It’s a song from the ’80s.
If you know, you know.

There’s always this mental tug-of-war that happens in my head the day I’m supposed to go to a party. Going to events alone was never part of the plan — not in my twenties, and certainly not now.

But when the time gets close, the internal debate starts:
“Should I stay, or should I go?”

The Anxiety Spiral

Sometimes, the anxiety hits so hard it feels physical. My chest tightens, I start to hyperventilate, and I wonder why something as simple as walking into a room of people can feel like scaling a mountain.

It’s not fear of being alone — I’ve gotten used to that.
It’s the idea of being surrounded by people and not knowing how to exist in the middle of it anymore.

I tell myself, “They won’t even miss me if I don’t go.”
And maybe that’s true.

But I know what happens when I stay home.
I sit in my quiet house, pour myself a drink, then another, and another — until I’m too numb to care that I’m alone. Then I go to bed drunk and miserable, hating myself for not showing up.

The Party

Last night was a Halloween pumpkin carving party at a friend’s house. I hadn’t seen most of these guys since before Kerry died. I told myself it was time — time to start showing up for life again.

So I put on my big boy pants and got my stuff together:
Pumpkin — check.
Carving tools — check.
Ginger ale — check.
Goodies — check.
Spiced rum — definitely check.

I loaded up the truck, sat there for a moment, and thought, “Should I just turn around?”

Then I caught myself.
“Fuck that. No fucking way.”

Showing Up

I made it.

And you know what? I had a great time.

I hugged the boys, caught up, met new people, and for the first time in a long time, I laughed without overthinking it.

It felt good — really good — to be out, to be part of something again, to feel like myself around people who actually see me.

The Aftermath

Now, full disclosure: I definitely drank too much.
And yes, I’m pretty sure I shouldn’t have driven home.

Thank God I didn’t get pulled over. I do vaguely remember hitting a construction cone on the way — guess I should probably go check the truck later.

But honestly? Totally worth it.

Because sometimes, the hardest part isn’t carving the pumpkin — it’s carving your way back into life.

And last night, I did just that.

— Standing on the Edge