How is it, that we humans can oscillate so quickly between feeling completely at ease and content with our existence, to feeling so utterly alone and restless that our spirits cry out in all sorts of manifestations? Equally perplexing is the fact that more often than not, we move back and forth between contentment and restlessness in the midst of nothing actually changing in "real life."
Since I can remember, there have been few Sundays in my life where I have not struggled with mild depression. Fucking Sundays. All is jolly well with the world on Saturday and Monday, but then that Sad Bastard of a day, Sunday, just sits there, waiting to drag me down. If something horrible happened every Sunday that warranted sadness and anxiety, I am sure I would have come to accept it by now; letting Sundays just wash over me without a fight. But the shit about Sunday Night Depression (as I have come to call it), is the fact that there is NOTHING DIFFERENT, save one night's sleep, between my life on joyous Saturdays and sad Sundays!
So there you have it. Fuck Sundays. I hate them. I have hated them my entire life.
PS - thanks for calling me on Sundays, mom. I wish I were a funner person to talk to on those days. But I know you know about my relationship with Sundays, and calling is your way of loving me. Thank you.
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