I rode the train to the city, on the phone, frantically texting my friends. I shouldn’t have watched that true crime video, about the kid who got chopped up by a neighbor, or fell asleep to the sounds of Forensic Files.
I always had an overactive imagination, and naturally, that would lead to my constant fear and anxiety that I am doing something wrong. Even then as I rode that train to hang out with a friend and meet his girlfriend, I felt like I was doing something wrong or hurting someone by going out to enjoy myself on a Sunday night. I worried that I was needed at home, to clean, to watch the kids, to help my mom work. There was always something for me to do, I was always needed. The cleaning never stops. I had no time to enjoy myself.
So I felt guilty for taking this afternoon off. And my friends’ constant texts about true crime didn’t help either.
My friend offered for me to sleep over their place, to ease my stress and anxieties. It was a kind gesture. But I refused. Surely I would be needed at home, and an overnight stay was out of the question.