Welcome back to MR’s Sunday Scaries Diaries, where haunted humans chronicle their end-of-weekend terrors (plus the events that led up to them) to help make all of us feel a little less alone in the fetal position come Monday morning. Up this week, our very own Haley Nahman.
I usually have a little bit of work to do over the weekend. I try to write on Saturday or Sunday mornings to get it out of the way, but sometimes I just…can’t. And that’s a recipe for scaries, because the moment my attitude flips from “I’ll do it later” to “I probably need to do it now,” the day starts to feel like a ticking clock. The below-documented Sunday, which took place two weeks ago, was one of those days, but my excuse was good: I did not wake up in New York as I usually do. This was a very special Sunday featuring a very special lady.
Sunday, 8:36 a.m.
I wake up in Rhode Island. Harling invited me to spend the weekend with her family and, since arriving on Friday afternoon, I’ve claimed I’m not returning to Bushwick upwards of 10 times. It’s heaven here, like no place I’ve ever been.
I’m so sleepy. I’m trying to decide if I should get up and get some writing done before Harling wakes up so I don’t have to think about it all day, but I’m soooooo tired. Why am I so tired?
I’m still in bed. Oops.
I finally wander out of the room I’m staying in at the exact same moment as Harling wanders out of hers. Serendipity.
I’m having a breakfast of peanut butter toast and fruit with Harling and her mom. We talk about bee-keeping, models, Pilates and identity politics because we’re complex beings. I’m feeling very grateful for my life rn.
Alice, Harling’s mom, lends me a bee-keeping suit and takes me out to tour her hives. I do not get stung; I wonder if I can buy this boilersuit sans-hood.
I’m upstairs packing my bag now. We’re going to the beach for a bit before we head back to New York because yesterday it was rainy and we didn’t have the chance.
Just took this mirror selfie for a story I’m working on, no spoilers. I run downstairs, grab a cookie for the road and wave goodbye to the house. Outside, Harling’s boyfriend Austin is idling in his car.
I’m on the beach, on a chair, Harling to my west, sun to my north. I feel clichéd-levels of relaxed and there is not a trace of scaries in my body.
Post-beach, post-dunk, post-heavy lunch of a sandwich and fries, we decide to pack it up so we don’t hit too much traffic and get home late which, we all agree, is a recipe for heightened scaries. Meanwhile, I feel like a calm summer mermaid.
Harling and I put on dry clothes for the four-hour car ride and, mid-change, I get my period. I’m genuinely thrilled; it had been annoyingly looming all weekend. We celebrate.
While Austin gets the car, Harling and I get scoops of cookie dough ice cream because we love ourselves.
We stop at a gas station. Harling and I run in to grab waters from the bodega. Upon returning, we open doors to the wrong car, spooking the lady inside. Austin watches the whole thing from a distance and thinks we’re idiots.
I’m in the back seat with my thoughts. I try to write for five minutes but I’m so tired. My cramps are distracting. I can’t write about The Parent Trap right now. I have nothing to say. I’m not funny.
I’ve been trying to sleep for the last hour and a half but mostly just faked it. I’m visibly awake now and debating my options:
a) Try to force some writing right now and start tomorrow with a shorter to-do list but less energy.
b) Try to wake up early tomorrow having genuinely rested today and have a longer, but more energized day.
I spend three minutes wishing I didn’t have to weigh this, which isn’t a helpful emotion. I decide I’ll make the decision when I get home and, in the meantime, make peace with the fact that this drive home will be unproductive.
I’m feeling kind of glum and nervous that my free time is running out and I have a lot to write and edit but not a lot of energy. Why do I feel kind of sad?
“The closer we get to New York, the more anxious I’m becoming,” I say to Harling and Austin. “There is so much to do. I have so much to do.”
Harling, who is writing on her laptop up front, gives me a pep talk. “You’re almost done with The Parent Trap, it will go much faster than you think!”
I don’t know if she’s right but it helps.
Still in the car. My cramps are killing.
I look at my day tomorrow and decide to just get up early and write when I’m less fatigued. I make plans to watch a movie with my boyfriend later instead. I’m just going to commit to this fucking Sunday! Why stop now? He tells me to text him when I’m home and unpacked and pajama’d.
WE’RE HOME. Kind of. We parked in the West Village and I need to get on the L train to Brooklyn. I squeeze Harling and Austin and we part ways. I place my headphones over my ears, put on a playlist and start walking.
New York is crazy beautiful right now. The air is warm, the colors are perfect. I feel infinitely better. I forgot how much I loved New York! This place is so energizing. Suddenly my work feels exciting instead of draining. Everything is okay. Everything is great.
As I walk home from the train in Bushwick, my view of the Manhattan skyline is unobstructed. There is a breathtaking pink and gold sunset. I pause to look. Sunday is not feeling so scary.
Hello home. Hello Bug.
I’ve been doing chores for the last 90 minutes. Sweeping, cleaning, putting away, unpacking, feeding and brushing my cat Bug, showering. My boyfriend came over around 9:30 and he’s been keeping me company while I get my shit together.
It’s late and we realize we’ve been talking for hours and never watched the movie. This always happens. We never watch the movie. But now we’re fall-asleep tired and decide to call it a night.
The 7 a.m. alarm is set. Sleep.