I don’t know who to be on Sundays.
The day the air that I’m breathing doesn’t taste quite right.
Sunday, the lord’s day, if you believe in that sort of thing. Secular Sunday, if you don’t.
The beginning of new week. Or the end old one. Depending on which calendar manufacturer you ask.
Old or new new or old.
I don’t know which I’d prefer.
I do know that Sundays and suicides run together like poisoned wine, and more people try to take away their lives on this day, this, debated beginning or ending, than any other day of the week.
Maybe Sundays are confused too. Maybe Sundays are in the midst of an identity crisis, and sweeping society along with it.
My response to the Sunday Scaries is to turn it into a cliche. Self care sundays. The antithesis of suicidal ideation. Sunday arrives and I don’t know who I am, so I am extra kind to my body in the hopes of freeing my mind from the caged confusion of circular beginnings and endings and endings and beginnings and if any of it even matters anyway.
And hey, if you ask me if I’m okay I’ll always say I’m fine, even if I’m so not fine that the not fineness is seeping through every gaping crack and crevice of my battered soul, and that’s not just true on Sundays.
Beginning of a new week. End of an old one.
Choose your own adventure.
And say that you’re not fine if you don’t feel it.
Breathe in, breathe out.
Feel yourself being alive and alive and alive.
Then stay that way.
Even if it’s Sunday