06/18/2012

It’s hard to love a body that quit on you a decade ago.

I resent the hell out of it, actually. 

I’m angry with my doctor.  Not the one I have now.  The one I had before, who very likely fucked up my entire life. 

Most medical professionals are grossly incompetent.  Barring that, they just don’t give a fuck about patients.  Mine was a special kind of incompetent, though.  I suppose it was an easy misdiagnosis to make, I mean, how many 13-year-olds do you see with Type 2 diabetes, right?

(Of course, there are tests you can do to differentiate between type 1 and type 2, but it’s not as if she bothered…)

Anyway, I spent 10 years taking insulin I didn’t need, fucking up my body’s ability to make its own.  Oh, and causing me to gain weight.  A lot of weight.

I’ve always been fat—you don’t get to be a 13-year-old type 2 diabetic without being fat.  I was 5’0 and about 165 lbs.  Which is obese.  At my worst, I was 5’2 and 205 lbs.  I’m down to 179 now—which is non-ideal, but better than 205.  I started losing weight when I stopped taking the insulin.

God I hate doctors.

Mine’s not so bad, now, I guess.  It’s just really hard to trust him.  Medical professionals have always been condescending, judgmental, and sanctimonious—is it any surprise I have 0 desire to confide in them?  It’s a struggle to show up to appointments, let alone actually speak. 

Oh, and I despise being touched. 

I’m going to have blood tests done tomorrow for the first time in 5 years.  I was looking at my scars, actually looking at them, and I’m not going to say, “Oh, they aren’t that bad” because they are.  But they’ve almost all faded to white.  Some are still red—the ones that are only 4-5 months old.  For the most part, though, they look old.  For the most part, they are old.  The worst ones are from 2008-2009.  I mostly gave up cutting for bruising in 2010, thank god for that, right? 

And it only looks like I tried to kill myself a little, so that’s good. 

My sister and her fiancé were out of town on Friday, so I wore a t-shirt.  It was the first time since 2005.  I went outside with my dog, and I felt sun and wind.  It was kind of nice.

My sister noticed something was wrong with my hand.  I told her I slipped in the shower.  She believed it, or didn’t, but didn’t bother with more questions.  It worked for me.  I have blood pooling my knuckles and it looks kind of odd. 

I’m not sure when I decided that my life was worth living.  I started exercising, and eating better, and new medications.  I was content before to eat myself to a slow, sugary death.  I think I’m still on the fence about it, really.  I don’t want to die, and I don’t really want to live.  But there is no middle ground, so it seems like living is winning out.

I passed up my depression screening again.  Apparently, they’re going to ask every 3 months.  I have until September to think about it.

It doesn’t help that everyone I know thinks that depression is malingering and if I’m taking an SSRI, I might as well be doing cocaine.  I need to stop caring so much about what other people think.

I’ve been saying that for 20 years, I think.