My first memory was when I was three years old in the middle of a weekend night urgently needing to pee. I crawled out of my lifted twin-sized bed and wandered over to my mom’s big redwood door, feeling a knot in the pit of my stomach that I can still feel today. I knocked lightly on her door “Momma, I need to go potty,” I whispered, crossing my legs.
When I creaked open the big door, what I saw shocked me beyond belief. My mom and dad’s bed was empty and most of their things were packed in brown boxes stacked on top of each other. I made my way over to the window. I saw their car was gone from the driveway. I sat in their bed and cried myself into exhaustion from fear, wondering what was going on.
The next morning the police showed up at our door. Before then, the police had only come when my dad was being what I called at the time “really mean.” The police talked for a while with my cousin, who lived with us. He looked at me and my siblings and told us to pack a bag.
I was naïve. I thought we were going on a weekend adventure. So, I went to my room and stuffed my favorite pink bunny, a blankie, and some clothes in my sparkly pink bag and walked to the front door with a smile on my face.
Leaving my house felt weird. Not kissing my mom and dad goodbye felt even weirder, but that Saturday morning before was the last time I saw my parents for a long time. My trip with the police was far from an adventure.
It was one of the darkest moments of my life. I saw how cruel the world could be in a matter of 24 hours.
After that trip with the police, I found myself in many different homes, bouncing back and forth with my brother. It was OK during the week, but the common theme in my life was that the weekends sucked. I was stuck in a constant cycle of worry and abuse – wondering if I would get to eat, leave my room, or if I would be moved again. School was the only safe and stable thing I had in my life as there were no unpredictable events that would occur. Every Friday night I sat and wished for the predictability that Monday would bring.
It would take almost two decades for me to understand that the weekend isn’t the monster I thought it was when I was three. Sometimes weekends bring unexpected gifts, not all of which bring resolutions.
When I was five years old I was briefly living with my grandparents between homes and they informed me that my dad had moved to the trailer park down the gravel road from them. I was so happy. I hadn’t heard from my dad in two years. I had so many things I wanted to tell him and ask him. They said I could spend the weekend with him if I wanted to and of course, I wanted to. My grandpa drove me to the trailer park Friday evening and dropped me off.
I don’t remember much of what we did that weekend, but what I do remember was going off-roading in his pick-up truck to go rock-picking. I found the biggest and heaviest rock and my dad it picked up for me. We took it back home with us where we wrote “Allys-Rock” and the date with a sharpie on it and super glued a felt piece to the bottom of it, so it wouldn’t scratch my dresser top. I still have that rock today it sits in a memory box under my bed.
The weekend came to an end and my grandpa was coming to pick me up so I sat on the wire steps in front of the trailer waiting for him. My dad was starting his own car and he said to me,
“I’m sorry for what I did and I know I’m not the best, but I love you.”
“It’s OK dad, I love you too.”
He hopped in his car and said “Please, forgive me” and drove away.
That was the last time I saw my Dad.
Since then, reclaiming weekends for me has been a struggle. I started burying the pain and loss I felt in work.
At age 14, I walked to Mcdonald’s and filled out my first job application. I was soon hired as a drive-thru cashier, which was a lot of fun. I’ve been through many jobs, but one thing I did was work every single weekend. It was safe and stable with the plus side of making money while doing it. It kept me busy.
Now I’m an adult, living on my own and in college. I have autonomy over my whole life now. The decision to move to the big city of Minneapolis was scary. It was unexplored territory for me. In my first year in school, I worked every weekend at my job as a waitress. The thought of making friends and enjoying a weekend out – as most college students do – never occurred to me. As time went on I made a few friends and they would invite me out on the weekends. But it seemed like my response was always “I would love to, but I have to work.” Eventually, they stopped inviting me. This upset me because I wanted to lead a ‘normal’ life.
So in my second year of college, I made the decision to not work on the weekends, maybe an occasional Saturday, but only on my terms. It was the best decision ever. Learning to navigate this newfound freedom of the weekend has been amazing. I am in a place in my life where I feel secure and happy. I’m not wishing for Monday on a Friday anymore, I’m wishing for Friday on a Monday now.
My friends have overwhelming anxiety about the weekend every week. They have to know what we are doing and what we are planning. But weekend anxiety is different for me. It’s about tearing down defenses I’ve built for protection because I’ve spent my life afraid of what might be waiting for me behind the closed door. Now that I’ve opened that door, I have come to enjoy the last three days of the week and everything they entail. I can finally see the thrill of Friday, Saturday and Sunday.