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:
- To sleep again.
- To work again.
Too much to ask?