Vulnerability hangovers
And a vision of a world where they don't exist.
Mind the gap.
The gap between Substacks has been stretching out longer than I hoped. This fact freaks me out, reinforcing some shitty self-talk that likes to tell me: *I’m inconsistent* and *I give up too quickly* and *you never finish what you start*. All of these things may be true by some business bro measurement, some life hack expert, some productivity guru with a gazillion followers – but why do I care about these people anyway? Why am I letting them take up precious brain space and allowing them to gobble up my word count?
I’m here. I’m showing up. And that’s enough for me.
So this Substack is to refute all those stupid voices telling me I don’t measure up.
But also, on a much, MUCH happier note, it’s wonderful to chat with you and have you here joining me in this space. I know that you don’t hold me to ridiculous standards, and knowing that fact is refreshing and liberating.
So, a massive hello if you’re new here and welcome back if you’ve been hanging out with me for a while (here’s to you Mum and Dad).
Have you heard of the term: vulnerability hangover?
I’ve noticed that after I send a Substack, it’s hard for me to fall asleep. I ruminate on the words I’ve shared. Have I gone too far? Am I an oversharer? What will people think of me?
My nightly dose of quetiapine isn’t as effective at knocking me out as it used to be. I’ve got into the bad habit of thinking that it’s enough to swallow my pills and to hell with sleep hygiene or a wind-down routine.
I’ve noticed an uptick in nightmares that are getting more and more bizarre - last night, my daughter was some kind of assassin. I work out my worry on my bedsheets so much that the corners start peeling away from the mattress.
Last week, I attended the Lived Experience Wānanga: Community Champions edition,
a meeting of minds for people who have experienced mental distress. The Nōku te Ao Social Movement team hosted the event, and it was held at the Mental Health Foundation’s Auckland office.
The whole day was very well done; I’m so glad I went. We were split into three groups, each rotating around the different workshops. My group’s first workshop focused on how we can share our lived experiences safely and effectively.
I asked how we can cope with vulnerability hangovers, that feeling of being wrung out and split open after we’ve shared our story and what we can do to soften the impact. Someone shared an insight that struck me: sharing our story is a spiritual experience; it’s tapu (sacred). Afterwards, we need to do things that bring us home to ourselves, like enjoying kai (cake and a cuppa), going for a walk or having a nap.
I used to beat myself up for having vulnerability hangovers or the time it took to recover from sharing the intimate folds and creases of my life.
But in a world where there’s sadly still stigma and discrimination, vulnerability hangovers are an understandable and almost unavoidable experience. If you don’t get them, please let me know your strategies!
This discussion led me to rethink my vision for my Substack and Compassion Poetry:
A world where it’s no longer considered brave to share you have bipolar.
When my daughter was only months old, we spent some time in postnatal respite care with other mums who were experiencing postnatal distress.
I remember a massage therapist would visit us and teach us the art and pure joy of baby massage. With several babies lying down on a soft, stretched-out muslin blanket, all shiny with Chamomile-infused baby oil and full of smiles, I confided in the massage therapist that I was hanging out for a world where bipolar can be talked about openly, without shame. A world where my daughter won’t face any judgment if she later faces a bipolar diagnosis.
A world where vulnerability hangovers wouldn’t be something she’d even consider, let alone experience.
What would a world like that look like? What can we do to make this a reality?
For a start, representation is vitally important. It’s always been so. Seeing people like us, with brains like us, portrayed in books and art and films. And positive portrayals, too. Relatable portrayals. Not violent or scary outsiders or extraordinary geniuses.
Maybe it’s in the design of our hospitals where psych wards are not hidden away, miles from the main campus. Nobody puts baby in the corner.
It could be in the design of our workplaces and systems and how we accommodate different energy levels and capacities.
It’s in the words we use in conversations and medical notes – not tiptoeing around labels like bipolar (as we don’t tiptoe around physical health diagnoses). And the context in which we use them – bipolar should never be used in a derogatory way as shorthand for someone who can’t make their mind up or who is a little bit moody, for example.
What would you add to this list?
Did you know?
This month, Aotearoa is holding a Mental Health Film Festival featuring nine locally made short films and a panel discussion with mental health experts. I’m not sure if there will be any stories of people with bipolar, but I’m hoping that the films will be great conversation starters.
I used to love tequila shots and vodka Red Bulls, but I’m not a big drinker these days. Not because I’m Sandra Dee or anything, but because hangovers make me so miserable and undo all the good work of my pills and therapy and whatnot.
(Unless it’s a wedding or other big celebration, and then I’ll enjoy several cans of Pals with m’pals.)
I’m not going to stop sharing my story any time soon. And I’m not going to give up on contributing to a world where bipolar doesn’t hold as much stigma as it does now.
But, in the meantime, vulnerability hangovers are still going to be a thing (and they’ll vary in intensity from a little bit annoying to a raging migraine).
And I can’t be a martyr about it either. I can’t sacrifice my mental health in the process.
Which means this: I’m gonna need to get serious about looking after myself before, during and after sharing my story – finding and repeating rituals and routines that bring me home to myself. And that includes reminding myself of the person I am beyond my diagnosis - the person who dances and sings and performs and wholeheartedly believes my jokes are hilarious.
Tell your friends, I’m coming home, I’m coming home.
Carrot cake and a cuppa, anyone?