If the point of writing and publishing these pieces is to regain comfort with sharing myself to the ambivalence of the digital ether, then this is me kicking myself off the cliff and building a parachute as I plummet. The following first-draft tantrum was penned on one of the bad days (though I am uncertain precisely when this was written, I was diagnosed with type one diabetes on 18 October 2016 after near-death via ketoacidosis) as a means of self-therapy and exorcism. Perhaps against my better judgement, I offer it here free of revision and of polish, a raw stream of an open wound.
I give up on talking about this. I give up on talking about my diabetes, about the inescapable nature of it. That I will never be cured of it. That I will always be living with it and that it will always be there, that eating will now be a mathematical equation. I give up on hoping for empathy, for understanding. Unless you are experiencing it yourself, there is no empathy. There is no way to expect it, nor should I. I will stare down my fear four times a day, at my numbers, that I will have to go back into the hospital or that I won’t be able to raise my blood sugar before I go to bed. That I’ll be stuck sleeping halfway. That I came back to something not worth coming back to; what is the point of continuing this as though nothing has changed? Everything has changed and nothing has changed. No one will understand it. No one will feel it as I feel it. And there is no way I can expect anyone to do likewise. That inescapable feeling that I am holding others back and that, like an alcoholic or smoker staring longingly at oh fuck this i hate this so much. I want it gone but I know it will never be gone. This is my only respite. Writing this down and making something out of it to extricate it from my brain as best I can. There is no other choice but for me to shoulder this burden in private, hiding my feelings from my wife and my family. It is my burden to carry, anything else is unfair unburdening. Maybe talk to K about it? But I don’t know, that would be unburdening as well. The fear, the fear, the omnipresent fear. The trepidation at myself. This is what terrifies me. As though my body is not my own; but in some ways I’m in more control than before. Which is an odd thing: I’ve switched to manual transmission, cure, a cure, but there is no cure; I will never be cured of this and there will never be a cure. I have done something or I have done nothing. I don’t know anymore. But maybe this week is my way of transcending these feelings, perhaps. And the only way to do that is to feel these things intensely, and peel back the scooby mask. When the bad moments come and they will, I have to feel them myself. I have to absorb them. I am the pain. I am the discomfort. I must be of it. it’s only through this that I will make it through it. Even if it kills me.