Sunday nights are a funny thing. A few years back they were filled with a restless kind of sleep brought on by anxiety. Insomnia was commonplace as were the pangs of dread which felt increasingly like panic attacks for I knew what they would lead too; Monday morning frustrations, tears and nausea. My brain would not switch off from the never ending lists of things to do and the never ending conflicts which occupied my increasingly unstable moods. Then they ended. In a flash my world changed.
The sleeplessness often remained, but with an excitement only usually reserved for Christmas eves or pre-holiday giddiness – I just couldn’t wait for my next day to start. I simply could not wait to wake and start my new day of creativity and contentment. No longer occupied with the thousands of unwritten tasks but with the prospect of opportunity and the unknown. I am not missing those nights as such because I am entering a new phase of Sunday emotions. So far they have been calm – incredibly sleepy, but calm; serene with a hint of happy anticipation for my each new Monday. The flat has embraced me and made me relaxed and content in a very different way. It is still hard to drop off because the lists have begun again – but they are not filled with resentment over their incompletion, rather a mental organising of that part of my brain solely occupied with education – it has yet to infiltrate the other sections, but I am sure occasions will arise. Thus keeping me in some form of control.
However, last night (or now, as this was written) was different. As much as my body, weary with cold (yep, the rain and bitter wind, coupled with the new term bugs have given me my first ill of the academic year) was yearning for sleep, as much as my head lolled and eyes drooped, as soon as I hit the pillow I was wide awake. For the bed suddenly felt bigger than ever. This was the first weekend in which Steve had visited the North. The final piece of the puzzle was in place making this flat my home. My counterpart, my other half was here. His shoes lay in the middle of the room. His toast crumbs on the kitchen counter. His unwashed mug on the book case. It was complete. But then came Sunday night and his train home to Birmingham. Even though I have not really noticed the time apart these past couple of weeks as it has flown by in a moment, tonight I felt the void as I drove away from the train station. It is probably more to do with the desire for someone to feed me chicken soup, but everything suddenly felt quite empty. I couldn’t sleep. We’d had a lovely weekend, seeing lots of people, mooching an antiques warehouse, eating proper meals (we neither cook well when alone); but not even the happy thoughts of this helped soothe me into a very much needed slumber. Once again, Sundays suddenly suck.
But if they didn’t, Fridays wouldn’t be quite so exciting.