Fun with insomnia

Oh yeah.  Fun.  Shits and giggles.  I left my former job on June 13.  Since then I have not had a real night’s sleep.  Like most projecting worriers, I have lain awake going mad over finances.  I have obsessed over whether anyone short of a supermarket or drugstore will even hire me.  Hell, I’ve gotten a bit nervous about the drugstores and markets, too.  Who wants a 64-year-old except the retirement home I can’t afford to move into anyway.

I go running at midnight and beyond.  Me, Uncle Fatfart, has turned himself into a therapeutic runner.  It feels good.  But tonight it did not work.  I’m tired but not sleepy.  It sucks.

Last weekend I was in the emergency room because of a Seroquel overdose.  Not intentional, thank you.  But I felt and looked like I was having a stroke.  Scary?  Yes, especially since I have heard that some people do not come back from Seroquel “issues.”

Whine, whine. I wish I had the wherewithal to retire, I wish that my ex hadn’t gotten my 401(K) via court order.  Right now I want two things:

  1. To sleep again.
  2. To work again.

Too much to ask?


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