Kate Didd

(Day 88)

Yesterday was supposed to be a “get my life together” kind of day.

You know the ones.
Wake up. Hit the gym. Eat clean. Drink water. Be the version of yourself you keep promising is right there within reach if you just, try harder.

And I did try.

I hit every box… except the one that actually mattered.

I forgot to eat.

Well, not forgot. More like… avoided in the way my brain sometimes does when it’s chasing dopamine instead of stability. So instead of a real plan, I grabbed a brunch burrito the size of my head on the way to work like that would somehow anchor me.

It didn’t.

Because somewhere between “I’ve got this” and “what the hell is happening,” I started saying yes.

Shot after shot after shot.

Now let me be clear, this is not me.
I don’t do this. I don’t get wasted. I don’t spiral like that anymore. That version of me? She’s someone I worked very hard to outgrow.

But trauma doesn’t ask permission before it shows up.

And mine showed up loud.

It started with a story, another woman, another escape plan, another moment of pretending to be nice just to survive long enough to get out safely.

And it hit me like a freight train.

Because I remember that.

I remember the strategy.
The calculation.
The way your brain learns to stay soft on the outside while it’s screaming on the inside just to make it out alive.

That memory didn’t knock. It kicked the door in.

So I drank.

Not because I wanted to.
Because I knew exactly what it used to do, it numbed it. It quieted the noise. It blurred the edges.

After the second shot, I called my husband.

“Hey… when you’re done with work, you need to come get me. It’s gonna be a day.”

And then it got worse.

A friend. A hug. Too tight.

She flinched.

Bruises.

The kind you don’t have to ask about because your body already knows the answer.

And suddenly she’s in my arms, sobbing. And I’m holding her, cradling her like a child, rocking her in that quiet, sacred way women do when words are useless and safety is the only language that matters.

I am so grateful I can be that space.

But God… I am so tired of being that space.

Tired of hearing the same stories.
Tired of watching women rebuild just to be broken again.
Tired of men who don’t change, and systems that don’t hold them accountable.

We focus so much on getting women out and we should but there’s a rage that lives in me knowing so many of these men will never face what they’ve done.

And that rage?

It flooded me.

By the time my husband saw me, I wasn’t just drunk, I was in full fight-or-flight, hijacked by a past I don’t live in anymore but still lives in me.

And he didn’t ask questions.

He just took me home.

He ran me a bubble bath.
Put Gatorade in my hands.
Made me a grilled cheese sandwich that I split with my five-year-old, who kissed my head and said, “Feel better, Mommy.”

And that broke me in a completely different way.

Because he has never seen that version of me.

And he won’t again.

I haven’t drank like that in four years. Not to the point of getting sick. Not to the point of losing control.

But the body remembers.

It remembers when alcohol meant survival.
When it meant escape.
When it meant numbing the reality of loving someone who was hurting you.

My first husband drank because he was broken.
I drank because I was surviving him.

And now?

Now I don’t want it.

That’s the difference.

This wasn’t a relapse into desire, it was a reaction to pain.

And there’s science behind that.

Women with ADHD, especially those with trauma, often struggle with dopamine regulation. When the brain is overwhelmed, it reaches for anything that will create relief fast: alcohol, impulsivity, distraction, self-sabotage.

Not because we’re weak.

Because our brains are wired to seek regulation and if we don’t consciously replace unhealthy coping mechanisms with healthy ones, we default to what worked before.

Even if it almost destroyed us.

Yesterday wasn’t a failure.

It was information.

It showed me exactly where the cracks still are.
Exactly what still hurts.
Exactly what I refuse to go back to.

It also showed me how far I’ve come.

I didn’t stay there.
I didn’t spiral for days.
I didn’t disappear into it.

I came home.
I was held.
I was safe.

And I apologized. not just to my husband for the disrupted sleep or the chaos but to myself.

Because I know better now.

Because I deserve better now.

Because I’ve built a life that doesn’t require me to escape it.

This morning didn’t look perfect.

I didn’t wake up at 4:00 AM.
I didn’t make it to the gym.
I drove my husband back to his car so he could get to work, moving slower than usual, feeling everything instead of avoiding it.

And you know what?

That’s okay.

Life isn’t perfect.
It’s not even always good.

But it’s not bad either.

This… this middle space?
Where I can mess up, reflect, adjust, and keep moving?

I think this is what serenity actually feels like.

Not perfection.

Not control.

Just awareness… and the choice to do better next time.

And I will.

Because I don’t belong to that version of me anymore.

Even if she still shows up sometimes, asking to be felt.

And maybe that’s the real lesson:

She doesn’t need to be drowned.

She just needs to be held.