Confessions of a Bad Diabetic

Below is the first post from one of our talented contributors, the fabulous Jen. We think you will find this as hilarious, honest and poignant as we do.

I suck.  That’s right, I really, REALLY suck at this.  But I know I’m not alone.  People like us don’t readily admit it because we’ll get the ‘lecture’.  God forbid, THE LECTURE.  The lecturers usually don’t have the sugarbetes (as I lovingly refer to it), so it’s easy for them to say “you should do this” or “why don’t you do that?”.  I’ll tell you why, because sugarbetes sucks just as much as I do!  You mean pricking your finger and bleeding to get a number that tells you, constantly, how much of a failure you are isn’t identical to how you felt the first time you tasted bacon? Wait, what?  It’s not the same? 

Anyhow, there they are–those egomaniacal little numbers–on a flashy device that is supposed to fool you into thinking it’s an iPod shuffle.  But oh no, it is a shiny, hot pink little database that measures your blood sugar and reminds you–regularly–of what a colossal pile of lame you are.  Oh, and then there’s the insulin.  Good times.  Take too much and you get a reaction and begin sweating profusely, shaking like a maniac and convinced you’re the entitled 22-year-old barista at your local Starbucks.  Your low blood sugar has you completely confused and now you’re forced to eat a tub of peanut butter and chug a gallon of orange juice to bring you back to the Year of the Monkey. Take too much ‘slin and you’ll become unconscious and end up in the hospital getting floral arrangements intended for six year olds.  You know, the ones complete with SpongeBob balloons and teddy bears in tutus.  By the way, the sender is not that far off in terms of an appropriate gift.  After all, YOU have let it go and therefore you are are definitely not as smart as a first grader. 

I’ve had the sugarbetes for 25 years.  A quarter of a century.  And I’ve been damn lucky.  Sometimes I think my luck will run out.  I often wonder why I haven’t had any trouble because I AM the Miley Cyrus of diabetes management.  I got the disease when I was 16 (awesome timing for an awkward pubescent nerd) and at the time I was diagnosed not much was really known about it.  I was the only sugarbetic in my school and many thought it was cancer (I did lose a lot of weight in a short period of time…bad for the health, but good for the size 27 Guess jeans I suddenly fit into). Yep, I felt like an outcast but perhaps that’s why I did everything in my power to act as if nothing was wrong.  Instead, I pretended I was like every other nerd at my school in the 80’s.  My peers were going to like me and refrain from judgement (even though my giant, spiral permed, bleached hair and bright blue kohl liner were enough to judge in their own right). 

Then came college and the kicker was that I was dumb enough (maybe the years of Sun-In use finally seeped into my brain?) to join a sorority where everyone had to be a carbon copy of one another.  The denial turned hardcore now that I was out of reach of my mom. Her nagging about testing was no longer a constant annoyance.  I proceeded to eat carbs and drink my face off without a care in the world. Grilled cheese and Frat punch with mysterious fruit bits were my best pals, and midnight runs to the 7-11 in search of frozen burritos and Cherry Slurpees were a nightly ritual. I shot up insulin in bathroom stalls and made sure I was peeing at the same time so no one would be the wiser.  Damn, I was good. 

I was fooling everyone…and that included myself.  I doubt anyone really knew about my disease…I mean, really knew about it.  I downplayed it as though it were a mild case of “eh, yeah…I’m notreally supposed to have sugar…but hey, hit me with that box of Pixie Sticks while you’ve got ‘em handy”.  Those who knew about it ASSUMED I had it under control. I now realize I should have been an actress:  you know, the Miley Cyrus of the Disney days before the twerk went beserk.

After college, I moved to New York City for a career in television.  To this day, I continue my tenure as a bad diabetic.  I have spurts of good intention but they never last very long.  It’s kind of like going on a diet and by virtue of doing so, hoping all the bad habits will be erased once I lose that last 15 pounds.  But once those lbs. are history, I realize I have a boatload of other issues that I didn’t think were that problematic before the hefty grilled cheese saddlebags became a distant memory.  It’s a riddle and a mystery and I can’t seem to figure out why I can be so dedicated and diligent in every area of my life except this one.  

I suppose it all comes down to the basic premise that living with a disease for decades is a mental challenge rife with fear, self-degradation and guilt.  People like me know it’s there (we’re constantly reminded of it during those whacked out barista moments), but we just can’t find it within ourselves to address it the way it deserves to be addressed.  Kind of like a mother-in-law. 

I have hope that I will make my way to realizing enough is enough.  I feel a change in the tide as I get older and experience sickness and death around me.  I’m so fortunate in that I have a healthy husband who cooks good food and encourages me to keep my eye on the prize.  These 25 years of bad behavior can’t be erased overnight and I have learned to give myself some credit for doing a few things right.  After all, I haven’t had any complications.  No real problems but one regret:  if only I had bought stock in Jif peanut butter, Tropicana and FTD floral arrangements.  If only…

 The bottom line? Someday, I know my Miley will bloom into a beautiful Hillary Duff of diabetic pride and glory.  Sure, I still may twerk here and there, but the episodes will be fewand far between.  Just do me a favor and keep Robin Thicke, alcoholic fruit punch and Pixie sticks out of my sight.

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