Vivienne Dixon is ten years old and alive. She knows she's alive because that's what her name means. The name Vivienne originates from ancient Rome and was used as a variant of the name Viviana. It is derived from the Latin word 'vivus' meaning 'ali...
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𝗽𝗿𝗲-𝗰𝗵𝗮𝗽𝘁𝗲𝗿 𝗻𝗼𝘁𝗲𝘀: the way vivienne describes her panic attacks and being selective mute is quite degrading and like it's a disease or something, but it's not. that's just her interpretation - that she's different - when in reality it's pretty common for people to have panic attacks. just know that this is not directed to anybody!!!
ೄྀ࿐ ˊˎ-
The first time it happened, I was three years old.
My chest felt all tight, and my lungs were all shrivelled up, dried and black. I clawed at my flesh, big red scratches down my chest, but it did nothin'. Somethin' balled up in my throat, a big lump stoppin' the air from reachin' my lungs.
I don't think I'd ever seen Daddy so worried. He held me in his lap and rocked me back and forth, stroking my hair and whisperin' to me until it stopped. He hoped that would be the first and only one, but it wasn't.
At first, they came monthly, just when I'd had a bad day. As I got older, they got more frequent. By the time I was six and a half, they were daily, by seven, they happened twice, sometimes three times a day.
The 'episodes' weren't the problem, though.
After an especially bad one, I'd stop talkin'. Not like how I am now, talkin' when I feel like it but not often, I mean not even a peep. It didn't used to be all that bad - it only happened for a few hours.
But then it grew.
I didn't speak for days, then it was weeks, then months.
I thought the longest time was when I was six; I didn't speak for four months. But then Momma died. I didn't speak for two years. Two whole years. I didn't go to school, either, did stuff at home.
Daddy used to tell people 'She's gone quiet' when it happened.
The school councillor said I was 'selective mute'. I never really cared what people called it. I just knew I was different. I'm weaker than everyone else, I'm strange and a freak and I can't even fucking speak.
Uncle Merle's not back. He never came back. Daddy's sleepin' bag is pulled close to mine, and it's all ruffled up, but Merles' is exactly how it was yesterday. Tidy and neat. I try to pull my legs closer to my body, but the moment I move my left leg, pain shoots up my body.
