Here I sit, at the beginning of Hour One of my wait to see my GP.

And I mean that. I am expecting a one hour wait, minimum. My past history with my GP supports said expectation. It could be a lot more. I am settled down for the long haul.

For some reason, I am sleepy. This seems to be happening a lot lately. I am going to have to get a lot more serious about the CPAP. No more failing to put the thing back on after getting up to pee in the middle of the night.

At least I don’t nap very much any more.

And then there is the issue of the muffins. I seem to have developed a muffin habit. I suppose part of me thinks it is okay because they are healthier than donuts or Timbits, and tgat would be true if I stuck to whole wheat and/or bran muffins. In those, the complex carbs easily outweigh the sugar content.

‘:But I don’t limit myself to those. I eat them all, including ones with chocolate chips. And those might as well be cupcakes.

This is just the latest in a long series of total degenerations of my willpower versus sweets. I was so good for so long, but starting early December, my willpower broke apart like flotsam in a flood.

Water imagery. Yup.

I never wanted to return to a life where I turned to food for solace. But I suppose addiction doesn’t give  a shit about what you want. It wants control and will do whatever it takes to get it.

And the thing is, food works. It improves my mood. It makes me feel better about the world. Most importantly, it gives me something to look forward to, something concrete, reliable, and very rewarding. Something that makes this meal different than the others.

Something  FUN, god dammit.

So I am torn between what my body needs (normal blood sugar, stat!) and what I need for my mood (happy making foods).

(—)

Wow,  made it in only 45 minutes after my appointment. He must be improving.

(—)

Home now, rested, fed, and ready to blog.

Been having those moments where I can’t remember why I do anything ever lately. I feel so lost and pointless sometimes. Even though my life has clear momentum now and I can just ride along without worrying too much about things, sometimes I feel like I am just a meaningless conglomeration of carbon and goo with absolutely no purpose in life, and it makes me feel so alone.

That’s probably just the depression talking, though. Slowly I am wrapping my brain around the fact that it is the illness that cuts me off from the world, and that the world is still out there, warm and solid and true, with everything I want from it out there waiting to happen, and people who truly love me who want to see me do well and be happy.

One might call it emotional object permanence : things are still there even when you can’t feel them.

It’s a sobering thing to realize and a tough pill to swallow as well. My entire view of my life is colored by my perception of having been abandoned and neglected and left out on the cold.

And that is still fundamentally true. Nobody I ever reached out to was able to be there for me. Not my parents, not my teachers, not the school administration. Everything who was supposed to protect me let me down. I was all alone in the world.

And while some baby animals abandoned by their parents learn to strive and thrive and do things for themselves, some of us just give up and wait to die.

But even given that, I have to look back and wonder how much of my isolation was the result of my own damage. I was a pretty messed up kid before I ever set foot in school (and skipping kindergarten sure as fuck didn’t help), though nobody knew it at the time, least of all me.

I was the walking wounded due to getting raped, and I was far too young to be able to understand what had happened to me, let alone put it into words, let alone say those words to someone who would care.

It was the 70’s, after all. A less enlightened age. Most people had never even heard of child rape. They certainly hadn’t heard of it happening to the products of normal middle class families.

And they sure as hell wouldn’t have imagined it happening inside the family.

To be honest, I don’t think children had been less important than they were in the 1970s at any point after the passing of child labour laws.

Anyhow, I was a broken kid. And yet, I have a sort of self-righting personality that keeps it from showing. No matter what happens, I can always manage to smile and say everything is fine and make it believable.

And the thing is… for a while at least, I believe it too. That’s the real problem. I want to be that guy who is always okay and who can handle anything. It’s a very tempting delusion. For a little time at least, I can convince myself that everything is okay and things will be fine from now on.

But like they say, despair is a constant. It’s the hope that kills you.

And there is certainly nothing anyone outside my skull can do about it. What can an average person do to help someone who insists that everything is fine?

I dunno. Maybe if someone was really persistent, I would share the dark stuff with them, though honestly, I would be doing it to shut them up and make them go away. I don’t want my darkness poisoning other people. It’s bad enough that I have to deal with it.

I couldn’t handle someone getting sicker because of me.

I guess that’s it for today, all you wonderful people who read me!

I will, of course, talk to you nice people again tomorrow.