The Real Cost Of Having FOMO (Fear Of Missing Out)

Party, After-party.
I’m a self-confessed party girl. Always have been and I reckon I always will be. I have faith that someday I will grow out of the late nights, the 9 vodka shots and everything else that comes along with it but for now, I continue to live for the weekend and drink myself into a disconcerted state of mind. I’ve developed a sort of ritual each month, I’d stand in the mirror and say to myself, ‘You have to start staying in more and saving money,’ ‘You will go the gym 4 times a week’, ‘You will not go out and get drunk every weekend.’ I typically last until the weekend or if I’m really good the following weekend.

My friends claim that they ‘love to stay in’ how they love nothing more than watching films on the weekend and getting a takeaway. I mean there’s nothing like the odd night in watching trash TV in front of the fire but c’mon we’re living in our prime! I want to be Paris Hilton circa 2002 white girl wasted!

pariswasted

I’m sat here thinking ‘I absolutely live for going out and getting wasted!’ The only takeaway I’ll be getting is a crate full of beer and a barrack of cider! My rents cheap, and I don’t have many outgoings apart from food, and people around me ask me what I spend all my money on. I have to lie and tell them my rent has gone up or I’ve started shopping at Waitrose. The truth is I spend it all on getting wasted at the weekends.

I don’t even tell people at work that I go out anymore, it saves a conversation; answering mindless questions about where you have been who you’ve been with and the old chestnut ‘did you pull?’ I’m lucky enough to not suffer from major under eye puffage and I’ve gotten so good at keeping my head down and mumbling something along the lines of ‘Oh just a chilled one this weekend.’

People around me like to joke and say that they don’t look at their bank accounts and hope for the best, but I actually don’t check mine! Nothing worse finding out you’ve spent £75 in Hula Tiki Bar on 5 Zombies and 4 shots of Sambuca.

Black out.
I can’t just have 1 or 2 drinks; I have to go all out. I have to get drunk. I have to be the drunkest. I have to stay out till after 3 am. I’m almost always sick when I get in and follows this is a full day nursing a stonking hangover. The weekend is over before its’ begun. It’s like a mad, spinning rush out of control feeling ending with falling face first, blacking out onto your mattress before waking up with a mouth drier than the Sahara and no recollection of what happened only a few hours before.

This is all before the blood rushes to your head, and you have that smacked in the face feeling, your head and heart pounding, and suddenly you start to think, ‘what the hell happened last night?’ The first go to is the camera library on your phone, trying to retrace your steps; blurred club pics with random groups of strangers amongst toilet mirror selfies and videos taking shots at the bar which you can almost taste as you sift through the images wincing.

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You check your incoherent WhatsApp at 3.30am, which must have been written by your 4-year-old nephew. You’re lying in bed cringing at those famous ex-texts that you sent, you know the ones, ‘I want you back, ‘I love you’ – yeah those. And every time you swear, ‘I’m not going to do this again.’

But Where Does It Stop?
The truth is, the cost of living like a queen on champagne lifestyle with a lemonade wage, however, hits my bank balance HARD. Money is a material thing, but when you feel your health deteriorating from the late night parties; your stomach feels like it’s been pulled inside out, your skin is dry AF, eye’s bloodshot and you can barely run a minute on the treadmill without wheezing you being to wonder ‘is this all really worth it for 3 hours of dancing and the same shit music that the clubs play every week?’ You even know the order of the songs by now.

Why Was I Doing All this?
Up until 2 months ago, I was the girl you just read about, (my life sounded great, eh?) but I hated my job and was completely stressed out, anxious and miserable. I was drinking to get drunk to go to sleep some nights so I wouldn’t lie awake wondering what fresh hell awaited me on Monday. I don’t like to stereotype but getting drunk every weekend or having a drink every night of the week isn’t just what homeless people do or 60-year-old men battling depression. I’m 24 and alcohol became very much an escapism for me for the best part of 4-5 months.

I knew subconsciously the job was never really ‘me.’ Looking back I really wish that I had have been true to myself and left sooner. The office gossiping, the general atmosphere and even the work parties were dull (to me, anyway). Trying to fit into a place where you don’t ultimately feel you belong, can play hazard with the mind as you’re in a constant battle with yourself to stay. Finally, you tell yourself it’ll eventually get better knowing all along that it won’t. I’m not saying that there weren’t good moments because of course there was, but they were instantaneous and burnt out quickly.

The party girl is still me, and I don’t want to lose that part of myself because she’s fun, outgoing and loves to dance. I’ve just had to rein it in the past few months and really reflect on the person I was turning into. She would lie in bed all day Sunday, never leave the room and at most times ring her mom blubbing, ‘Why have I just gone and done that again?’ It’s not the most tragic story of the effects of alcohol you’ve probably read or heard of, but for me, it’s a huge lesson learned. Going out most weekends is quite normal for yuppies but when you’re faced with a self-discovery about the reasons why you go out every weekend; not to have fun but to curb your sadness, then it’s a good enough reason to stop and reevaluate what you spend your weekends doing and more importantly who with.

Right now, I’m enjoying meditating, reading and embracing the spiritual journey that I’m on. I’m in a far better place than before, and although I have the occasional drink, for the foreseeable future I’m saying no to going out and focusing on going to the gym, getting fitter and treating my body and mind well instead.

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One thought on “The Real Cost Of Having FOMO (Fear Of Missing Out)

  1. This was a good read, and I can relate because I used to be the guy version of the girl your talking about lol! You got my follow. Check out my comedy blog and give it a follow if you like it! 😄

    Like

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