sunday brain


One Sunday night a few weeks ago, my friends Rachel and Lily visited my apartment. It was really nice because usually Ripley and I face Sundays alone in our respective rooms buried under a pile of anxieties about the coming week. (Or at least that’s my routine. Who knows what Ripley gets up to. She could be organizing ten thousand tiny turquoise fishbowl rocks into the shape of beloved Disney character Goofy for all I know.) Anyway, I told them my Sunday theory while I cooked pork dumplings from Trader Joe’s and they drank boxed wine out of scotch glasses my aunt gave me.

My theory is that people who truly enjoy Sundays have mastered mindfulness. To enjoy Sundays you really have to be able to Live In the Moment — you can’t be eaten up by the fear that you didn’t do enough over the weekend or by nerves about the upcoming week. You just gotta let your mind exist in the moment… I would assume? Me trying to explain how to live anxiety-free is like a duck trying to do calculus with a banana. (Why does the last bit of the sentence feel like something Hannah Montana’s dad would say to Hannah Montana on the hit Disney show, Hannah Montana?)

The point is, I don’t like Sundays. There’s a specific kind of sadness reserved for Sunday nights. It’s a nice cocktail of dread, regret, and panic with a dash of an unnameable unease. I’m not tipping the ol’ bartender in the sky for handing me that drink, am I right ladies? Lily said that she hates Sunday nights because you’re just sitting around, anxious about the week. She said that it’s fine once the week gets started and she gets into the routine of things again, but the not being able to do anything except wait gets to her. Then something clicked and I realized — that’s exactly the state I’ve been in recently. I feel like I’m constantly stuck in a Sunday night timeloop. Our Lady Of Perpetual Sundayness.

I’m graduating college soon (hopefully lol) — which is a sentence that in itself makes me want to fling myself out of the nearest window and run into a deepest cave I can plausibly find in Boston. I don’t deal well with endings. I don’t even watch the last seasons / episodes of my favorite TV shows because I’m too bummed about them being finished. (Gemma Styles, shimmering human goddess, even called me out for this behavior. I’m sorry Gemma!!!!!!) This little tactic, surprisingly, doesn’t work that well in real life. In fact, it doesn’t work at all. Every time an event is coming up that I don’t want to deal with, I try to convince myself it’s not going to happen. But it still does. Every! Single! Time! I can tell myself that time is a social construct but it’s still one to which I’m inextricably bound.

So, I spend the last bits of time I have during a certain period of my life scrambling to keep things exactly as they were. But the joke’s on me because things have already changed. By the time an era’s about to end, the people around me — who have like, healthier ways of navigating life — have already planned ahead. The present they’re living in already has their future mixed in. It’s not the same as it once was, and it’s never going to be again. The ending of one thing is irrevocably intertwined with the beginning of another.

I don’t know how to live like that. I spend the time before endings in a handcrafted Denial Fortress, with moats and everything. I’m like a witch who shattered her favorite 500-year-old crystal ball and is trying to tape it back together instead of going to her local Crystal Ball Emporium and getting a new one that’ll make her just as happy or maybe happier than her old one. (Although why couldn’t she just use magic to fix it? And crystal balls are used to see the future not the past… this metaphor got away from me.) How can you plan for the future when you refuse to acknowledge one?

This is kind of how Sunday nights feel, right? I’ve got Sunday Brain. I’m stuck in an unending Sunday– desperately trying to cling to the weekend, anxious about a Monday I’m trying to convince myself will never come. (Jesus, I can be melodramatic. Flashback to Lily telling me I’m the most dramatic person she knows. It’s just how I feel, mom!!!!!!!!!!!!!!)

I guess the ideal would be to just enjoy the time I have left during a certain stage of my life, and not try to force it into the shape of something it will never be again. Easier said than done, though. I’m sure my brain will feel better once I start something new, get into a new routine, but like, maaaaaaan I’m just going to mope for a bit right now, and that’s okay.

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