10:29 on a Sunday night. It’s
the hard night, the
night before the possibility
that I will fail, disappoint,
fall apart. I fear this night
without thinking about it.
I have breathing exercises,
prescribed pills, and routines
to keep me calm. My heart
thumps faster than it should
and I know there’s no reason,
except the world isn’t a
safe place and a person
never knows. But except
for that.
What are you
doing here? Where were
you born and how old
was I?
You are here and
you are big. I cannot
conquer you. I can’t
pray you away. I can’t
meditate enough or breathe
enough or ignore you
enough to un-create you.
Quite frankly, you’re a
problem.
You are here
and you are small. You
have no facts, even when
I can’t argue. You will
not kill me. I won’t give
up. We’re going to have
to be roommates for a
while until finally, I can
maybe get my own
place. Until then, what’s
your name? I think we’re
in this together.
Not Quiet Any More 
I’ll visit. Maybe we can go for a walk outside where the trees are soft and the wind never yells. Your roommate can fend for itself. It’s not invited. Only the sun and the rain is. And birds, rabbits, cats, seagulls, foxes, and other fluff thins are. And two capybaras, a wombat and a shimmer of butterflies.
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I had my son read this. He deals with anxiety every Sunday night for the same reasons you expressed. He felt better knowing someone could articulate something so vague but so powerful. Thank you!
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I feel the same way. Except sometimes I can live in denial a little longer and put in a movie or go out for a late dinner or movie and pretend like the night belongs to me as long as I am involved in a specific activity…but when the movie is over or the dinner is done-it comes rushing back, the dread. Why is every Sunday night like this? I wonder if there is an occupation that I would feel it less? If I performed full time? No-I have crazy anxiety before I sing-so there goes that…
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