A temporary tattoo that would replace finger sticks… Yes. Just Yes. Check this out!
A temporary tattoo that would replace finger sticks… Yes. Just Yes. Check this out!
And just like that my worlds collide. Data. Diabetes. Boom.
It’s all in the trend line. Further insights… and feelings, TBD.
I’ve written about this amidst rants over the past week or so, but I wanted to address it clearly because I feel that it’s worth the time. When I went to the doctor, she took my PDM, and with very little, hurried explanation, she messed with the settings and then handed it back to me and walked out — this is what happened from my perspective, objectively I know that this is probably not exactly what went down. As soon as she took my PDM, something about the way she took it triggered something in me, and I went into a fog, all I knew was that she had something that was mine and she was messing with it, and I couldn’t or didn’t do anything to stop her. I felt exposed, but paralyzed in the chair, like I was observing the scene standing behind my chair, rather than being there myself. I could have spoken up, asked questions, asked for my PDM back, asked to be shown what she was changing or doing, and why — I am usually a proactive patient, coming prepared with questions, participating my own care. This time I was apathetic and shutdown, I was pissed off when she wanted me to come in earlier than usual, irritated to be judged solely on my numbers without being given the chance to explain, or asked if there was anything else going on — just the assumption of non-compliance, I was insulted. I didn’t feel like her assumptions warranted polite reply — instead, I stayed as I was, quiet, still, in my chair. Not asking any questions, no protests, just waiting for her to leave. and she did leave, and then I was just there, wondering what had just happened, what I was supposed to do — she said something about following up with the nurses to make appointments, like hell was I going to do that. A better voice in my head told me that I probably should actually do that, but then, I know what I’m supposed to do in a lot of situations, and that definitely doesn’t mean that it necessarily happens…
I’m 27. I’m sober. on psych meds. on insulin… oh yeah, because I’m diabetic. living in Hermosa Beach, working out of my apt for the most part. some people believe I’m smart and/or competent. both could be debated depending on the day. that imposter syndrome thing… it’s real, sometimes I even shock myself when I know what I’m doing. how fucked up is that? how did I get here? more like where the fuck am I? where am I going? that’s an even more outlandish question. who the fuck knows. do I care? I must if I’m writing this. this thought keeps popping up — who is reading this? do I need to be concerned about this? everything I put out here could definitely be used to question my sanity… I mean, fuck, I question my own sanity on here… I questioned it about two sentences back. I am one person, true, there is no separating the sobriety from the diabetes, from any other aspect of my life. Maybe I could be more polite about things, but let’s be real that’s not authentic to me either… haha. authentic, there’s a loaded word, blatantly misused by so many — if you have to state it over and over, did you ever really have it to begin with? anyway, I’ve never been one to mince words, so I guess why would I start here — the place I started writing just for the purpose of not having to filter myself. not filtering while also expressing those thoughts in open forum for the rest of the world to read, interesting concept. I guess I didn’t give that contradiction all that much thought before I started. too late to stop now. and let’s be real it feels good to get this off my chest, dropping the rock as my sponsor told me. somehow this is different than just writing in my journal, or typing in an empty document — I hope someone reads this and for whatever reason it causes them to pause, even if they just laugh at me because they think I’m ridiculous, it it could help someone who feels some of the same things I feel that would be great too, but let’s be real I am a bit ridiculous, so at least if someone gets a laugh out of it, I guess it’s not all for naught. who the fuck knows.
It is very different being a diabetic v. caring for a diabetic. Actually, I guess I’m not really qualified to say that, as I can only speak as a diabetic, but what I can tell you is that it irritates the hell out of me when I read stuff written by parents that waxes on about how hard it is to deal with their kid’s diabetes. fuck you. I’m not a parent. I know there are things that I don’t understand about that relationship, responsibility, position, but I can tell you that as a diabetic, i.e. the one who will actually die if I fuck something up, I have a really hard time feeling sympathy for an onlooker. I know that is harsh. I know that there are people in my life who have worried about me, had to watch me go through things that suck, watch me behave in ways that might not necessarily be the “best for me,” wonder if I’m going to be okay — and if I wasn’t open to hearing their opinion, stand on the sideline and wait for me to figure it out myself, or die trying. I realize that all of this might sound a tad dramatic, but that’s how I feel right now. The other part of this, which it’s taken me longer to get to, is that if I’m honest, I’m jealous of diabetics that were diagnosed when they still had a support system at home. I feel so alone sometimes. Even though I know that I had quite enough arguments with my parents growing up without another thing to fight over, let alone one with such gravity, but I can’t help but think, then I wouldn’t be alone. although… then I don’t have to take direction from anyone either… scratch parents, thank god I wasn’t married, that sounds worse than being diagnosed as a kid — at least resenting your parents is part of the deal, I can’t imagine going through that with a partner. Even the small taste of that I had was horrible — having to worry about another person’s reaction to what you’re already dealing with is a pain in the ass, it’s hard enough for me to deal with me. but then I guess that’s the catch, maybe I am better off on my own — is it possible to care for a diabetic without meddling in their diabetic life/choices/status? if you care, then you want to know, but then where does that leave the diabetic? I don’t need or want to have to report my “status,” even when asked in passing, especially by my parents, I find it super irritating (I know this reaction is not rational or polite). I know that people want to care, or that they do care, but rather than care, I wish they would just try to understand rather than try to help. Unless you can magically fix my pancreas you can’t help me… honestly, even my endocrinologist can’t really help me, all this shit is just a massive guessing game, so could you just be there? Just stay still, and love me. that’s all I need, and that’s all I ask.
do you ever have one of those days? I feel like normal people have “those days” — I’m just stuck with this absolutely absurd rollercoaster of feelings that may or may not make any fucking sense at any given point in time, and I’m just supposed to roll with it. It’s cool, this is just the way I am. fuck that. I’m done. And you know what else? before diabetes I would have gone to the beach and run this off… but will I do that tonight? nope. because that would require turning down my insulin, eating something, being responsible… all things I don’t feel like doing. I just want to be able to walk out my door and run until I don’t feel any more. I don’t think that’s much to ask of the universe. why me? why am I still asking that question? It feels so warranted and so over dramatic at the same time. I have so many things to deal with, and then so many things for which to be thankful… like the education that made me reword that last phrase so it didn’t end in a preposition. and my dog. and my sister. and my relative health. fuck relative health. and fuck boundary tromping doctors. this life takes so much fucking effort. my head hasn’t been to that dark place recently, but when you’re feeling apathetic about everything it’s more of a “so if there’s nothing else…” rather than wanting to walk away or escape, the way it was before. (well there went that preposition thing). everytime I think that pain is gone, it comes back. I can hear the voices of people who don’t understand… you’re fine. you’re being a bit dramatic, don’t you think? have you talked to your doctor about this? — fine, all of those are valid statements, but it still leaves me feeling alone and misunderstood, or ignored — just because you don’t see the reasons behind my feelings, or even if I don’t see any reason, doesn’t make them any less valid than your thoughts about them. when does this end? Am I going to be this emotionally unstable for the rest of my life? is this emotionally unstable? does emotionally stable exist? or is that just ignorance? or the decision not to feel? or not to acknowledge feeling? or the existence of feelings? I should try that. Oh wait, I did. It was terrible. But more terrible than this? maybe… maybe not. I guess I could go back to trying that. I can hear the collective voices of my therapist, sponsor, psychiatrist, and sober friends… “Are you sure about that?” — so fine, maybe that’s a terrible idea. so where does that leave me. still here. fml.