Reclaiming Sundays
Sunday used to go like this: I do some journaling, some colouring, some cooking, some reading, and listen to a lot of music. It was one day of the week I felt like me, a real person, and not a half-human-half-robot running on autopilot trying to defeat her to-do list.
Sundays stopped being a favourite because the mechanical feeling of the weekdays started following me into Sundays. I would spend Sunday worried about Monday and slowly panicking about everything with each hour. I felt waterboarded in a torture room. I was the torturer and the prisoner all at once.
No one is more cruel to me than I am, and the particularly messed up part is that I justify it to myself—judge, jury, executioner, prisoner - all me.
But today, after a deeply emotionally turbulent week, I woke up and had enough. I dug out my colouring book and crayons and then journaled, cooked, read and listened to music. I am still listening to music as I write this tapestry entry. There is so much wrong with me inside, but I have to start with one thing, and that is slowly reclaiming Sunday as my favourite day of the week.
I still feel tired and overused, but not as lost and hopeless as I realised I had been feeling. It’s a very unearthing feeling to name your feelings finally. When you name a thing, power springs forth, and it’s up to you sometimes to decide how the power will work. Will it sweep you away? Will you squeeze it into a small box? Will you find a way to coexist with it?
To end, here’s a quote from the book I’m currently reading - Aristotle and Dante Discover the Secrets of the Universe.
"There is a famous painting, Nighthawks, by Edward Hopper. I am in love with that painting. Sometimes, I think everyone is like the people in that painting, everyone lost in their own private universes of pain or sorrow or guilt, everyone remote and unknowable. The painting reminds me of you. It breaks my heart."