The heaviness of Sundays always weighted down my spirit, like the last day of a vacation, when reality was just a night's sleep away. A dark, sinking feeling in my gut - a faraway sadness, never identified, burdened my soul. It left me paralyzed on a sofa with a television blasting to drown out my thoughts. Background noise, lots of food, sleep and a feeling of dread knowing I had to ready myself for the mask I wore to get me through the week. Often the strain was too much, and I'd call in sick and hide some more. No one ever thought to guess I had secrets imprisoned behind my smiles.
caccy46, author of The Sentinel, is 60 years old, a mother of two, and has been married for 32 years.