I seem to see a pattern developing here, I refrain from blogging for a while, then apologize, and say I’ll do it more often in the coming days. So this time in hopes of breaking this pattern, I’m gonna say- When shit happens, don’t rage, blog it ☝🏻
5:31am on a Sunday, ah Sunday, so cheerful and sweet sounding. For me though it merely sounds like a massive cabinet full of very fragile and precious things falling in slow motion and crashing to the concrete floor below.
From the time I was self aware, I hated Sunday, it just felt like a final breath of fresh air before deep diving into murky hot gutter water, while navigating with no sense of direction.
You know the next day it’s back to school or work, you gotta go to bed early, fall back into responsibilities, plan for the week ahead, or don’t and just stumble blindly through it in a half asleep, half panic attack fashion like normal. It sucks.
Man, is this chick a glass half empty or what? ☝🏻
My Sunday’s weren’t nursing hang overs, having anxiety about some school thing I neglected, or even kicking back with a cold brew and enjoying the “Sun” in “Sunday”. It was a loud, obnoxious, pencil into my eardrum reminder of how shit my home life is.
My dad would be off work, my mom would most likely be home, and if she wasn’t having a manic episode, off her meds, or sick in bed with a number of things, she was going at it with my dad. Now my dad is by no means some saint here, he’d spend the entire day watching sports, safe guarding the tv, and generally ignoring all other human beings.
Some days he’d record CDs, some days my mom would be fine and in her room on the computer or whatever. It’d be chill, they’d stay in they’re respective spaces and the day would putter on with relative calm.
Those were the days I let my shoulders down a bit, breath a bit deeper, and felt the knots in my stomach loosen if only just.
The majority, were a tornado of yelling, rage, stress, neglect, and anxiety. My dad was no help with my mom, he didn’t care if I was ok or not, and my mom didn’t care about the damage she was doing.
It was my job to take care of my mom, endure her abuse, and try to keep what little possibility of peace there was.
As I grew up, they morphed into me having to subject myself to the game of Russian roulette in the form of Sunday night dinners. I’d go over to they’re place, eat in a state of tension and cat like readiness for shit to go down, hopefully not have a massive neck ache by the end.
For the past few months, I’ve had Sunday’s more or less to myself, but the anxiety and nailed in predisposed hatred is still at the forefront as soon as my eyes open. It’ll take many uninterrupted years to undo the damage that this day has befallen for me. I still get twinges of anxiety and dread throughout each Sunday I’m in.
If you to hate or dislike Sunday’s, we are fellow comrades and I’d love to hear your reason as well. ☝🏻
So I’ll leave it with- The “S U” in “Sunday” stands for “suffering”..🍂
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