. There's nothing shameful in seeking help with things that are difficult for you, social interaction included.
At Le Festibière, I started drinking my drinks a little faster. And then I stopped. Because alcohol isn't a crutch, it's a cage. And at Le Festibière, I didn't let myself get trapped. I still stumbled. I almost cried when my boyfriend tried to get me to order from a vendor. I started drinking faster to try and let loose. But I still had a good night, and didn't get drunk to do it.
The reward? The best firework show I've ever seen. Which I mean, would have happened regardless of how the night went. But I got to really enjoy it, because I didn't let myself get ensnared in the demon's lies.
To begin with, we had to navigate the busy city streets to get to the festival. I'm not a great lover of cities on the best of days (I like the idea of them, but being there is a totally different story), and walking narrow sidewalks with sounds and smells assaulting us from all sides certainly didn't help. I find when I'm very anxious, I get very sensitive to stimuli and overwhelm easily.
Unsurprisingly, the large tent the festival was in was absolutely stuffed to the brim with people. People who spoke French. The overwhelming feeling of "you are an outsider here" was difficult to get past. I didn't fit in. I didn't belong. These are things the demon has told me all my life, and while usually it is easy to ignore, here it is harder. I don't fit in here.
My boyfriend's cousins and their friends are accommodating, the vendors are friendly, nobody makes fun of me for not speaking French. Joe translates for me when needed, and feeds me words when I don't know what to say. The vendors volunteer to speak English. But I can't shake the feeling of otherness. I start drinking my drinks faster.
Alcohol has always been a pleasant excuse to cut loose. The whole point is that it lowers your inhibitions. The problem is that more often than not, I use it as a way to fight my anxiety. I'm a lot better about it now, but I used to use it to silence the screaming in my brain when I was uncomfortable at a party. Or sad after a hard day. Or just, you know. Because feelings are hard.
It's easy. It's socially acceptable. And that's honestly what makes it so dangerous. If I busted out a needle full of heroin at a party, my friends would be worried about me, and rightly so. But if I drink too much, I'm just enjoying myself. There isn't even anything wrong with drinking, just when it's used as a placeholder for coping mechanisms. Because then it becomes the coping mechanism. Then you're an alcoholic.
Drinking too much, especially when the point is to combat my anxiety, has gotten me into some bad places. It's gotten me into situations where I've been extremely uncomfortable but too drunk to bother caring. Dangerous situations. The kind of situations that could have gone very, very badly and I'm extremely lucky that they didn't.
The worst part of the whole thing is that alcohol doesn't silence the demon. It gives him power. His words are clearer, his points more forceful. The more control I lose to the drink, the more he gains. It doesn't help me feel more relaxed at a party. It doesn't make my bad mood go away. It makes everything worse. It makes me worse. The lie that things will be better comes from the demon. Self-medicating doesn't help. It's a band-aid over a bullet hole.
Instead of trying to drink my discomfort away, I've been working on discovering why I'm not comfortable at these places. If I'm overwhelmed by sensory stimulus, I need to get away from the noise and sit in a quiet place. If the anxiety is from interacting with people I don't know (an exercise in draining my energy), making sure I have someone I can talk to nearby is important. Having my boyfriend, who is very sensitive to how I'm feeling and often does temperature checks, accompany me places I'm not comfortable with going has been really good for keeping myself grounded.
It's easy for the demon to try and squeeze himself into these positive strategies. "You're pathetic for needing this much help." But I'm not. Different people need different things to succeed. There's nothing shameful in seeking help with things that are difficult for you, social interaction included.
At Le Festibière, I started drinking my drinks a little faster. And then I stopped. Because alcohol isn't a crutch, it's a cage. And at Le Festibière, I didn't let myself get trapped. I still stumbled. I almost cried when my boyfriend tried to get me to order from a vendor. I started drinking faster to try and let loose. But I still had a good night, and didn't get drunk to do it.
The reward? The best firework show I've ever seen. Which I mean, would have happened regardless of how the night went. But I got to really enjoy it, because I didn't let myself get ensnared in the demon's lies.
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