Hello, my name is Michelle and I am a Type 1 Diabetic. I have been for as long as I can remember — a fact that carries its own ups and downs — but that's for a later post. THIS post (my FIRST post!) is about something different, more now-centered. It's about that day when I finally came to terms with the fact that, yes, I am a diabetic.
"I'm a diabetic." I'd said it probably a zillion times in the 28 or so years before the day when I finally owned it, and accepted it. Before the day when I once-and-for-all realized that, as helpful as my husband and parents and doctors and others close to me have always been, my diabetes is MY fight. It affects MY body, and MY life, and MY health, and I'm the only one who can or will ever really wrestle with it. I'm the only one with any power over MY diabetes. Sadly, I was also the only one who didn't really care. And it took me a reeeeeally long time to understand that. Almost as if for a long time I expected it to go away. Or to change. Or to be cured. Or to suddenly become something I had outgrown, like pimples, or *NSYNC. As if one day I would wake up and all of a sudden I would simply stop being diabetic. Maybe it would be my sister's turn to measure out her food, or to always get stuck with the boring cinnamon donut instead of the delicious-looking vanilla-dipped one with the sprinkles (not that I should be eating donuts at all, but you get the point). Or maybe my brother would get to experience the joys of late-night, exhausted binge eating to bring his blood sugars up high enough that he could finally go to bed without fear of overnight death. Not that I would wish this disease on anyone, least of all the people I love, but I felt victimized. I felt sorry for myself everyday. It just wasn't fair.
So I always sort of lived like that final diabetes day was coming. I didn't pay too much attention to what was going on. I went through the motions, keeping a safe distance from the reality of what was going on inside of me. Hemoglobin A1c results were a dime a dozen. Endocrinologists were unnecessary. I didn't see any value in spending time considering the benefits of new methods of managing diabetes, like insulin pumps (creepy!), or continuous glucose monitors (stupid!), or medically-recommended diets (boring!). Even carb counting seemed a bridge too far. And luckily I figured I wouldn't really need to be very good at it, at any of it, if my diabetes was going to magically go away "any day now". I understood all of these things, I knew what they were for and how they worked. I just didn't need them.
Looking back I think I was scared (duh!) to try anything new—to spend ANY time considering my diabetes care—because it seemed like that would mean admitting defeat. Like accepting the fact that I would never be able to eat and drink (and sleep, and drive, and exercise, and bear children) like normal people—AND DECLARING THAT I'M OKAY WITH IT. Sheer lunacy! It wasn't—isn't—okay that I won't ever be able to drink fruity, pretty cocktails with my friends, or spontaneously indulge in an ice cream cone, or scarf down greasy, delicious pizza without a moment's hesitation, AND not suffer any consequences. Not feel dry-mouthed and headache-y 30 minutes later. Not be craving fast-acting insulin like a junkie in withdrawal. Not be excusing myself every 10 minutes to pee and swear at my stupid organs. I tried to do those things. I tried to live the non-diabetic life, like normal people do. But it never went well.
And yet I didn't realize in all this time (or maybe I didn't care) that I wasn't punishing my pancreas. Wasn't teaching my diabetes anything at all. All I was doing was hurting myself, and bringing that first twinge of complications (every diabetic's worst nightmare) ever nearer the present day. Moving it up a week or two. I don't know if maybe I wanted to get it over with. Maybe I felt a life lived moderately and sensibly wasn't one that was lived well. Maybe I didn't want the job. Maybe I figured the disease was going to ruin my life and it didn't matter what I did. Maybe I felt helpless. Maybe I felt overwhelmed. Maybe I feared the unknown. Maybe I feared failure. Maybe I was just plain scared. Maybe I was childish. Maybe I was stubborn.
But one day I woke up. I became an adult. An adult with diabetes. And I got married, which helped too. Suddenly someone else was affected by my choices. And he made me want to do better. Not just in terms of diabetes care, but that's what's relevant here. I'm not saying that a man gave me hope, or put me back together, or changed my life, like I was some poor, sad girl in a movie, but he put his faith in me and was a good influence. And being with him, I started to think about what I want, and what I could have, like children, and a life that doesn't end in a wheelchair at 60 (hopefully). But first I needed to clean up my act, and get over myself, or at least get out of my own way. I needed to take responsibility and reclaim my own life, choose a direction for once. And I did.
It hasn't been easy, because I'm a disgustingly lazy person in general, and especially where food is concerned, but I have a goal now, and I have someone counting on me. Forty days ago, after years of being stupidly but steadfastly resistant to the idea, I started on my first-ever insulin pump. What had previously seemed ridiculous and conspicuous and intimidating is now a part of me, and you know what? It's not so bad! Not that it doesn't have its own drawbacks and complications, and a whole new set of disasters to be avoided, but I've discovered that it's neither horrifying nor conspicuous nor intimidating. Is it a compromise? Sure. Does it take some extra time and planning when getting dressed in the morning, or preparing a new infusion set? Absolutely. Is it right for everyone? Probably not. Do I love being attached to a machine all the time? Hell no. But is my future worth the occasional discomfort and embarrassment? YES.
