Sunday is my favorite day of the week.  I get to relax, attend my church service, spend time with my family, and center in preparation for the week ahead.  There is no more-fitting way to prepare for a week of working for the weekend than to enjoy the weekend.  But when does the weekend end?

For me the weekend threatens to end when I first realize Monday is nearly here… I usually look to my right, breathe deeply, and return to whatever conversation I was participating in.

Tonight it wasn’t a conversation, it was a movie.  Danny and I and some friends were at my parents’ home when Jane said something about a love song and a sandwich.  I pictured the sandwiches in the cafe at work and my breathe caught in my chest as I realized I would be at work in less than ten hours.

But the weekend officially ends when I retire to my room Sunday night.  I take my medicine, Danny and I discuss people, concerns, and gratitudes that warrant special attention in our family prayer, one of us prays, I climb in bed, Dan lotions my feet, we set our alarms, and I panic.  I realize I forgot to worry about work over the weekend (So, I realize the weekend was a complete success.)  I realize I need a perfect night’s sleep.  And I realize how far I have yet to go on the road to recovery.

I have been working my way back into the office for nearly a month (although, I would argue I have been working my way back to work since I left March 7) and I feel just as far from the real thing as I did nearly a month ago.  In reality, I have made significant improvements.  Last week I worked an average of seven hours a day, Monday through Thursday.  Thank goodness for the 4th.  (Friday I gave thanks for my forefathers and my freedoms… including my freedom from work.)  Anyway, seven hours is only two hours short of a full day at my company, and I’d consider that pretty good progress…

That is until my Sunday night panic.  Then I feel like a failure.  Then I feel like a full day’s work is impossible.  Then I feel like just thinking about work is going to send me into a fibromyalgia flare.  And then I shutup, get over my fear, and remember sleep will do far more good than fear.