Sundays
I hate Sundays. Quite a bit.
I’m writing this sitting in my roommates borrowed truck after driving for an hour back from my girlfriend’s place after what was supposed to be a restful weekend.
Dread. That’s the best term for it.
The feeling you get when you’re paralyzed, absolutely struck stupid by the enormity of the tasks in the week ahead.
This is about that time when the feeling sets in. I feel it seep into my bones and catch my breath like stepping outside into needles of cold in a Canadian blizzard. But this is California. People are supposed to be laid back here.
False.
Each of us is just going through our own anxious shuffle behind the scenes desperately trying to juggle survival and coming short of your own expectations.
That’s why Sundays are the worst.
You’re so ready for the week ahead. You feel fresh, fulfilled from an escape into nature or a deep conversation that the problems you swept under the rug seem like you can deal with them.
Like a broken game of whack-a-mole they all seem to pop up at you all at once.
Breathe. Jesus this wasn’t supposed to creep up on you like this. That’s why we plan for things dammit!
What is it they say about plans? That the best made ones are meant to get wasted? Something like that…
I didn’t realize I had anxiety until this year. Once you can label your problems they’re easier to deal with. At least so I’m told.
I walk back home and sit at my computer and do the stare. You know exactly what I mean. The stare is when you know what to do but lack the energy, focus, time and motivation to make it happen.
The author in the War of Art calls it resistance. I just keep thinking of the various ways I’ll get mentally dismembered. Fun.
I try to stitch myself back together. Piece by piece. I’ll make myself a to-do list for the week. Pretty soon I’m an hour into the to-do list and I’m not done yet. Fuck.
It’s not completely hopeless yet. Maybe I just need to eat. Two hours later after I settle back in, I look at the clock. It’s 9pm. Double fuck.
I really hate Sundays.