So I guess all this is to say that today, at this very second, I'm at peace with myself. I'm a diabetic, yes, but my diabetes doesn't own me. I guess we get along now, because I've stopped ignoring that part of myself, and letting it in has made it (a little) less scary. Because it's ME who has always been the monster, not my diabetes. I'm the one who was subjecting my body to the rigours of high and low blood sugars. MY choices put me there. And now all I can do is move forward, and hope that my journey doesn't circle back again. I'll be sure to keep you posted :)
"I'm a diabetic." I'd said it probably a zillion times in the 28 or so years before the day when I finally owned it, and accepted it. Before the day when I once-and-for-all realized that, as helpful as my husband and parents and doctors and others close to me have always been, my diabetes is MY fight. It affects MY body, and MY life, and MY health, and I'm the only one who can or will ever really wrestle with it. I'm the only one with any power over MY diabetes. Sadly, I was also the only one who didn't really care. And it took me a reeeeeally long time to understand that. Almost as if for a long time I expected it to go away. Or to change. Or to be cured. Or to suddenly become something I had outgrown, like pimples, or *NSYNC. As if one day I would wake up and all of a sudden I would simply stop being diabetic. Maybe it would be my sister's turn to measure out her food, or to always get stuck with the boring cinnamon donut instead of the delicious-looking vanilla-dipped one with the sprinkles (not that I should be eating donuts at all, but you get the point). Or maybe my brother would get to experience the joys of late-night, exhausted binge eating to bring his blood sugars up high enough that he could finally go to bed without fear of overnight death. Not that I would wish this disease on anyone, least of all the people I love, but I felt victimized. I felt sorry for myself everyday. It just wasn't fair.
So I always sort of lived like that final diabetes day was coming. I didn't pay too much attention to what was going on. I went through the motions, keeping a safe distance from the reality of what was going on inside of me. Hemoglobin A1c results were a dime a dozen. Endocrinologists were unnecessary. I didn't see any value in spending time considering the benefits of new methods of managing diabetes, like insulin pumps (creepy!), or continuous glucose monitors (stupid!), or medically-recommended diets (boring!). Even carb counting seemed a bridge too far. And luckily I figured I wouldn't really need to be very good at it, at any of it, if my diabetes was going to magically go away "any day now". I understood all of these things, I knew what they were for and how they worked. I just didn't need them.
Looking back I think I was scared (duh!) to try anything new—to spend ANY time considering my diabetes care—because it seemed like that would mean admitting defeat. Like accepting the fact that I would never be able to eat and drink (and sleep, and drive, and exercise, and bear children) like normal people—AND DECLARING THAT I'M OKAY WITH IT. Sheer lunacy! It wasn't—isn't—okay that I won't ever be able to drink fruity, pretty cocktails with my friends, or spontaneously indulge in an ice cream cone, or scarf down greasy, delicious pizza without a moment's hesitation, AND not suffer any consequences. Not feel dry-mouthed and headache-y 30 minutes later. Not be craving fast-acting insulin like a junkie in withdrawal. Not be excusing myself every 10 minutes to pee and swear at my stupid organs. I tried to do those things. I tried to live the non-diabetic life, like normal people do. But it never went well.
And yet I didn't realize in all this time (or maybe I didn't care) that I wasn't punishing my pancreas. Wasn't teaching my diabetes anything at all. All I was doing was hurting myself, and bringing that first twinge of complications (every diabetic's worst nightmare) ever nearer the present day. Moving it up a week or two. I don't know if maybe I wanted to get it over with. Maybe I felt a life lived moderately and sensibly wasn't one that was lived well. Maybe I didn't want the job. Maybe I figured the disease was going to ruin my life and it didn't matter what I did. Maybe I felt helpless. Maybe I felt overwhelmed. Maybe I feared the unknown. Maybe I feared failure. Maybe I was just plain scared. Maybe I was childish. Maybe I was stubborn.
But one day I woke up. I became an adult. An adult with diabetes. And I got married, which helped too. Suddenly someone else was affected by my choices. And he made me want to do better. Not just in terms of diabetes care, but that's what's relevant here. I'm not saying that a man gave me hope, or put me back together, or changed my life, like I was some poor, sad girl in a movie, but he put his faith in me and was a good influence. And being with him, I started to think about what I want, and what I could have, like children, and a life that doesn't end in a wheelchair at 60 (hopefully). But first I needed to clean up my act, and get over myself, or at least get out of my own way. I needed to take responsibility and reclaim my own life, choose a direction for once. And I did.
It hasn't been easy, because I'm a disgustingly lazy person in general, and especially where food is concerned, but I have a goal now, and I have someone counting on me. Forty days ago, after years of being stupidly but steadfastly resistant to the idea, I started on my first-ever insulin pump. What had previously seemed ridiculous and conspicuous and intimidating is now a part of me, and you know what? It's not so bad! Not that it doesn't have its own drawbacks and complications, and a whole new set of disasters to be avoided, but I've discovered that it's neither horrifying nor conspicuous nor intimidating. Is it a compromise? Sure. Does it take some extra time and planning when getting dressed in the morning, or preparing a new infusion set? Absolutely. Is it right for everyone? Probably not. Do I love being attached to a machine all the time? Hell no. But is my future worth the occasional discomfort and embarrassment? YES.
So I guess all this is to say that today, at this very second, I'm at peace with myself. I'm a diabetic, yes, but my diabetes doesn't own me. I guess we get along now, because I've stopped ignoring that part of myself, and letting it in has made it (a little) less scary. Because it's ME who has always been the monster, not my diabetes. I'm the one who was subjecting my body to the rigours of high and low blood sugars. MY choices put me there. And now all I can do is move forward, and hope that my journey doesn't circle back again. I'll be sure to keep you posted :)