by Vivi ❤️
Eyes open.
First thought — ugh, another day. Here we go again.
I know the saying goes, “Nobody likes Monday,” but for me, it’s painfully, almost poetically accurate.
I still feel the sting of disappointment from my partner yesterday — let’s put that to bed for now. I still send the obligatory good morning message (even though my inner bitch wants to ignore him).
This morning, my inner demons are louder than usual — like a group of angry women on protest, picket boards raised, stomping through my brain.
“Get up, you’ll be late and let everyone down.”
“If you rush, you might crash your car and die.”
And right behind her — “Oh God, what if I do crash my car and die?”
It happens every day. I see it on the news — what makes me any different?
No, Vivi. You don’t have time for this. You have to get ready.
“Get a grip, you stupid, ridiculous woman.”
The morning routine.
Alarm goes off — snooze.
Again — snooze.
Another three or four times — snooze.
Finally, the pep talk:
Come on, Vivi, get the fuck out of bed. People are depending on you.
Then comes the battle with my teenage daughter — fifteen minutes of gentle persuasion (and then not-so-gentle) to make sure she’s actually out of bed. If I dare leave her lying there, she’ll drift straight back to sleep.
Feed the dog, let her out for a wee, give her medication (she’s currently using her tail as a chew toy — long story).
Then the shower — where my “inner fan club” reminds me of that random pain in my chest that could be a heart attack.
Nope, Vivi, no time for that. You’re okay.
(But that thought will linger all day — thanks, anxiety brain.)
Rush around for ten more minutes, coffee in hand, out the door.
The Drive
An hour on the road, trying to drown out my own thoughts with a podcast.
Ten minutes in, I realize I haven’t heard a single word.
My mind’s off again — playing disaster roulette.
Which car, which lorry, which bend in the road could be my end today?
So I switch to music. Someone once told me, you can’t have a panic attack if you sing loud enough.
So I sing. I vape. I sip coffee.
And I make it to work.
The Job
I’m an SEN teacher. I adore my job — most of it, anyway.
I support three beautiful, complex young men, each so uniquely themselves. They need constant attention, and I give it gladly.
If I could explain my job to someone outside the SEN world, it would only ever be a glimpse. But despite the chaos, I wouldn’t change it.
Other than my daughter, it’s the one thing that makes me proud to be me.
At work, my brain finally quiets down.
The best way I can describe it — it’s like that annoying Christmas jingle in a shop.
It never fully stops playing, but it’s quieter, tolerable, just there in the background.
The Drive Home
Four p.m. finish? Not likely. It’s closer to five or six.
And here comes the drive again — this time in the dark.
The voices hit harder at night. They fly out of the blackness, one after another:
Boom — You could’ve done better today.
Boom — You’re not good enough.
Boom — Why did that colleague leave without saying goodbye? You’ve probably upset them.
Boom — Why has your partner barely messaged?
Boom — He’s probably with someone else. Why wouldn’t he be? You’re hard work. You’re baggage.
Boom — That truck’s a bit close. What if it hits you?
And then the worst one — the thought I hate the most.
Whenever I think about dying, my brain immediately jumps to my funeral.
Who would be there? What would it be like?
Then comes the panic — the blackness, the finality, the loss of control.
Panic. Panic. Panic.
And then, quietly: You’re okay, Vivi. You’re okay.
Wait — that’s not in my head. I’m actually saying it out loud.
The Evening
Home. It’s 7 p.m.
No bingo tonight — I’m too late, too tired. My body is begging me to sit down, but I can’t.
If I sit, I won’t get back up.
Feed the dog. Don’t forget the meds.
Argue with my teenager about dinner. She never wants what I suggest, though she always ends up eating it anyway. I think she just likes testing me.
And most days, I snap.
I shouldn’t — but I’m tired. Not just long-day tired, but bone-deep, existentially tired.
Start dinner. Take the dog out. She stares at me with those guilty, pleading eyes like I’m the worst human alive for not walking her sooner.
Tonight, I don’t call my partner. I can’t face that familiar rejection.
I play music instead — skip, skip, skip — until I find something loud enough to drown the noise in my head.
I sing into the darkness.
The rest of the night blurs — dinner, TV I don’t actually watch, trying not to vape, trying not to feel.
Eventually, I cave and message him first:
A casual “How was your day?”
What I really want to say is:
“Why am I not enough? Why don’t you care? Don’t you see how hard it is just to exist?”
But how could he? Only I know the full storm inside me.
It’s 1 a.m. Alarm set for 6.
And, of course, my little frenemies crawl back out to play.
Their favourite time of day.
Goodnight. Sleep tight.
❤️ Vivi
Still here, still me 