Since that fateful October less than a year ago when my pancreas switched from automatic to manual transmission, a new process has emerged: before each meal, I stab myself in the finger (usually the middle one) to give Tabitha, the glucometer, the blood sacrifice so that she may give me a numerical expression of how sweet I am. Then, depending on the meal, I take the proper corresponding ratio of insulin to carbs (it changes with each meal, increasing from none with breakfast because I run six miles a day to 1:10 at dinner because I’m sedentary and watching HOMELAND in the evenings). I’m eating healthier than I’ve ever eaten and most importantly, I’m genuinely feeling good for the first time in longer than I care to remember.
I’ve since started to apply this to other aspects of my life: if I must control my carb/sugar intake in food, what then is considered a carb in my other diet, the media diet?
Twitter has been a life-changer, an addiction, a source of information, and a source of anxiety, usually within the same day. Hell, within the same “check-in.” But it has to be controlled now: the fragmentation that it inspires, my brain leaping from one thought to the next like the digital voices that I allow in my head, has to be corralled. Anxiety, jealousy, success, failure, amusement, bemusement, and, of course, the resultant feelings of ineptitude when I can’t come up with the right combination of 140 characters to properly convey my feelings on a particular subject and revert to amusing GIFs.
These posts are part of that path to control or at least a modicum of being able to tell myself that. To convey the thought of the day, unlock my brain for the work at hand, and to try to bring myself a quantum of solace (bad James Bond flick, great sentiment) by not caring what people think, to de-fragment my brain by exorcising the thoughts that pass through it on the way to the work I must do to, as Leonard Cohen said, “discover my self-respect. To redeem the day. So that the day does not go down in debt.”