Sunday nights are usually the worst for me.
I don’t know if it’s the anxious anticipation of starting yet another workweek, or the realization that another weekend is over. Whatever the reason, Sunday nights are terrible.
Sometimes, it’s the dreams. There’s always a mixture of fear and anxiety, maybe a dash of grief and sadness thrown in for good measure. The thumping bass of a passing car can trigger a dream about that morning and the sound of the cops slamming open the front door. I dream about the past and its blissful ignorance, or uncertainty of what the future holds for all of us.
Other times, like last night, I just can’t get to sleep. Even with the fan on for white noise, the room seems too quiet, and my thoughts seem louder than usual. Those thoughts don’t need to be rooted in any type of logic whatsoever, either. Maybe I’ll think of something said years ago, maybe something said yesterday, and the spiral begins. Last night my mind was spinning, convinced that three people in the list of five I have blocked on Facebook, unknown to me, were blocked by him before they could reach me and rat him out. It turns in an endless, inward loop, each revolution punctuated by a single refrain:
He did it. He did it. HE DID IT.
