Rabbit Food

This is my sixth month of writing this blog. Weighing in weekly to mull over my life as a person who has diabetes and will have it, I presume, until I die, I've written on all kinds of emotional and physical issues, on traveling nightmares and triumphs, on loved ones, on what works for me and what doesn't, and when all else fails, what inspires me to keep loving my life and moving forward anyway. So I'm going to take a risk today and write on a topic that -- as important as it is -- most of us agree is not something we would ordinarily talk about in polite society: the trip we all make (or want to make) to the bathroom.

Diabetics who want to manage their condition think a lot about what and how much we put into our mouths. We compute how long it has been since we ate with the rigor of a tech whiz. We check our blood glucose level before we eat and even when we're thinking about eating. Just yesterday, I drove away from the Baskin Robbins store without going in because I checked my BG after I parked and realized that, while I was low enough to have a scoop of ice cream at 4 pm, it would prevent me from having dinner until 7 and I didn't want to wait that long. Many of  us have the food thing down to a science, whether we're happy about it or not.

On the other hand, unfortunately, few of us understand very much about what happens after we digest our food. And it's just as crucial as the eating part.

I Can Do It My-SELF!

When children are small, one of the first signs they're becoming a little person is their declaration -- usually loud and clear -- that they want to do something. "I can do it my-self!" they announce. And at that point, if those within earshot want to avoid a meltdown, they will back up and let the child try (or at least help the little one to do so).

Somewhere along the line as I matured, I reached a point where I lost some of that commitment to myself. I live alone. I support myself financially. I negotiate my own car deals. And God help the poor soul who tries to debate me on anything I know much about. But when it comes to self-care, I've had to learn some things in recent years.

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.