Last week, I wrote about the relationship to food that most of us have because, as best I can tell, people (like me) diagnosed with diabetes struggle -- a lot -- with that relationship. I know that more than twenty thousand people in the world die every day from hunger-related causes. And I don't want to be a whiner. But it sometimes gets tiresome thinking and re-thinking and over-thinking food the way I choose to do.
I say "choose to do" because many of us (diabetic or not) certainly don't do so. Vegans who aren't diabetic also need to pay close attention when eating outside their own kitchens. People with allergies, ulcers, lactose intolerance, or problems with gluten tend to monitor their diets, as well, if they want to avoid the immediate negative repercussions of ignoring their conditions. But people with diabetes live in a magical fog where they can eat whatever they want without necessarily experiencing an instantaneous punishment. So, like a dog eyeing a platter of chicken on a picnic table, we regularly arm wrestle our decisions and sometimes make bad ones.
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.
Most people that know me, especially those that have known me for a while, will tell you that I'm wrapped a little tight. Always have been. Even as a toddler, I was a perfectionist. And being a perfectionist will amp up that anxiety level at a moment's notice over things other folks wouldn't even notice.
It's not as though I haven't worked on it over the years. And whether or not my efforts were always 100% conscious, I have made progress. The first time I was made aware that my emotional responses had improved was when my daughter (then ten or so) left a quarter size ink spot on my favorite peach-colored spread and I just said, "Well, it's only a blanket." She couldn't believe it.
But that was some time ago and I still get more anxious than most. Sometimes out of nowhere. Sometimes when it causes real problems. And sometimes when I'm doing my damnedest not to.
