PEEPS…

Can somebody PLEASE explain to me why my brain has apparently entered into a legally binding contract with the devil to wake my ass up at 2:34 A.M. every. single. damn. morning?

Because I’m over it.

I don’t care what I do during the day.

I don’t care if I’ve cooked enough food to feed a small village.

I don’t care if I’ve cleaned the house, done twelve loads of laundry, baked six dozen cookies, solved seventeen family crises, written three novels in my head, and wrestled my own nervous system into submission.

I go to bed…

Tired.

Like…

“Please let me melt into this mattress and become one with the fitted sheet” tired.

I fall asleep just fine.

Then…

BAM.

2:34 A.M.

Every.

Fucking.

Morning.

Not 2:32.

Not 2:41.

Not “around 2:30.”

No.

2:34.

Like my brain has a union job and punches a damn time clock.

“Alright boys…Heather’s unconscious. Wake her up. We’ve got shit to overthink.”

WHY?!

WHO IS RESPONSIBLE FOR THIS?!

I just want to talk…

violently.

And before somebody asks…

“No, Heather…have you tried melatonin?”

YES.

It gives me dreams that make absolutely no damn sense.

One night I’m riding a giraffe through Walmart buying bananas for Abraham Lincoln while Taylor Swift and Gordon Ramsay argue over cheese dip.

No thank you.

Ambien?

HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA.

ABSOLUTELY THE HELL NOT.

Ambien turns me into a possessed Victorian ghost with Wi-Fi.

Apparently I have had FULL conversations with Matt.

Entire.

Conversations.

Do I remember them?

Not a single fucking word.

Honestly…

Based on the look on his face the next morning…

I DON’T WANT TO.

I’m pretty sure I confessed to crimes I didn’t commit and negotiated peace treaties with imaginary woodland creatures.

Never again.

Besides…

I already rattle when I walk because of all the medications I take.

I’m not looking to add another bottle to my collection.

So here I am…

Wide awake.

Everyone else in my house?

Sleeping peacefully like tiny, precious babies.

Matt?

Sleeping.

The kids?

Sleeping.

The dog?

Snoring.

The cats?

Probably plotting my murder…

BUT EVEN THOSE TWO ASSHATS ARE ASLEEP.

Meanwhile…

My brain immediately goes from zero to absolute psychotic chaos.

Within the first hour alone…

I have become irrationally pissed off over something that happened in 1997!!!!

Cried.

Laughed so hard as quietly as possible my damn kidney stone started moving.

Cried again because apparently we are emotionally unstable before sunrise now.

Decided I need to become friends with crows.

Yes…

CROWS.

Listen…

If those judgmental little goth chickens insist on landing on my deck every damn day, then one of us is going to crack first.

Either they’re going to accept me into the murder…

Or I’m going to become their emotionally unstable aunt.

There is no third option.

Then…

I start planning supper.

Immediately followed by…

“Do we even HAVE food?”

Inventory commences.

Bread?

Gone.

Milk?

Gone.

Eggs?

Gone.

Cheese?

Questionable amounts in the fridge and freezer…we really are Midwestern folks!

Coffee?

YOU BETTER SHUT YOUR MOUTH!

Suddenly it’s 3:08 in the damn morning and I’m mentally shopping at Walmart.

Then my brain says…

“You know what would be fun?”

Existential dread.

So naturally I begin contemplating…

The universe.

My purpose.

Different religions.

The meaning of consciousness.

Whether free will actually exists.

How many civilizations have come and gone.

What happens after we die.

Whether the animal kingdom has a functioning government.

Whether crows hold grudges? Is the one on my deck trying to kill me or make me do more chores?!

If aliens are watching this shit show wondering what the hell we’re doing.

Then…

Without warning…

My brain shifts gears…

“You should make potato salad tomorrow.”

WHAT?!

How did we get from the afterlife to mayonnaise?!

WHO IS DRIVING THIS BUS?!

By the time everyone else wakes up around 9:00…

Needing breakfast.

Needing rides.

Needing help finding things that are exactly where I told them they’d be…

I finally…

FINALLY…

Start getting sleepy.

My brain is just sitting over there smoking an imaginary cigarette like…

“Well…we accomplished absolutely fucking nothing. Good work, everybody.”

I’ve spent the last three years mentally running on fumes.

But I honestly don’t know anymore if this is…

MS.

Perimenopause.

ADHD.

Chronic stress.

Forty-year-old hormones choosing violence.

Or if all of those assholes have formed a supervillain alliance specifically to make sure Heather never experiences eight uninterrupted hours of sleep again.

At this point I’m convinced my brain has become a 24-hour Waffle House.

It never closes.

There is always chaos.

Somebody is crying.

Somebody is yelling.

There’s at least one questionable life decision happening.

And somehow…

Everyone keeps showing up.

So if I seem a little extra feral today…

If you get seventeen Facebook posts.

If I suddenly start a deep dive into crow sociology.

If I decide to open another business.

Write another book.

Rearrange my kitchen.

Learn astrophysics.

Bake six different desserts.

Question the existence of humanity.

And cry because we’re out of bread…

Just know…

I’ve already lived an entire emotional lifetime before most of you have even hit snooze.

Sleep?

That bitch left me on read months ago.