Sometimes I wish I could just stick my finger down the throat of my psyche and bring up all the toxic undigested emotions and suppressed drives and sublimated desires that have been blocking me up and slowing me down and just vomit them into the world all wet and squirming and finally be rid of it all forever so I can start anew.

In a way, it seems absurd, at least to my over-rational mind, that I can’t do that. That I have to wait around for some slow-moving natural process to get around to dealing with every last little bit of it on a distinctly geological timescale. Why can’t I just push a mental button and, if not deal with it all at once (I doubt my mind has the cognitive bandwidth for that), at least speed up the process a little bit.

What brought this to mind was a sort of bad run I had last night when it was time to bake. I won’t go into the details, let’s just say it was one of those times when a lot of little things go wrong and you get all bent out of shape and that leads to even more little things going wrong because you’re making rash, ill thought out decisions and it all leads to you wanting to just scream into the night.

And in this case, it also ended with me screwing up a perfectly lovely lemon pound cake. By naking an error I have made a bunch of times before. Seriously not cool.

And the thing is, that was bad. It was, in fact, almost like a media representation of a “bad day”. And yet, I think it actually did me some good because it made me feel things. It briefly melted this glacier inside me and let my emotions flow out and I feel like, because of that, today the glacier is a little smaller.

So who knows, maybe I should have more bad nights. Or at least find some way to stimulate some emotion in myself beyond my usual low level depressive state that looks like I am okay but usually only means I am busy. When I stop moving, the depression comes back and I feel sad, anxious, and bored.

This does not make my life any easier, but I think it does mean that I have to deal with my depression more actively now, and I don’t just mean by baking. It means that I have to feel it in realtime and process the emotions involved, even if it is just the low grade sadness and depression that I have always had to deal with, only far more intense and real.

Of course, as always, I can’t discount my physical health problems as being part of the equation either. My sleep apnea is completely untreated. I am probably under-oxygenated a lot of the time even when I am awake. Between sleep apnea and terrible cardio health, it’s a wonder my poor brain gets any O2 at all.

Add in that I only half-treat my diabetes… I take the pills, avoid sugar, and take insulin every night, but I don’t monitor my levels at all… plus, obviously, the physical side of depression, and I am not at all well.

And it sure looks like all of that is within my power to change, doesn’t it?

But it isn’t.

Oh, and I have an untreated knee injury and two freaking holes in my abdominal wall that apparently are no big deal because I still haven’t heard from my doctor about them, and he’s the one who diagnosed me.

If I call up and they are all “We’ve been trying to contact you! Where have you been?” because they have been calling my old phone number, I am gonna lose it. I did all I could to make sure they had the new number and address. The person I talked to on the phone assured me that my information had been updated. So if that’s it, I will be pissed.

Another possibility is that my doctor just forgot to refer me to a surgeon for the patch up job on my guts. Or he filled out the referral form but his receptionist never faxed it in. Or some such garbage.

Now admittedly, it’s been a long time since I was diagnosed and I probably should have called them up about it ages ago. I mean, it’s pretty easy just to pick up the phone and call, right?

But it isn’t.

Part of my constellation of problems is that it’s very hard for me to advocate for myself. Which is exactly what they say you have to do in order to keep the medical system’s attention. And it’s exactly what I can’t do.

Life is damned near impossible when you are a grown man who can’t take care of myself properly. Especially when you are one who has trouble even asking for help in the first place. And especially if you are a big bearded tall guy whom society assumes should be able to take care of themselves and will have nothing but contempt for if they show weakness.

That’s not paranoia. I am positive that’s why some people, especially women, have treated me poorly, even with contempt. And I am talking medical professionals who work with the mentally ill for a living. Even in the compassionate professions, some people fail the empathy test.

Anyhow, I should really call them up. Really, really should.

And who knows… it might even happen.

Meanwhile, I am still birthing the glacier. Instead of throwing up my problems all at once, I have to push them out slowly and painfully and be stuck in this holding pattern until the process is done.

It’s a long way out of this tomb of mine. I spent such a long time building it, after all. And there’s no wrecking ball coming to set me free.

Guess I’ll just tunnel my way out with a spoon.

I will talk to you nice people again tomorrow.