Intro:
Some days are heavier than others. Some days are just… normal — if “normal” means fighting your own body, mind, and everything in between while trying to hold life together with caffeine, stubbornness, and a bit of dark humour. Today was one of those days.
Morning: The Familiar Storm
I woke up to the usual storm in my head — the crushing weight of anxiety greeting me before I even open my eyes, followed by that familiar blanket of chronic fatigue. It’s the kind that doesn’t care how many hours you’ve slept; it just lingers, heavy and uninvited. Then comes the first set of Crohn’s pain for the day.
“Go away, for fuck’s sake,” I mutter to myself out loud.
No time to wallow in self-pity — I have to get up, get ready for work, and get the teenager moving.
Coffee in one hand, vape in the other, I head out the door. The warmth from both mixes in the morning air, and for a brief moment, it feels comforting. Then my stomach decides to violently disagree with my breakfast choices — again.
I drive on, trying to drown out the constant chatter of my anxiety fan club, but the pain takes centre stage. It’s sharp, stabbing, relentless.
“Fifteen more minutes,” I tell myself. “Fifteen minutes until work, then I can find relief.”
But my body has other plans.
The next garage is five minutes away. For the first time ever, I genuinely think, this might be it. I might actually shit myself on the way to work. I can’t. I won’t let myself. I grip the steering wheel tighter and drive faster. “Come on, girl, you can make it.”
Finally, the garage comes into view — and of course, the driver in front of me decides to slow down. I’m shouting in my car, “Move, you bastard! I’m going to shit myself!” Obviously, he can’t hear me, but the yelling helps.
I pull in, power walk to the toilet while pretending nothing urgent is happening, and finally… relief.
By the time I get to work, I’m ten minutes late. No one says anything — I’m rarely late, and most days I stay longer than I need to. I tell one of my bosses anyway, because I believe in being open about what I live with. I call it “advocating for Crohn’s disease.”
The Middle Bit: Masks and Meaning
Work is work. I push through, wearing the mask I’ve perfected — the smile on cue, the laugh when it’s expected. I do my job the best I can because my kids need me to, my staff need me to, I need me to.
A few headbutts, some hair pulling, a couple of punches and kicks — just another day’s collection of bruises, physical and otherwise.
But then there are those moments — the rare, beautiful ones that remind me why I do this job. The ones that make me feel like I’m making a difference, even in small ways.
Those moments give me purpose. My purpose: to love those who are not always easy to love. And I do — fiercely, fully, like they’re my own. That’s what makes the drive home a little lighter.
Ha — not today, anxiety demons. Today, I’m winning.
Evening: Little Victories
Later, I spent the evening with friends watching fireworks on base. I was there — really there (mostly). I think they enjoyed my company… that’s what I’ll tell myself, anyway.
Now, I’m in bed, in my usual spot, with my loyal pooch by my side. I wonder how long it’ll take to fall asleep tonight. Will tomorrow be another “good” day?
Maybe I’ll wake up with no pain, no worries, no overthinking brain.
One can only dream, right?
Good night, sleep tight.
❤️ Vivi
Reflection 🌙
Living with chronic illness and anxiety means even an “ordinary” day can feel like a marathon — one that no one else sees you running. But sometimes, surviving the day is the victory. Sometimes, “somewhat positive” is more than enough.
Tomorrow might not be perfect. But tonight, I made it through — and that’s something worth celebrating.
Still here, still me 