Forty More Years

 What do you want? For more than a decade, my reflexive answer has been "to die." I want off the ride. I want out of the Dark City. Hey, Jane, stop this crazy thing. 

Trying to change my brain to a more positive track, I can no longer allow this answer. What do I want? 

I want energy. 

If I wasn't tired all the time, maybe I would do something. Write another book. Sew a dress. Draw a picture. Volunteer. Even thinking about doing any of those things exhausts me. The absolute certainty that I have at least 40 more years on this planet is the worst punishment I can imagine because it's 40 years of being tired without ever finding rest. 

My glory days of almost 7 hours a night are gone. I lie down. I close my eyes. I may manage four uninterrupted hours from 8 to midnight, but it's a crap shoot from there. It's not racing thoughts. It's anti-gravity eyelids. I can close my eyes but they don't feel closed. They hurt most of the time. Eye spikes. 

I know I've slept when I can remember a dream. I also know that's bad. Remembering a dream means I wake up at the wrong time. I have nightmares, too. Guessing that's another side effect of menopause and estrogen deprivation. Very realistic nightmares. 

I have the mutation for Alzheimer's and I wonder if that impedes my sleep. All the doctors say sleep is very important for brain health, but none of them, not even Stasha Golmanik, have been able to help me sleep more. Covid taught me doctors don't know jack. Once again, I'm on my own. Lone Turtle against the world. What else is new. 

I opened a financial prediction from my advisor today. I have a 64% chance of meeting my retirement goals. I should be happy. If that was a cancer prediction, I'd assume I'm getting cancer. So I should assume I'll be OK at 100 years old. Turtle Brain doesn't work like that. Not currently, anyway. I have 40 years to change it. Doesn't look like it's happening today, though. 

Keep the faith.