Sunday Morning Coming Down

Every Sunday, I wake up and just feel…strange. I haven’t been in Catholic school since 1988, yet I still wake up on Sundays and feel strange, guilty and unsettled. As if I am supposed to be somewhere, but I’m playing hooky. Or I wake up and feel like I want to burn my house down and take hostages…those are the Sundays where I find myself listening to Slayer and lifting weights, or scribbling a venomous screed while Nick Cave growls and bellows in the background satanically.

This has been going on for years. Sunday used to be the most gnarly, hung over day of the week for me, whether I was working or not. Usually, I would just keep drinking from the night before until I was insensate. I’m glad this is no longer the case, but the feelings that used to linger behind those urges to obliterate my consciousness are clearly still there. As I type this, Nick Cave is singing, “Brother, my cup is empty”. Quite appropriate. Sunday Morning Coming Down…

Lately, I’ve been trying the trick of creating new rituals for Sundays. I go to a meditation meeting every Sunday, and lately I have been watching True Blood with one of my dear friends immediately after (that seems appropriately blasphemous). It doesn’t matter what kind of mish-mash of “sinning” and spirituality I plan out, I still feel the Superior Catholic Finger Heebie Jeebies all day long. I wonder how many other former Catholic school refugees are out there who feel the same way? Itchy, twitchy and witchy…gonna go take some hostages now.

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