Though hope is frail, it's hard to kill

Have you ever wanted to know what it feels like? Depression, that is.

It feels like this.

It feels like that, and it feels like confusion, drifting, apathy, pretending, hiding, anger, irrational annoyance, and shame, because what do I have to be sad about? My life is not that bad. But then when I think about it I keep finding all these reasons why it sucks. And then I think about all the people and things that make me happy, and it doesn't suck quite so much.

So maybe I'm a depressed optimist? I don't know. (oh, I say I don't know a lot when I have my depressive episodes)


Anyway, I broke down in the endocrinologist's office the other day for the third appointment in a row. So for the first time, my doctor wants me to start up counseling to focus on diabetes, because that's such a huge factor in it. She said that maybe doing that will help to relieve some of my stress and anxiety about it, which will help improve my blood sugars. Plus it'll help me get back to at least a neutral state, so maybe then I can start taking a little more control of my life.

I made the appointment the next day. It's funny how just setting up the appointment makes you feel just a little better. Other things that also make it better: people who are naturally happy (rather than trying to make me happy, because that's trying to fix it and that's not what I need), people who understand, my service trip group (because in Alabama it was like my depression didn't really exist, so now I associate that whole experience with happiness).

Song of the week:

13 years

13 years gone like 13 minutes...underwater.

Now that July 18th is over, I think it's time for a little reflection. The day marked the 13th anniversary of my diagnosis with type I diabetes, and to be honest, it was a lot more difficult than I thought it would be. It carried a lot of emotion that I hadn't been expecting, and the day in general hurt a lot more than it usually does.

Normally my "diabeteversaries" are happy occasions, days when I get treated to a nice dinner and sometimes even cake! The past few years have been really chill, because after a while it's not such a big deal anymore. I didn't mean for this one to even be a big deal. A Facebook status, a Tumblr post, a tweet or two. Not too much. But I guess it was my own fault that it became a bit bigger, because I talked about this one a lot. I mean, it is kind of interesting that my diabetes is a teenager now. But then I started making it a bigger deal than I even wanted it to be, so much that Claire even made me a cake (which was delicious and so awesome of her - thanks friend!).

It didn't help that my mom sent me this text: "Hey hun, it never ceases to amaze me how much courage you have shown in dealing with your medical conditions. I'm thinking of you on this 13th anniversary. Luv, mama." I overlooked it when I first got it, but when I went to reply later, it just hit me. I wouldn't be alive if it hadn't been for her.

It was a reminder of how fragile my life is, how easily I could lose control, how easily it could kill me. Maybe you don't know this (or maybe you do), but I've had four seizures, including two in my sleep. I've struggled with the temptations of diabulimia (which I'm sure you can find some information about on the Google machine - too much effort to go into it right now), it's been a major source of my depressive times, and I stopped caring for a long time during spring semester this year. No, wait. I didn't just stop caring; I let it take over, I let it get to me. For the first time, I felt defined by it.

Diabetes sucks. It really, really sucks. And I legitimately am sorry that I can't explain it very well to those of you who aren't diabetic. Unfortunately, you just can't know how it affects you unless you have it. I know you can see how it affects me, and you might feel like you get it, but it's just one of those things, you know? One of those things that is just impossible to fully understand until you're the one dealing with it. That's why camp has been so important to me - it's the one place where everyone really understands. I've never had the same connection with another person as I have with Lauren, my best friend from camp. I'm very lucky to have someone like her who understands and has had very similar life experiences.

I apologize for any time ever when I have not been very patient in talking with you about it. I know that you might just want to understand better, or you're curious about how things work. If I have lost my patience (or lose it in the future), please know it's not your fault. I know I have said before that it's my favorite thing to talk about, but if I'm being honest, it's really not. I'm not going to avoid talking about it or try to keep it a secret, but I only talk about it because it's something I can discuss for hours on end.

