I Had a Bad Day...a Really Bad Day

Recently, I had a bad day. A really bad day. The kind of bad day that sends you reeling into a panic attack, where your whole body goes into alarm mode and all you can do is cry on your mom's shoulder.

Something happened, not intentional, but it had severe repercussions. While I waited for those repercussions to hit, I wanted to crawl into a hole and never come out. But I didn't.

First, I called upon my circle. I told my six closest friends from 3 different walks of life what happened. One of them was at my side (virtually) immediately, supporting me however she could. Two others offered to drop what they were doing and come over. The other three sent encouragement, checked in, and helped hold me steady from a distance. Then there was my daughter and my mom, bookending the support as those closest to you do.

For a while, I was nearly paralyzed. My body was buzzing, my mind was spiraling, and I could not settle into anything that required too much thought. So I gave the nervous energy somewhere to go. I cleaned up my inbox. I handled a few menial tasks. Nothing profound. Nothing life-changing. Just small, manageable things that helped take the edge off.

Then I made a couple lists.

I think I needed to feel like I had some control somewhere. If the worst possible scenario came to fruition, I wanted things in order. So I wrote down what needed to be done, what could be handled immediately, and what could wait.

By that point, I was calm enough to focus on real work. I finished a project. I started a new one. I kept moving, not because I was fine, but because movement gave my panic less room to stretch out and redecorate the place.

When my workday was over, I started tackling the lists. Some of the items were basic adulting: register the truck and motorcycle, pay the mortgage, do the grocery shopping, put the groceries away.

The nervous energy was still humming, so I went back to the lists. I turned in a school assignment that I had already finished but had been holding onto while I waited for a grade on the previous one. I applied for a volunteer position I had been thinking about after getting an email that they were still looking for people. I worked through a few small tasks on my portfolio.

None of these things fixed the situation. They did not erase what happened or guarantee the outcome would be okay. But they reminded me that I could still function inside a hard moment. I could still make choices. I could still do the next right thing, even while part of me wanted to disappear.

And here is the part that feels significant.

I didn’t drink.

Well, I did, but it was sparkling water rather than a beer or six.

There was a long chapter of my life when this kind of bad day would have ended with a steady flow of alcohol. I would have used it to quiet the panic, soften the shame, blur the edges, and put the whole thing behind me for a while. That was my lifestyle for two decades.

Then I got divorced, and that lifestyle slowly faded to black.

It has been about four years now since I have gone into alcohol autopilot after a bad day. Four years of building different patterns. Four years of reaching for water, tea, lists, chores, schoolwork, fresh air, my people, and whatever small task might help me get through the next ten minutes.

That does not mean I handled the day perfectly. I cried. I panicked. I catastrophized. I imagined every terrible outcome and a few bonus ones my brain invented just to keep things festive.

But I also reached out. I let people support me. I stayed sober. I kept moving.

Somewhere in the middle of one of the worst days I have had in a long time, I realized something important: healing does not always announce itself with peace and enlightenment. Sometimes healing looks like paying the mortgage, putting away groceries, submitting an assignment, drinking sparkling water, and not becoming the person you used to be when everything felt impossible.