Last One at the Party

by Bethany Clift

Is it weird that the pubs and bars and clubs stayed open? Is it weird that we went out and got blasted rather than going home and sealing ourselves in? Yes. But the city was madness that night.

But now I wondered if this was all by choice. Was I alone and independent because I wanted to be, or because I had no other options?

I’d introduced them to my best friend, Xavier, once, as he too was a lover of men. Afterwards he said to me ‘Remind me to introduce you to my friend Lorraine.’ ‘Why?’ I asked. ‘Because she’s a woman,’ he had deadpanned.

But my first panic attack was in 2012 and very few people were talking about mental health as openly and acceptingly as they now do. In 2012 I was still convinced that if anyone found out how mental I was I would be locked up. I was also, stupidly, incredibly embarrassed by my crumbling mental health. I was embarrassed that I was suddenly unable to commit to writing an article without feeling sick, or get into the lift at work without hyperventilating.

We didn’t have much money, but Mum and Dad had time, unlimited curiosity, and endless creativity.

An entire childhood of small, wonderful memories combining to form years of contented happiness. Growing up had been filled with joy and wonder and fun and love, I was safe and happy and cared for by people who loved me. So, is it any surprise that I expected the rest of my life to be equally easy and idyllic?

It’s not that I have anything against them, but I was pretty sheltered and lacking in friends to offer them to me when I was younger, and then, by the time I was old enough to be offered anything, I was best friends with Xav, and drugs were Xav’s thing; so, by default, my thing was staying sober enough to make sure he didn’t accidentally kill himself or anyone else when he was off his face.

Truth is, as with many other things in my life, the main reason I didn’t take drugs was because I was scared. Scared of being out of control, of it making me even more mental, of the drugs reacting badly with the sleeping tablets I often took. I was scared of dying.

I ignored how, every time I read something great or saw an interview with an author I loved, I got a gnawing pang of jealousy in the pit of my stomach.

It was like a video game; do well at one level and then move to the next. I just needed to try harder, be better at my job, be thinner, be funnier, be a better girlfriend, make James happier. Then I would level up to wife.

I had wanted James to ask me to marry him because he couldn’t imagine life without me, not because we’d been together eight years so it was about time.

‘Sometimes it doesn’t matter who else you’re with, if you’re not happy with yourself.’

‘So, you’re right. I don’t know you, I never got the chance. You never let me. And I tried. I really fucking tried. And if you’d just let me be with you and not some fucking pretend version, then I think I would have really liked you … and maybe you might have liked you as well. But, I suppose, neither of us will ever know now.’