Sunday Very Scaries

There are the kind of Sunday’s you have a latte and a scone outside under an umbrella in your best brunch outfit, equal parts smashing and relaxed, reading the style section of the New York Times, enjoying your freedom and ready to embark on the new adventure of the coming week.  And then there are the Sundays when you make a thousand phone calls but feel like no body wants you.  You bravely go out the door in even circumstantially perfect athleisure and sophisticatedly order from a drive-thru.  And then collapse when you shut the door on your return because, somehow, mundane tasks feel so hard.  I lie on my bed. I’m not going to cry, I’m not going to cry, I’m not going to cry. It’s not that the week ahead is going to be that bad, it’s just that this song has played on repeat so many times and only a handful have turned out like I planned. The loneliness creeps in like I never saw it coming. “You are in this alone,” my brain says, which is NOT true. That is the difference between the me now and the me ten years ago.  Ten years ago I believed it.  That is depression, my friends.  A force that rapes you of hope, so forcefully that you don’t even remember what it feels like to have hope at all. For both kinds of Sunday’s, wear this:

Depressed girls and not depressed girls deserve to flaunt DVF on Sunday, so get it done.  Lighter posts (and days) to follow, 

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