I am very sick. I am extremely tired. Whatever Gabriel and Paula had, I caught. My chest is tight, I have difficulty breathing. I am coughing a lot. On one level I knew the right thing to do was for me to stay home in bed, resting. So I did. But I can't help feeling like I have done something wrong, like I am playing hooky when I should just have sucked it up and gone to work. My life is one big instance of cognitive dissonance. And I am so over the feeling of dread.
I have spent most of my day in bed, watching Make me a Supermodel reruns (stupid) and Doctor Who episodes. I have also been reading about diabetes. I have been very deliberate about what I eat, how much and when I eat it. I have also measured my blood sugar twice today.
The truth is, I am still in shock. I cry at times. No matter what, there is no turning back now. This diagnosis is a life sentence, regardless of whether it is pre-diabetes (as I believe it is) or full-blown type 2. Gone are the days when I would eat what I wanted with no concerns, when my reasons for wanting to lose weight were purely aesthetical. All I can think of now is my father's death, and the lady I knew who lost both her legs.
It seems everywhere I turn, the same pearl of wisdom is hurled at me, in the books I read and the conversations I have with family. Maybe this is what you needed to take charge of your life and take better care of yourself. Many people diagnosed with diabetes learn to eat better and become more active, losing weight and feeling healthier and more alive than ever before.
To which I reply, bullshit. I am not going to celebrate this fucking disease. I am not going to be grateful for the opportunity to slow down and treat myself as some precious creature in need of constant attendance. I don't think I am quite fucking there yet, thank you very much.