I have been meaning to write. Really I have…
Have I? Really?
I have noticed that my commitment to my writing (whether my musings or my adventures with Type 1 Diabetes) is terribly inconsistent. And I don’t how to change that…
Or if I even can.
This last week or so has been an absolute struggle. My blood sugars keep tanking in the middle of the night. I’ve charted and looked for patterns. And I’ve made adjustments. But nothing seems to help. Regardless of the efforts, I spend a goodly portion of my time between 1 am and 4 am fighting for my life.
I wake up to the alarm from my CGM. An alarm some find annoying. Not me. I fucking love that alarm. It is quite literally a life-saver, in my case. I do not always sense my night-time lows. I’ve written about it before, including the times my cat has woken my husband up and alerted him to my state of semi-consciousness. So, that wicked little device has really proved it’s worth these last several days.
I wake up to those beep beeps and drink a juice box or chomp on a handful of glucose tabs. It all depends on how low those shuggies are when I hear the alarm…
If things are dire, I fucking suck back on that juice box (there’s a secret stash in the top drawer of my bedside table and if there isn’t, the Hubby makes the trek to the fridge in the kitchen to procure one) like my life depends on it. Because it does!
You’ve never seen someone drink a juice box like a T1D having a severe hypo.
Am I right?
If things are looking to go fucked but haven’t reached the juice box level (yet) it’s glucose tabs to the rescue. I fucking love/hate those things. I love them because they stop my sugars from plummeting any closer to dead. And I hate them because I almost always near-choke to death on their powdered sugary goodness.
I think it would be fair to say I even hate them a little because I need them.
Anyways, if you’ve ever had a night like that then you know what a hypo-hangover is…and what it can do to a person. If you’ve ever had 10 or more nights in a row like that, I am sorry. No one deserves that. No one.
Not even me.
Some hypos allow you a quick bounce-back. Some can lay you out for several days. Like the disease itself, a T1D’s experience with hypos is truly unique. But I do know that continuous low blood sugar occurrences leave any and everyone feeling sub par.
And that’s where I’m at right now.
I have managed to get through my daily tasks and meander my way through the daily chaos of life as a human on this planet. Heck, I’ve even managed to paint our lower level stairwell – a daunting task that included a 15+ foot ceiling! But it has all been done halfheartedly.
Except any Bean related things. I try to be conscious of what my little guy deals with; my life with the ‘Betes isn’t the norm and that means that his isn’t either. Most kids get to go to school, play with their friends, explore the world…you know? Do kid stuff.
But my little Bean has some added worry and responsibility. That little nugget of mine also has to keep the ‘Betes on his brain whenever we go out, especially when it’s just the two of us (like our grand adventure to Florida and Disney World!). He knows how to check my blood sugars when I can’t, he knows when to remind me to do so. And, if it ever came down to it, he knows how to administer a Glucagon shot. And he’s only nine years old.
He knows the toll this disease, along with my other physical and mental health issues, can take on me. Even when I go out of my way to hide it. To suck it up and carry on. That sweet little soul reminds me not to push. Offers hugs. And tells me that I’m enough.
And while I am humbled and grateful, that isn’t something I wished for my darling little boy. And it was a BIG reason I never wanted to have children. I was worried about the burden I would inevitably be…
So. Bean aside, life has received a pretty ho-hum effort from this gal. Which some might say is totally acceptable given what I have gone through. Lack of sleep, fighting with the ‘Betes, it can leave a person pretty run down and drained.
But I am worried, and not being unnecessarily hard on myself, when I say it could spiral out of control and become a whole lot worse. I fight my anxiety every minute of every day. And I try really hard not to fall to far down the depression hole. But when I am physically exhausted my mental health takes a pretty hard hit.
And that can sometimes spell disaster.
Though it can sometimes make for good writing.
We all struggle in some way. Even those of us who execute that struggle so flawlessly it appears to not exist at all. How we deal with our own struggle is not a reflection of us. Nor should we compared it to others. But that is always easier said than done.
I constantly compare myself to other people. All while telling people they shouldn’t do that. Which makes me a total fucking hypocrite but hey, I’m human. I’m flawed.
My perception of self is totally fucked up. Skewed. Some might even say wrong. But it’s mine and I own. Sometimes just by living through it and other times by exposing it here, like now.
I often wonder if my failure to commit to my writing stems from my feelings of not good enough. In fact, I think those ugly feelings may be the root cause of my inability to commit to anything wholeheartedly. Like ANYTHING.
I write, sometimes.
I art, draw, paint, sculpt, sometimes.
I cook and bake, sometimes.
I wallow and spiral, sometimes.
I advocate, sometimes.
But I annoy myself with my flat-out fucking lack of passion to do anything with my whole heart; I can drive myself to the height of irritation by my inability to have enough faith in myself to commit to any one thing passionately. And by how important that is to me.
Hubby and I chatted about this a few nights ago. He loves his job. And he is really, REALLY good at it. And he is passionate about it. He is a manager at a fast food establishment. He has received a lot of recognition from the big wigs that run this internationally famous chain. And while some people may look at his position and scoff, he is the one in charge of their children who are venturing out in to the employment world for the first time. He is the one who will teach those young folks about responsibility, about team work and respect for both themselves and others. He is the one the staff goes to when they are feeling unsure of themselves, whether at work or at home, whether young or old. It makes both the Bean and I immensely proud to know that his kind heart extends so far beyond our own four walls.
And I envy the passion he has for what he does. Because he does it with his whole heart and in return that makes him so happy. Even on the really hard days.
And I feel guilty. I really struggle some days with that feeling of guilt. I worry my second chance at this game called life is being wasted by my aimless wandering in the forest of self-doubt. I feel guilty that I haven’t done something more with this second go around.
And I feel unworthy of the experiences I have been fortunate to have this side of the ground. Because I feel like I haven’t done anything that warrants me being here…
With the exception of Bean. It’s hard to reconcile all my emotions sometimes. I want to be upset that I’m here, wasting a second chance to do life, then I think of my Bean and feel all the worse because it’s like wishing he wasn’t here and that is so fucking far from where I am at…
My emotions and thoughts are like the space junk that orbits the Earth. But instead mind junk that constantly bounces around in the small confines of my human brain.
And some days that mind junk just gets the better of me. It makes me sad and makes me feel overwhelmed. And those emotions are so exhausting. And those thoughts are all-encompassing.
And it makes me tired.
But not too tired to write. Not too tired to purge.
Even if all I’ve got is a wee little bit of rambling junk.