06/20/2012

I’ve been feeling miserable all day. 

Apparently, even though I’ve lost almost no weight, exercising has improved my blood pressure.  My pulse is down, too.  It used to be over 100 bpm and is now down to 80, on average.  This is interesting to me.

High blood pressure is a sign of kidney failure.

Which I don’t think I have, but I could.  I went in for blood and urine testing today.  I can’t wait to get that bad news.  Actually, it’s causing soul-crushing anxiety. 

I don’t want to go back on insulin.  I hated injections.  And I tried to kill myself, although it didn’t go very well.  Or it did, in that I didn’t.  The point being, there’s some issues there that I don’t want to deal with.  Pills are better.  Safer.   

Anyway, it’s getting on towards 1:00 in the morning, and I got up at 7.  I’m pretty tired, but, soul-crushing anxiety and all.  The odds are pretty good that I am not dying—I feel fine.  I am being irrational.  It’s not as if there’s anything I could really do about it, tonight, even if I was dying.  I’ll get my dismal test results in a few days and vow to start trying harder.

And to start accepting that my life is apparently going to be a continuous barrage of anxiety, guilt, and hunger.  Unrelenting self-control.  And I’m going to die young, despite any efforts I make, disfigured and incomplete.  Missing parts.  Broken.  Reviled and alone.  I know how this story ends.

Maybe someday I’ll get over the whole “poverty diabetic thing,” as someone once wrote on my livejournal.