navigating festivals sober (sort of)

So, I’m at Shambala dressed as a half-naked ninja (all my bits are well and truly out), sippin’ on a CBD coffee, watching a 7-year-old booty shake to Prodigy Spitfire whilst playing sword fights with my new little mate called Alfie (who’s 5-fingers-old). Giggling uncontrollably at the (completely inappropriate) juxtaposition of the current situation (my favourite kind). 

 

This is why I love festivals; everyone just embraces their inner weirdness. There’s no structure; everything's just a little bit of a mess and it is beautiful.

wabi-sabi: the beauty in imperfection

weird: derived from the old English ‘wyrd’ meaning ‘destiny: having the power to control fate’

This was probably the highlight of my summer. Genuinely. It’s funny how the moments you cherish the most change over time. Three years ago I’d be running around in a cape with my mates flying high. Now, I’m running away from them - getting high on caffeine and playing games with children. 

doing a festival sober.

Shambala wasn’t my first “sober” festival. I’d been going to festivals for almost 20 years now and went to a couple of smaller ones over the last year. But, it was my first 4 day sober festival since I was 14…and it was a lot harder than I thought. 

When I first went sober I avoided partying to resist temptations. But, after a while, I missed it. Because I realised I love it. Music, festivals and dancing have been a big part of my life for most of my life. And, just because I’m sober doesn’t mean I have to give up all the things that I love. It’s just a case of re-learning how to navigate myself in them, which is the tricky part.

Going to a festival sober when pretty much everyone you know isn’t, isn’t easy.

Not that anyone was pressuring me. If anything, everyone was incredibly supportive. “Inspirational” was the word they used. But, having to prep for a full 3 days before, starting the festival with an anxiety attack in the car and running away from all my mates doesn’t really make me feel like much of an “inspiration”. 

why did I keep running away?

Hmmm. Anxiety? Not really knowing how to be when the last time I was in the field I was high on mandy? Or, most probably, it was the addict in me just trying to keep busy. So I spent most of my time chasing the music. Regardless, I had a sick time. I dressed up, saw some familiar faces, and danced all weekend. I did yoga every morning, got high on cacao in a tent decorated with cunt-ing (vagina bunting) and frolicked in a field like a fairy. It was magical.

But without the numbing of the nights followed by morning hang-xiety, I had a lot more time to think.

cracked.

It wasn’t until Sunday that I cracked. I sat in my tent, yamming a whole bar of Lindt 85% dark chocolate and decided I was gonna get a drink. The whole time I was walking to the bar I was looking out for “a sign” telling me not to. And there just wasn’t one. If anything the universe was making it particularly easy for me. I walked up to the first tent I saw (playing some sick disco/funk bangers) with no queue at the bar and ordered a double gin and tonic with a coffee liqueur shot. I then bumped into a mate who manages all the bars at Shambala. She gave me some candy and a load of free dark ‘n’ stormies. Too easy.

Like Frodo on his quest, I bumped into a few other hobbits and wizards throughout the day who gave me some more candy and sent me on my merry way.

shame?

Now, I could sit here and write about how bad I feel: the guilt, the shame, the self-pity… and of course there are parts of me that regret some of my decisions (and my body didn’t like me very much this week). But, I’ve been sober for 2 years. Before that, I didn’t even think I could go sober for 2 weeks. And at one point during that time, I was so poorly that I couldn’t even leave my house.

Over the last few years, I’ve had to strategically plan my food and meal times, my sleep and my routine, just so that I could feel like a normal person. I’ve had to be in control. This weekend was the first time in 2 years that I was able to lose control. And, to be honest, it felt good.

The reason I wanted to write about this is to show that “inspirational” isn’t perfect, and that having a drink when you’re “sober” (or eating a chicken nugget when you’re “vegan”) doesn’t make you a bad person. It just makes you human. I’ve stopped (and restarted) smoking, drinking, caffeine (and everything else) countless times. And I’ve learnt (the hard way) that there’s no point beating yourself over something that’s already happened. It doesn’t change anything and it just makes you want to do it more. Healthy hedonism is an important part of self-care - it’s just learning where your line is and finding that balance (which is the hardest part).

But also to share with all those lovely people that what some may find “inspirational” can also be ugly, lonely and nonlinear. It’s a turbulent trajectory to change your habits, and sometimes it’s just as important to lose control as it reignites the motivation to regain it again.

A festival is a place where you can step out of daily norms, to learn about yourself outside of “normal life”, and to let loose in a world that is usually so structured. It’s a safe space to embrace your weirdness and accept imperfection. A place where it’s perfectly acceptable to roly-poly down a hill covered in glitter with your tits out, with a 45-year-old Scottish man (trippin’ on shrooms) and a 5-year-old that you’ve just met. Shambala was a celebration, liberation from all the shit that everyone’s been through over the last few years. So, I’m not beating myself up over my “failure” of navigating a festival sober. I let off some steam, I had fun and… wabi-sabi.