I slept for 12 hours.

It’s been so long since I haven’t woken up at 3 in the morning.

I know there are things that I need to do, and I know one of them is self-compassion, but what if I just go on being lazy and call it compassion? I’ve been out of bed for two hours and still want to hit snooze.

For as long I slept last night I should not be this grumpy. The dog keeps trying to lick my hands, if I pull away he goes for my face. He’s driving me nuts.

I was horny last night. Sofa king tired and sofa kind lonely and missing physical connection. I wanted a backrub and a massage. I wanted to make out. I wanted release, to get and give.

How do others do it? How do others work a full day, go to a bar, flirt, fuck, lie, wound?

How do others not just go home and crash for 12 hours?

I know I need to get out there and make some friends, have a social life that is not just a few texts each day with people counties and states and countries away. I need people my own age, local, going through some similar shit. But I pull into the parking lot and my body is sore and my clothes are covered in dust and rust and my brain is nowhere to be found, and I’m expecting myself to be charming?

Is it the depression, is it the medication, is it middle age, is it shame?

It is a bit of shame. I ran into people I like at the thrift store yesterday, people I’ve intimate conversations with–and to have compassion on myself, we passed while I was leaving and the were coming. So it was not the time to say, Hey I’m getting a divorce; I was a victim to emotional abuse and gaslighting. Fuck me, man. It’s a bomb everywhere.

Fuck me. I need money. I need a shitton of therapy I can’t afford. I need a new car.

Fuck me. I want to buy more shitty fake cigarettes and smoke them since I got ’em. I want to drink beer after beer. I want to eat all the shitty foods all the shitty time. I want to fuck around. I want to go goth. I want to shirk all my responsibilities. I want to watch TV all day. I can’t seem to bring myself to start an addiction to distract myself. But neither can I do the healthy this to distract myself.

What’s the song I’m thinking of? “I’m not a girl, not yet a woman?” No. “Maybe I’m too young, to keep good love from going wrong. Too old to just break free and run?” “Little girl you’re in the middle of the ride.” No, no. “I’m somewhere in-between Canaan and Egypt, a place called the wilderness” Nah. Clay Pigeons? Bus Stop…but sad?

Leave me the fuck alone.