I'm not sure when it all started...
Maybe it was the plane ride, and the restaurant dinners, and the late nights in Orlando...
Maybe it was the three and a half day fever...
Maybe it was the umpteenth realization that this things lasts bloody forever...
I thought, in my usual optimistic manner, that diabetes during the summer would somehow be easier than diabetes during the school year. Dinners at home, more routinized schedule, a gym membership I would actually use (I was getting pretty good there towards the end of school, since I hurt my back I was practially forced to go to the gym).
But for the last month, nothing. No gym, no Symlin, infrequent dinners at home.
And now I have the bloody alcohol messing with my system.
This was supposed to be the summer of the Six.
As in a Six Point Something A1C.
But I see more 200s and 300s than anything else.
And I honestly don't want to fix anything because I'm tired. But there's also the guilt.
Guilt because despite the fact that it's perfectly normal to hate diabetes, perfectly normal to get burned out, perfectly normal to say "fuck you" to the glucose meter every once in awhile (or five times a day, depending on who you are), I have to/get to talk to people, everyday, about the importance of testing your blood sugar frequently, writing down your numbers, getting regular exercise, counting carbohydrates for healthy, well-balanced meals, and thinking positively because diabetes really isn't so bad once you get the hang of it.
I feel like a hypocrite. Like an overweight nutritionist.
I know it's a benefit to have the disease you are mentoring and educating about. I know the ins and outs, ups and downs and the tiny little crevices that endocrinologists and diabetes educators (excluding those with the disease, of course) completely miss during your usual diabetes boot camp.
I know being a messed-up diabetic (like everyone else) is a part of my charm, but goddammit, why can't there be someone out there who has this thing figured out? It's like the stupid "meaning of life" secret. It's this small kernal of truth hiding out there somewhere, perhaps in the heart of an undiagnosed diabetic, and we're just waiting for someone to figure this all out.
My mother found some old articles from when I was first diagnosed, twelve years ago, and the articles are exactly the same as the ones published today. No one has come up with any new ways of dealing with the disease. Yes, we have new and improved ways of doing it, but the premise is still the same: You take your medication, you eat right, you exercise, you think happy thoughts, and when you don't want to think happy thoughts, you can cry a bit, but you still have to take your medication, eat right and exercise. Sound familiar?
I want my secret "meaning of life" revealed. I want my kernal of truth. I want my out.
I want my cure. Now.