Denial Is Not A River In Egypt

Last week, I told you about an event where I sold ten books in thirty minutes -- a very unusual experience in my process to interest people in the book I published a year ago, Your Life Isn't Over ~ It May Have Just Begun.

This week, my story is vastly different. I stood (or perched on a stool) for three hours while literally hundreds of people strolled by at a huge downtown event and sold...wait for it...none. I was just outside the door of a popular bookstore, had a snappy double poster on an easel to catch the attention of passers-by, and tried to make sure I wore an inviting smile. But no dice.

Learning To Self-Parent For Fun And Profit

I readily admit that my orientation to family (unfortunately, perhaps) is less than warm and fuzzy. I realize I wouldn't even be here if my father and mother hadn't...well...you know. And I'm glad they did, of course.

But my father was a pedophile and my mother was psychotic, so my childhood was right up there with "Whatever Happened To Baby Jane?" on steroids. I don't even like to imagine what happened to my two younger brothers and two younger sisters after I ran for my life at eighteen. It has taken me seven decades to reach a point where I'm not dragging the wreckage of my past around behind me like a dirty blanket -- often for all the world to see.

At some point in my adulthood, however, I came across a book that I found helpful in processing my "issues" and some of its ideas have remained useful over time. It was a book on "self-parenting."

Am I Blue?

Last week, I wrote about how anxiety interfaces with my diabetes. Then, this morning, while I was thumbing through a magazine for people newly diagnosed with our condition, I noticed a bit of news. Apparently, a new study has found that people with diabetes are disproportionately likely to suffer with both depression and heart attacks. The connection between diabetes and these other two issues is not new news. What came out in the study, however, is that the three separate conditions are a trinity of trouble. So addressing any of them addresses all three. And ignoring any of them ups the likelihood of their making us sicker -- and maybe even killing us -- no matter what our lives are otherwise like.

Lights! Camera! Action!

When I was diagnosed with diabetes, I was, like most people I knew, not very "active" physically. In fact, taking the stairs at work instead the elevator was pretty much the extent of it. I felt good. I looked okay. I was overweight by thirty pounds, but I saw plenty of people bigger than me. I knew I probably should be more active, but I had no motivation and, frankly, no interest.

Then came The Day, when my doctor said, "I was right. You're diabetic." And when I managed to talk my psyche down off the ceiling long enough to do some homework, it became apparent to me that things were going to have to change. All the information on managing diabetes was telling me to eat less carbs, take my medication, and exercise -- or suffer consequences I did not want to think about.

Five Things I Hate About Being Diabetic

I try to be upbeat as much as I can. It isn't always easy, but I've been around long enough to have already tried many of the possible responses to life. At one point or another, I've used rage, whining, and liquor; eating until I was stupefied; buying things nobody needs; working until I just couldn't anymore; and throwing myself headfirst off the cliff of a highly questionable romance. None of those methods ever fixed anything for more than a minute. And all of them left me with some kind of negative fallout to deal with. So whether I feel like it or not, I try hard to take the road less traveled: seeing the glass half full (or whatever platitude comes to mind at the time).

But that doesn't change the fact that there are just some things I don't like -- or even hate -- no matter how positive I try to keep my attitude. Today, just to prove I'm not really made of sugar and spice and everything unrealistic, I'm going to admit to five of them.

Glad To Be Me

Some days, I'm on top of the world. I wake up rested. My hair acts right. A particularly feisty outfit matches the twinkle in my eye. I'm cracking jokes. My boss buys me coffee. I get good news in an email. And everybody likes me on Facebook.

Other days, I wake up at 4:30 in the morning and can't get that argument out of my head. I give up trying to go back to sleep and crawl out of bed feeling wiped out and cranky. I look in the mirror and see an ugly, old woman on her last legs. I shuffle into the kitchen to make coffee and can't even decide if I want it. "Is this how depression feels?" I ask myself and then wonder -- seriously -- if this is the first toddling steps toward suicide.