Fuck Sundays

A woman recently told me I am a workaholic. I like what I do, I don’t go to town complaining about the long hours, I sometimes stretch my days a bit to squeeze out more and I have stopped enjoying weekends or downtime. I guess that’s enough to be diagnosed as a workaholic these days.

The truth is work keeps me sane. It keeps me from tripping over the edge, The 10–11 hours I work are probably the best part of my day. My work keeps away the demons that are always too happy to reemerge like the grotesque Fast and Furious movies (Fuck your family, just end it now). At this point, you are safe to assume that I hide away emotional scars, unresolved trauma and tragic moments of my life through self-deprecating humour and an unyielding resolve to let the world know I don’t take myself too seriously (just yesterday someone said this to me).

Coming back to the title of this post, FUCK SUNDAYS. I can make it through the week due to my work, the long hours and the incessant scrolling of my Twitter feed for more news until I go to sleep. Wake up and the same routine is followed until it’s shuteye time again. The problem is the fucking Sundays. It’s not an issue if I go out with my friends, and keep the demons out through the din of the city, the clash of cutleries and the clinking of glasses. However, contrary to me, my friends have a life and they have not been employed to humour my irreparably broken mind every weekend.

I often hear people say, ‘I like my Sundays to be quiet’. FUCK THAT. Today was a quiet Sunday and looked where it is ending up — me writing about my broken mind. I have a tonne of books, subscriptions to streaming services and not a dysfunctional family and yet I can’t distract myself. When you are knee-deep in work, even if you are in a foul mood, no one really notices because even you don’t notice it if work is going smooth. It is absolutely impossible to hide the same thing if you are not working, sitting idly or trying to read or watch something. It’s unfair to the people around me and friends who try to reach out.

I enjoy rancorous Sundays where all the noise around me drowns out the voices inside me. I don’t get many such Sundays so yes, FUCK SUNDAYS.