Sat in my pjs instead of being at the work Xmas do, wishing I'd gone. Wishing I was capable of walking into a noisy restaurant dressed up in my festive best, greeting people, getting a drink, chatting, sitting down to a meal and just enjoying it. Instead I had about four hours sleep last night while my mind raced round the arrangements, feeling like getting to a 5.30pm hair appt would be impossible, that choosing something to squeeze my fat body into would make me sweat and my heart race, even though I have three possible dresses hung up, shoes and tights ready. Anticipating putting my make up on over the sweat trickling down my face, trying to cover the blotchy rash spreading from my neck and despising my triple chin. Remembering that I need to get cash out and put a taxi number in my phone, then becoming acutely undecided whether to drive there and not drink, even though I need to get wine down very fast in order to settle a bit, but then wonder if people are thinking I drink too much.
So I make the decision not to go. I cancel the hair appt, I text the organiser and say I can't make it, she replies hoping I am OK, I don't reply.
It feels better. A massive relief. Then as the day goes on, the beating myself up begins. What's wrong with you, you might have enjoyed it, a lovely meal put in front of you, you made it last time and you did OK, why didn't you try your betablockers again, why don't you book the CBT you've been referred for. What will people think...