Hungover, Deranged, and Scrubbing My Soul Clean

The Night My Nervous System Gave Me the Middle Finger

A few weeks ago, I had what we call in the biz a Bad Week™. That is to say, my nervous system tapped out. Full strike. Picket lines up. No warning, no room for negotiation. By Thursday I was vibrating with rage and absolutely none of it was sexy. Did I spiral gracefully into a gentle recline with a herbal tea and some mindful breathwork? No. I texted questionable men like I was staging a one-woman intervention. I wasn’t flirty. I wasn’t sweet. I was the Ghost of Feminine Rage Past and Present. I was serving call-out energy and burnt bridges on toast.

By Friday, the wheels had officially come off. I wasn’t even sad anymore. I was just done. So I did what any emotionally cooked chaos goblin does when faced with a week of existential disappointment: I drank. And drank. And then drank a bit more for good measure. I did not sip. I did not savour. I was a woman on a mission, and the mission was forgetting the entire month of my life via Prosecco and gluten free BBQ shapes.

Logically, this should have resulted in a day of horror. A curled-up-on-the-bathroom-floor, send-help-I-smell-like-tequila situation. But no. Not me. I woke up the next morning like the Virgin Mary of Hangovers. No tears. No shame. Just a slight headache and the overpowering urge to rearrange furniture.

From Wounded to Whirling Dervish in 0.2 Seconds

Let me be clear: my hangovers are insufferable. But not in the way you think. I’m not groaning in bed, begging the gods to take me. I’m not a fragile shell of a person sipping flat lemonade and vowing never to drink again. I am insufferably energised. As in, up at 7am. As in, dancing around my lounge room like a hyperactive fairy on a sugar bender. As in, vacuuming the ceilings. Why? Couldn’t tell you. The wine demons clearly activated my inner cleaning nun and chaos goblin hybrid.

It’s like my body goes, “Well, she poisoned us again. Let’s clean the entire house while we wait for death.” I’m throwing open cupboards, scrubbing baseboards, bouncing off the walls in last night’s mascara. I’ll still have a headache. I’ll still be a bit queasy. But none of that stops the urge to do something. Anything. Preferably while playing ABBA at full volume and pretending I’m in a montage.

And everyone around me hates it. Rightfully so. While they’re softly moaning into their pillows and whispering regrets into the void, I’m chaotically folding tea towels and talking at 1.75x speed. If you’ve ever seen a raccoon find an energy drink in a bin, that’s me. Except somehow louder and with more opinions.

Tap Dancing Through the Wreckage

My hangover personality is basically the opposite of what science says should happen. It’s supposed to be a day of low blood sugar, dehydration, anxiety, fatigue. But apparently my body read that research and decided to go rogue. Some people get the hangxiety shakes. I get the kind of shame-to-energy conversion that could power a small village. I’ll be mortified about what I said or did the night before, but instead of lying in bed reliving my mistakes, I’m scrubbing the grout with the passion of a woman trying to cleanse her soul.

I will absolutely call myself out while colour-coordinating my spice rack. I’ll mutter “well, that was unhinged” while wiping down my windowsills with eucalyptus spray. Every hangover is a full-blown rebirth. The phoenix doesn’t rise from the ashes. She vacuumed the ashes into neat piles and then saged the living room while dancing to Britney.

Even the headache can’t keep me down. It just becomes a background throb while I reorganise my wardrobe like it’s a form of punishment. You think shame and regret will quiet me down? Absolutely not. I’m doing jazz hands through my emotional aftermath. I am a woman possessed. And no, I’m not sorry. But I am exhausting.

Chaos Goblin Mode: Activated

Most people say “never again” after a big night. Me? I say “let’s repaint the hallway” while still slightly drunk. I make to-do lists at 8am, still wearing pyjama pants and a bold lip. I start baking. I plan a future. I rearrange bookshelves. Sometimes I clean so furiously I forget to eat and only realise I’m starving when I stand up too fast and nearly meet the floor.

This is the insufferable part. It’s not just that I’m active. It’s that I’m unbearably cheerful about it. I’ll greet housemates or visiting friends with a chirpy “Good morning!” while they blink at me like wounded forest creatures. I’ll offer them water and toast like a benevolent gremlin, and they’ll beg me to please, for the love of god, sit down.

But I cannot. Sitting still means remembering the messages I sent. It means confronting the fact that I texted a man something along the lines of “I hope one day you find the emotional literacy you so clearly fear.” Sitting means feeling. So I clean. I bustle. I sparkle. I perform the version of myself that looks healed, even while I’m hiding in plain sight.

A Headache, A Heartache, and Half a Clean House

Eventually, the energy wears off. Usually around 2pm. I crash, suddenly and dramatically. The chaos goblin deflates like a balloon with a slow leak. The reality creeps in. The hangover finally lands. I lie down, fully clothed, surrounded by the wreckage of my own productivity and regret. My kitchen is sparkling. My brain is not.

This is when the emotional hangover starts. The “what did I say, who did I offend, why am I like this” spiral. The physical symptoms were just a distraction. It’s the shame that hits hardest. But even that’s got flair. I don’t just feel bad. I feel bad aesthetically. I lie on the floor like a Victorian woman in distress, whispering apologies into the air.

And then, like the true gremlin I am, I pick myself up, make a pot of green tea, and start again. Because that’s the thing. I might be insufferable. But I’m also relentless. My hangovers don’t take me out. They just reroute me. Into dance routines, into unnecessary tasks, into the exact kind of chaos that keeps me from falling apart completely.

So if you ever find yourself hiding from the world, clutching your forehead while I bounce into the room singing along to Lady Gaga and reorganising your sock drawer: I’m sorry. I am insufferable. You’ll hate it. But at least your baseboards will sparkle.

We Need to Stop Clapping for Basic Decency – Chaos, Crumbs and Clarity

In today's episode of Chaos, Crumbs and Clarity, we're unpacking why we need to stop clapping for basic decency. You know the script. A man texts back within twenty-four hours and we're screenshotting it to the group chat. A man plans a date more than three hours in advance and we call him a unicorn. A man manages to listen, pay attention, and behave like a fully formed adult, and our nervous systems short-circuit because we genuinely don't know how to receive it.Here's the truth nobody is saying out loud. The bar has been dragged so low that Satan himself needs a chiropractor after a competitive round of limbo. We've been culturally trained to be grateful for behaviour that should not require gratitude. We've been told these things are bonuses when they're actually the entry requirement. And in the meantime, women have been quietly doing the basic decency thing forever, without applause, while men get standing ovations for outputs we generated for them.Today we're talking about why a great man is genuinely just an average woman, who benefits when the bar stays low, the invisible labour women have been performing for free for centuries, and the friend-test that cuts straight through every excuse we've ever made for mediocre men. Let's get into it.For more visit BryJaimea.com or follow over on IG @BryJaimea

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