Another note - please, please spare me the diabetes jokes. They're a lot less funny when that's your reality. Also, they hurt more than you think they do.


I guess what I'm getting at here is that diabetes is a large part of my life. It affects me daily, to an extent you can't imagine. People tell me they couldn't imagine giving themselves shots every day, that I'm so strong and courageous, that they wouldn't be able to do it. I know they mean well, and I really appreciate the sentiment. But honestly, I would trade anything for it. I'm not brave, I'm just trying to stay alive. You might not think you'd be able to do it, but five injections a day is a lot better than dying so that's the option I choose.

So...I guess that kind of covers it. It's confusing and it's messy and it's anything but pleasant. It comes with other issues, it creates a lot of problems, and it's inconvenient. It creates days like this that end in tears, and it hurts - both externally and internally. And now, once again:

This is life, and it's good.

It's a best friend marrying the man who was meant for her. It's getting to share in the joy of the celebration as a bridesmaid. It's standing up on stage, laughing at the pastor's jokes and feeling the tears in your eyes when you see him looking at her with so much love in his eyes.

It's messing up and accidentally giving the wrong address and feeling terrible and apologizing a million times. It's the awkward introductions. It's the rest of the room disappearing while you're having a conversation. It's so many hugs. It's having a fantastic time while you're not even doing anything.

It's cracking up at old camp memories and it's realizing how well you're understood by each other. It's seeing a perfect little apartment that's so crowded with stuff and knowing there's tons more stuff coming into it soon. It's staying up until 2:30 AM when you have to get up in six hours but there's just so much to discuss. It's not being afraid to share your secrets because they're her secrets too. It's picking up right where you left off, no matter how many months or years it's been.

It's muffins for breakfast. It's a bitter cup of coffee with frozen whipped cream because there's no milk. It's singing along to every song on the way home and realizing that you are so incredibly happy. It's a fresh mani/pedi and lunch before leaving again, and it's a friend coming to visit for a while.

This is your life, and it is so good.

Sick and tired of being sick and tired

(credit to Bill for the e-card)

My friend (a fellow diabadass and one of my closest friends) and I were talking one day, and we came to a realization…having diabetes messes you up.

A lot of diabetics (myself included) have had emotional/mental health issues in their lives. I personally have struggled with an obsession with perfection. One friend had an eating disorder. Another dropped out of high school. When you stop to think about it, having diabetes has a huge impact on your life.

I don’t know if it’s chemical - it could be, but I’m not so sure that it’s true. I think it’s more about having to fight to survive, relying on insulin to stay alive each and every day, being forced to live a stressful life full of needles and numbers. It’s the stares when you’re out in public, it’s the questions that you say you don’t mind answering, it’s especially the people who say, “I admire you. I don’t think I could do what you do,” because when it comes down to it, you either do it or you die. So you do it. You don’t think you can, but you have to.

Diabetes creates this anger deep down in you. There’s a feeling that you weren’t supposed to make it, that the fact that you’re alive when one of your very vital organs doesn’t work at all isn’t right. That you have to live like this forever (or at least until an adequate cure is found). That your disease is influencing your life enough that you’re making a career out of it. That people think they understand when they really don’t. That people would do anything for you not to suffer - your dad would give you his pancreas if he could, your mom would trade places with you in a heartbeat.

So yeah, in a way, diabetes messes you up.

These are my confessions

It's time to admit some things about myself. I don't always feel like this, but I usually do. Fuck, I don't even know how to start this. There's just so much built up inside me right now.

I hate nearly everything about my body. (Yes, I'm a typical girl with typical body issues, plus some. So if you don't care or don't want to hear it, stop reading.) Why, you ask? Well.

