Navigating a Reunion Hangover but Not Because of the Drinks

Photo by Yasser Mutwakil ياسر متوكل on Unsplash

One recent morning I had a reunion hangover and I didn’t drink a drop of alcohol. The gathering I attended the night before was in honor of a retiring professor. It wasn’t a traditional reunion of a graduating class but it was a party with many alums from the same college reuniting to celebrate an influential man who made a significant impact on our lives.

In gatherings like this, I often feel occasional triggers or pangs of regret or stabs of comparison.

So, on the two-hour drive north, I did some therapeutic work.

I practiced some exercises from the profound book about the internal family systems model, No Bad Parts, by Dr. Richard C. Schwartz, and tried to tap into all the places inside that were beginning to freak out in anticipation; the parts of myself that were yelling “You haven’t written a book yet!” “You’re wearing that?” “Nobody cares what you’re wearing, you narcissist!”

My parts are sophisticated like this, attacking from all angles.

The work I did to examine these dynamics while driving went well. By the time I reached my destination, I was fairly centered, ready to move into the reunion space and celebrate why we were gathering.

Despite the initial anxiety of not seeing familiar faces and clinging to my sparkling water like it was an actual lifeline, I slowly made connections and began to ride the waves of emotions that come with seeing old friends. I moved into a space of remembering so much good and reveling in how this leader shaped and guided the trajectory of my thinking and teaching.

There were short bursts of insecurity, small pricks of judgment, or jealousy as I compared my resume to others, as I remembered old wounds or embarrassing moments of youthful immaturity. But I didn’t stay in those places.

And, of course, there were pictures taken to mark the occasion.

Photo by Priscilla Du Preez on Unsplash

Taking pictures comes with the territory. Naturally. Thinking through picture-taking was part of my self-talk before the event. As I posed for pictures, I laughed trying to remember some of the tips friends have passed along over the years: tilt your head this way; angle your body; show your teeth; don’t show your teeth.

But I wasn’t as worried in those moments because I was feeling so connected with the people and the spirit of the evening.

Then, after the event, those people texted me the pictures.

I didn’t see the messages until I reached my house late at night, and after one quick viewing of the photos, I swiftly descended into despair. I was so flooded with shame and disgust that all the good from the experience that I carried with me on the two-hour drive home was swiftly washed away.

I went to sleep in darkness and woke up with a reunion hangover.

It is almost always this way for me with pictures, which is quite tricky in an age where an experience doesn’t truly exist unless it’s marked with a picture and then, distressingly, shared on social media.

And I, post-early-onset menopause, in a body I have long struggled with and about which I am working to lessen my loathing against, would rather not see myself in pictures.

So, when the sun came up in the morning, I was not basking in the afterglow of a truly remarkable evening commemorating the significant legacy of an inspirational man, I was cowering from the harsh voices that attacked me saying, “How could you do that? How could you put yourself in pictures? How could you humiliate yourself this way?”

In the spirit of the one-two punch, another string of voices assaulted me with, “The night wasn’t about you. No one cares. You simply don’t matter that much.”

It made sense that I didn’t want to get out of bed. But my coffee addiction got me upright and the strategies I was practicing the day before from No Bad Parts kept me, albeit barely, from going over the edge.

Dr. Schwartz writes that we are made up of many internal parts, parts that over time have taken on various roles to protect our central Self from danger and threats. Many times these parts started working to protect us at young ages and the harsh voices are coming from a place of actually wanting to help us.

Behind the voice that says “I am disgusting” might be a motivation to keep me from thinking too highly of myself because pride comes before the fall, and this part doesn’t want me to fall.

Perhaps the voice berating me for putting myself in pictures is from the part that doesn’t want me to feel the vulnerability of being seen in this body, or being seen at all. Vulnerability and “being seen” come with great risk and these parts want to protect me from any consequences of that risk.

I also reminded myself this internal experience isn’t that uncommon. Schwartz writes that many of us interact with, fight with, and try to contain parts of ourselves that, in their desire to protect us, can do real harm.

So, he suggests having real conversations with these parts, check-ins to understand why they are so angry or aggressive or harsh. Although I had conversations with these parts of myself on my drive the day before, they had renewed strength the next morning.

So, I talked with them again.

Per Schwartz’s theory, I located my Self, the center of me, and from that space talked to the parts that were so angry and threatened. I actually listened to their complaints and acknowledged their fears.

It wasn’t a cure-all, but the listening decreased the discomfort in my chest and the mounting pressure in my forehead. These parts were thankful to be heard and able to loosely accept that I didn’t need such fierce protection.

I reminded them that I’m not a little girl anymore, but a forty-nine-year-old adult. Schwartz suggests that our parts often think we are much younger.

The distress didn’t completely evaporate but it lessened enough that I could scan my body and mind and slowly return to the truth about the evening.

I could remember the great joy of walking down memory lane with a dear friend with whom I served as a resident assistant. I could experience the gratitude of getting to see a former student who I so thoroughly enjoyed and admired. I could savor the reconnection with an old roommate and kindred spirit.

I was able to recall the shifts in temperature on the beautiful lawn of a gorgeous home that served as a backdrop for the evening presentations. I could picture the green hills in the distance that darkened as the sun went down and the full moon that rose behind the last streaks of a pink sunset.

Photo by Ryan Holloway on Unsplash

And mostly, I could feel the depth of meaning that comes when people gather to honor someone at the end of a thirty-five-year career.

I know the voices will return when I look at the pictures again and my parts will be triggered to respond. But this new process of examination dilutes the intensity, like electrolytes to ease a raging hangover.

Sometimes the dehydration lingers for the rest of the day, but the body doesn’t feel so close to dying. The spirit can revive a little as the hangover nausea abates.

I may or may not look at the pictures again. I definitely won’t post them, which is both relevant here and a discussion for another time. But I am slowly able to help parts of myself understand they don’t need to protect me by hijacking otherwise deeply moving experiences.

A profoundly hopeful prospect moving forward.