As I opened my eyes on another day, my body immediately sent me messages of tiredness, pain, and the urgent need for my usual Crohn’s morning routine – five or so visits to the toilet.

It takes me a while to muster the energy to get out of bed, battling the inner urge to vape as the slow crushing feeling of nicotine withdrawal and self-pity crept into my already tired brain. I’m aware of the contradictions of health issues and smoking a vape, but I honestly don’t care enough.

Today, however, was different. I had to find that energy. Don’t get me wrong, I have to find the energy every morning because I have to get up and travel to work, but today was Remembrance Sunday, and I had to find that energy.

Being part of the celebrations means something to me, and it means something to so many people. It meant something to the people who are no longer here but sacrificed for this day.

There’s something refreshing and heartwarming about seeing people from all walks of life come together, shoulder to shoulder, sharing their personal experiences and stories of why this day means something to them. It’s also heartwarming to watch people remember those many souls who made our country what it is, even if they have no personal experience of the loss that today encourages us to embrace.

I’m a people watcher. I love to sit in my own space and time and watch other people, thinking about what they may be thinking about. Are they thinking the same things I do? Have they felt a loss that I have felt? Are they thinking about how lucky we are to live in a free country? Regardless they are present and they are remembering and that is so important. 

Anyway, I fought the urge to stay in bed and feel sorry for myself. I got up, showered, and took those extra five minutes to self-reflect as the hot water ran over my face — thinking about how lucky I am to be here, while simultaneously fighting my inner health-anxiety demons. You’re ok, Vivi. You’re here today. You have things to do, and people you promised to show up for.

I got dressed, put on a small amount of makeup, and set out to conquer the day. I stopped by the shop to grab a healthy breakfast of grapes and melon. Outside, I bumped into an old friend who, in true brutal honesty, told me I looked tired. (Maybe a bit more makeup wouldn’t have gone amiss, I suppose.) I reluctantly appreciated the honesty — after all, I’m often told I look tired, so it’s nothing new.

But then came the inner demons again, whispering their doubts.

Why do I look so tired? I slept. Am I ok? Maybe I have cancer, maybe that’s why I’m always tired…

“No, Vivi, you have Crohn’s, remember? You’re ok. YOU. ARE. OK.”

I arrived at the pub and got to work helping my team prepare for a day of remembrance and celebration. I felt proud — but I also felt that familiar numbness, the daily discomfort, the detachment of floating through another day trying not to get lost in my thoughts.

When people asked, “Are you ok?” I smiled and said, “Yeah, I’m fine.”

The truth? I was pretending.

The busyness helped to hush the voices for a while.

Later, I popped home to check on my darling pooch, take her for our daily stroll, and clear my head with some music. Instead, I called my partner — he’s working away with the military, and I like to talk to him to distract myself. I blab on, not even sure what I’m saying half the time, but it’s not about the words — it’s about feeling connected.

Today, though, like many times before, the conversation was one-sided and short. His honesty hit hard: that he really doesn’t care about what I’m saying. The call ended abruptly, leaving me disappointed — again — that I felt unheard and worthless.

Maybe it’s hard for him being away, but I only know what it’s like to be left behind, trying to keep our life going while he’s gone. That’s the thing about being a military partner — you know what this life entails. You spend weeks or months alone each year, keeping everything ticking over so they can slot back in when they return. You tell yourself not to complain, because they’re doing something honourable — for family, for country — and you shouldn’t expect emotional support, right?

Anyway, I was angry. I was upset. Mostly, I was disappointed that I’d let myself feel worthless again — that I hadn’t just listened to the music.

I went back to the pub, where my daughter, my team, and my friends were waiting to continue the celebrations. I walked in already more detached, floating again.

“Vivi, you look miserable.”

Damn. I must have let my smile slip for a second.

“No, I’m ok — just my resting bitch face,” I joked. Everyone laughed. Inside, I was mad at myself.

As the evening went on, everyone became more merry — laughter and chatter filling the air. I wanted nothing more than to put down my pint of Coke and go buy myself a drink. People offered, but I said no — told them I had work tomorrow. The truth? I knew if I started drinking, I wouldn’t stop until the demons were quiet, and I’d wake up tomorrow feeling ten times worse.

So I stayed strong. I’d already succumbed to the vape, and I knew that was enough. I said my goodbyes and headed home with my beautiful daughter so she could get ready for school.

Then came my nightly routine — the same as every night:

Sort the dog.

Wash the makeup and the day’s dirt from my face.

Apply my night cream.

Brush my teeth.

Take my medication.

Get into my PJs.

Slide into bed with my pooch by my side.

Then I lie there, listening to my inner demons, hoping tonight I’ll fall asleep at a reasonable time (I never do). I convince myself I’ll wake up tomorrow — that I won’t die in my sleep from whatever mysterious ailment my mind has conjured up.

And then, I prepare myself to do it all again tomorrow.

Good night 💤 sleep tight.

Vivi ❤️