Sunday night is winding down, which means the panic of the week has me in its grasp. I rarely sleep Sunday nights as I loop around the things I spent the weekend trying to forget but now must imminently deal with. Around midnight I will wake up, or half wake up, to agonize about one of the many unsolvables lurking. Not least of which is the question of how Tom and I are actually going to make it this time. Barely three months in and he's already mired in a depression that often looks like rage and resentment. We may have decided to do this together, but the last few weeks have been worse than alone. Especially these Sunday nights as the optimism of Friday fades into the too soon of our Mondays.
There have been times in my life where Mondays ceased to exist and those now fuel my urge for escapism. The electronic-free oasis of the Boundary Waters. Poker House. College (although I didn't realize it was all Fridays at the time of course). It is both true that we were not meant to live in dread of our arbitrary "work" days and that we cannot exist in society if we don't play along. In my current case, actual lives other than my own depend on how well I play it. There is no one for me to call in sick to, and every "off" day bears the risk of threatening my parents' ability to avoid a nursing home at the end. No pressure though.
As bad as my patterns are with this already, I still have some corners of optimism I usually remember around Wednesday or so. I do believe that this mess will one day be relatively manageable and allow certain freedoms I have never known. Europe with money. Mountains and rivers with gear and time. Northern lights in the place my core keeps calling home. It will take a terrifying amount of luck and an undefined span of almost impossible work - but a maybe is better than the other options I've been looking at. Least, that's what I'm going to tell myself as I finish my last glass of wine and settle down to hoping for enough sleep to get through one of my Mondays.
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