What’s so bad about Sundays? Sundays are hard. I’ve always found them difficult. From an early age. Perhaps it’s the silence? The concern a nervous person feels when the rest of the world seems to stand still. Everyone else seems to take a breath whilst you’re still wired. Why isn’t everyone else worried? Sundays have always been a day where dread and anxiety seem to envelop me and taunt me. Those feelings greeting me like an old friend. The prospect of a new week, the daunting feeling that something more lays ahead. That everything I’ve just survived, I have to go through all again. That sense of only living from Saturday to Saturday because that’s when you feel safe and cushioned by a safety net of time. I’ve got to get it right this time. This week I’ll get it right. It’s a weight that sits on your chest. What if I do it wrong? What if I’ve wasted time? What if I fall apart? What if? What if? What if? Sundays should be days of peace and new beginnings and yet...Sundays are hard.
