Watched Hamnet tonight, and it took me back to many years ago, in Stratford-upon-Avon. This is a poem I wrote at the time.

The come down is…

Sitting in Stratford,

thinking, what is happening?

My body aches

from the come down from the alcohol.

The come down is… I’m never drinking again.

The nightmares are… frightening, from the past. I’m too scared to sleep.

The hatred of oneself is… I’m not good enough.

The palpitations are… constant and corrosive.

The paranoia is… I can’t see anyone, nor do I want to.

The panic attacks are… an intense tingling from my toes to my vagina, then to my chest, with feelings of regret.

The fear is… the worst thing possible is going to happen.

The insecurities are… he deserves better.

The emotion is… misery. I don’t want to die; it makes me want to cry. The alcohol is not a high.

My mind is overthinking, all because of drinking.

Dark with despair and self-pity.

Where is my self-worth?