This morning I cuddled with Dibbs, as we do most mornings. And after several minutes, he licked my forehead.
Such moments of communion, with my precious animal, or other humans, are so powerful to me, they give me fuel for writing.
Yet I worry so damn much, and by days end, several hours after the forehead licking, find myself crying on the phone with my parents in the parking lot at HyVee. Why can't I just buy the pita bread I'm there for and just be like a "normal" person? If it were a Thursday, or a Tuesday, I could buy that pita bread and be on the phone with my dad and be Miss Bubbles.
And it's not that I'm dreading going to work tomorrow. I much prefer weekdays, where I have guaranteed human interaction, clear goals, did I mention interaction? Weekends are these great voids for me, and even if I schedule healthy things--yoga, oatmeal, clean, grade the tests that need grading--then I sacrifice social time. Yet if I need to get things done, then spending time with people makes me feel like I'm behind on what needs to get done.
Come Monday, everyone is where they have a commitment to be. They're at their desks, taking coffee breaks together. Doing things to help each other out. Saturday? Sunday? All up in the air.
Sundays are rough for me. Being me is rough for me. I really hope I outgrow this anxiety and Sunday-syndrome.