Could I be

Birch, chopped

 Winter has been getting the better of me, I must admit. The first ice storm of the year sent trees down all along my snowshoeing trail, which entangle Shadow when I take him out and frustrate me. I'm forced to hold one broken tree aside while I push past another, and switches swat my face, leaving welts. Like that Frost line:

It's when I'm weary of considerations,

And life is too much like a pathless wood

Where your face burns and tickles with the cobwebs

Broken across it, and one eye is weeping

From a twig's having lashed across it open

I'd like to get away from earth awhile

There's a man who understands a New England winter. And how'd he deal with it? Liquor and suicide and eating his family alive from the inside. Is that the fate that waits for all of us?

No, that's the lack of vitamin D speaking, although at this point I'm up to 1000% a day. Plus the heat lamp, which is only supposed to be effective if I use it to support my circadian rhythm, meaning I'm supposed to have it on at 7:15 every morning. If I could get up at 7:15 in the morning, I'd probably be fine. Another case of bootstrap-ism. Pull yourself up by your bootstraps! Physician, save thyself!

Lately I've taken to walking through the woods with a handsaw grazing the snow. I attack the bent poplar with vicious intention. I take all of my anger out on them. Good for my anger, perhaps. Bad for my shoulder.