Today was the big day — the day every military couple both celebrates and fears. End of deployment. D-Day. Return of the Mack. He. Is. Home.
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Today's Document

JVL
Game of Thrones Daily
Misplaced Lens Cap
"I'm Dorothy Gale from Kansas"
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#extradirty

Andulka

if i look back, i am lost
Lint Roller? I Barely Know Her
One Nice Bug Per Day
wallacepolsom
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Peter Solarz

pixel skylines

Kiana Khansmith

⁂

祝日 / Permanent Vacation
Not today Justin

seen from Sweden
seen from France
seen from T1

seen from Malaysia

seen from United Kingdom

seen from Türkiye

seen from T1

seen from United States
seen from France
seen from Uzbekistan
seen from Türkiye

seen from T1
seen from Sweden

seen from Germany
seen from Netherlands
seen from United States

seen from Poland

seen from Ireland
seen from United States
seen from United States
@stillhere-stillme
Today was the big day — the day every military couple both celebrates and fears. End of deployment. D-Day. Return of the Mack. He. Is. Home.
“finding courage in daily life”
Another Day: Living with a Loud Mind
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…
ANOTHER DAY - Navigating my loud mind
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 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, in the background.
The Drive Home
4 p.m. finish? Not likely. It’s closer to 5 or 6.
And here comes the drive again — this time in the dark.
The voices hit harder in the dark. 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 one I hate admitting. 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
I’m 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
Chronic illness, anxiety, and the art of keeping going.†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…
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 ❤️
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 mornin
“finding courage in daily life”
“finding courage in daily life”
Writing about the invisible battles nobody sees and hoping it reaches you