I skipped last year. Seventeen sits in drafts with empty copy. I distinctly recall feeling empty about diabetes this time last year, and that is clearly conveyed in my lack of entry.
You know, when diabetes turns 17 in a then 21 year old body, it hits different in a few ways. For one, we’re happy we’ve made it 17 years, yet, equally sad somehow. 17 in a 21 year old is daunting, overwhelming, and ever present.
Learning to take that first legal drink with diabetes. Like god, nothing is sacred. Diabetes invades everything and for that I will forever hold the sentiment of fuck you, diabetes, fuck you forever.
We are now 18/22. 82% of this lifetime has been living with diabetes.
That percentage caused me to stop in my tracks. 82% of my boy’s life has been working to keep himself alive while living with something that equally tries to kill him.
Imagine living with an albatross
that you didn’t ask for
that you can never get rid of
yet you have to read it’s mind
to keep it from attacking you.
Sounds like a plot to a horror movie.
It watches you when you sleep, yet you can’t see it. It robs you of energy, yet you can’t put it to rest. It brings you high one day, and even lower the next, yet you don’t have the ability to fully predict which direction it will be bring on any given day. Sometimes it plays nice. Sometimes it is downright treacherous. It never adds positivity, only removes. At best, it can be neutral for a bit, just enough to lull you into thinking you’ve hit a groove. Then it just laughs and humbles you, again, and again, and again.
In fact for 82% of your life.
Damn, diabetes we are breaking up. This just isn’t working. It’s not me, it’s you, all YOU.