It’s a Sunday evening and there I am, stewing in a cocktail of stress and dread for the week ahead. My living room’s dim lights seem to be casting their shadows a bit longer and more ominous than usual, reflecting my anxiety.
On a day like this, it might get so overwhelming I’m not even sure being a freelancer is worth it. Bonus points, My back pains me from the mental tension. I feel like everyone else is savoring their weekend freedom, but here I am, with my mind in overdrive, thinking about to-do’s and meetings and calendars, already frantic about a week that hasn’t even started.
I finally climb into bed, like many times before, scrolling social media to avoid the intrusive thoughts before I manage to drift off to sleep. I close my eyes, and when I open them again, I’m fine, but there’s something weird going on: I don’t know where I am, why I am, or even who I am? In this second, stripped of memory or context, I still experience myself as me. I just don’t know who that is yet. This existential freedom lasts but a second, and then the rest of my personality makes its way back: I recognize the room again, I remember how I got into bed and where I left off, what I’m supposed to be doing, and my back muscles start to tense up again thinking of the to-do’s and the weight of the week. But the feeling of me is retained, even though I remembered nothing about myself. Every detail I bring back into my awareness just connects like a puzzle with my consciousness, like it never left.