I'm 6'0 tall, which has always been awkward and not cool in my book.
I never use scales because they make me cry.
I realize that as a tall person, my ideal body weight is greater than people who are normal heights, but I can't help it.
Born to dance? Fuck that. If I were born to dance, I would be less than 5'6 and around 100 pounds.
Shopping is usually fun...when I'm looking at accessories. When it comes to trying on clothes, I almost always end up discouraged and angry because nothing ever fits me.
Jeans are nearly impossible for me to find; I have to get at least extra-longs in one of the largest sizes because my hips are so big, and I spend hours trying them on and find maybe two pairs.
I don't realize it UNTIL I try on jeans that my hips are huge.
(I actually really like having curvy hips...only thanks to Ryan.)
I was told once that my eyes have a unique shape, but that only makes me think they're weird.
I think I have a really big forehead.
I only like my hair when it's straight, but it takes so much time and effort that I hardly ever do it.
My feet (as I wrote about it my recent post) have calluses from dancing for 14 years, and I'm convinced they'll never be smooth.
My hands are too small for someone my size.
I have small shoulders, tiny ears, and an extremely short upper lip.

Last but not least, what I hate most about myself: my insulin spots.
There are hard deposits about a centimeter below my skin that came from doing too many injections there in the last twelve and a half years.
They're horrible. To me, they look like two little tumors on either side of me, in line with my belly button, just inside my hip bones. They have little bruises around them from other shots. I hate them with every fiber of my being and sometimes I just want to take a knife and cut them out.
They're the only things I really try to hide from everyone. Sometimes I wear leggings under my jeans and tell you it's just to be warmer...but I wouldn't tell you it's also because they can hold in my insulin spots. I wear a sweater or a jacket every day, just so I can cover them up.

A recent excerpt from my journal (I know, a journal with stuff that's not already on my blog? Crazy, right?):
"It's nights like these that make me want to run back to him. The one who would rub aloe as gently as he could on my severely burnt back, the one who once told me I was perfect, the one who would kiss the insulin deposits under my skin that I hate so much. He would hold me while I cried, my forehead on his shoulder and my face stuck frozen in a sob that felt like it would never end. 0.09% NaCl solution coursing down my cheeks, chest caving in like my heart was a black hole, not feeling the need to breathe."

Even when I've tightened my belt by a notch, when I know that my stomach's full of air because I ate wheat today and not with food because I ate too much, when I've felt so good about myself earlier in the week...I can't escape the tears that are so ready to spill.

Sick and tired

I'm sick and tired.

I'm sick because I have been since I was 8, and now there's more wrong with me.
I pray for one disease over another, because one can be fixed.
I already have one that will last forever and a deficiency that goes along with it, and I don't want to add another one.
Fuck, I don't want to add another disease at all, but I have to pray and hope and wish that I have the one that will make less of an impact on my life.
Another pill? Sure, that's fine. I can deal with taking pills for the rest of my life. I already do that.
Changing my eating habits? I'm not so okay with that.

I want to be less different, and now I'm even more so.

I talk about my diseased state all the time. I tell you it's my favorite thing to talk about, which isn't really the truth. It's just the subject I know most about and which you don't know much about, so I can talk a lot. I like talking.
What I hate, though, is being diseased. I will never not be sick. And you know what? That sucks.
I fucking hate being diabetic. I hate having hypothyroidism. I hate the possibility of having Celiac. I hate it, hate it, hate it.

I'm tired, and going to bed but not to sleep because I can't fall asleep thinking about how sick I am.

I'm sick and tired of being sick.

Diagram

Mreh. Not too fond of this one. It might have helped if my blood sugar wasn't low while I wrote it.

A dia­gram of my body
to map out every­thing
that’s wrong with it.
Start­ing with the pan­creas,
down to the intestines,
nei­ther of which do their
assign­ments prop­erly
Then back up to the heart,
which you’ve man­aged to
keep from beat­ing nor­mally,
instead forc­ing it to pound,
out of sync with the ratio­nal brain.

Habit

Shots after shots
forced into it
a life you never wanted
hell, a life no one would want
so what do you do with it?
you make it who you are
but you say that you’re the one in con­trol
liar