Yet I can also get into a unique funk on Sundays. Being "on" the whole time, responding to a steady stream of questions and concerns, and working until I'm tired may all contribute to it. The enemy's strategies and attacks likely have a special Sunday flavor. Whatever the case, I find part of myself harshly critical in my Sunday mood, of others and especially of myself.
Nothing's coming out right lately. My life is good, but I have the sense (or the fear) that I'm missing something that everyone else has figured out. There are ways I don't feel cut out for normal life, and it's little wonder I'm as alone as I feel sometimes. I feel disconnected from all of my friends, feel a distance that I cannot cross and can only fumble with. I'd like to not be so sensitive to these things sometimes, to not pick up on the discomfort and the feelings behind the words and the quiet—to be ignorant, oblivious. But I know when I'm connecting, and I know when I'm not.
OK, now I feel like crap. There are times when writing helps, but this isn't one of them.