***Trigger Warning: Discussing thought of suicide and eating disorders.***
As I sit here, spoon in hand and pushing a fattening scoop of ice cream smothered with peanut butter into my mouth, a depressing thought came to my mind:
“I could pull my infusion set out and no one would know it was intentional…”
You see, I’m a type one diabetic and I wear an insulin pump. It’s always funny to me when I mention this to people and they treat me like I am on death’s doorstep. Although, I’m closer than I used to be (but aren’t we all?), the insulin pump merely makes it easier for me to control my HbA1c – the magic number all diabetics try and improve. But, if I were to remove my pump infusion – which I change myself, every three days – I would certainly impact my HbA1c in a major negative way. But, I could also create another problem called diabetic ketoacidosis (a.k.a DKA), which can be fatal in diabetics.
There is something about knowing I have this kind of power over myself that makes me feel like I am in control of my life. Because there are so many other things I cannot seem to control, regardless of how hard I try. I’m in debt up to my ears, I can’t control my weight, I can’t seem to have friends in real life (Yes, this will be another weekend, spent lifelessly watching TV or some series on Netflix), and there seems to be this need for my to constantly shove something into my mouth to make me feel good.
I’ve seen so many blogs about eating disorders and I often wonder if they only concern people that are too skinny. What about us lard-asses? Can’t we get any attention for our fucked-up disorder? I mean, I’ve never actually admitted to anyone online how much I weigh, but I had a small twitter conversation with someone today and it reminded me how fat I really am. I weigh 278 pounds. That’s a lot of fucking peanut butter and ice cream, let me tell you!
But that’s not the only thing I’ve eaten today. I began my day with a Danish and a latte from Starbuck’s, then for lunch I scarfed down a bowl of pho, followed by a chocolate candy bar, because some little shit had a school fundraiser and I bought the stupid candy and ate it. 30 minutes later I was eating strawberry pie a la mode. And you can see what I’m eating now. Honestly? I fucking hate it, but I can’t seem to quit. It’s like a year ago, when I was drinking a crap ton of beer each day.
It’s like I seek these self-destructive ways to make myself feel better, because I hate my fucking life so much. I hate it, because I let go of myself. I let go of something I thought used to be great and wonderful. Today, I shared a picture of myself in my martial arts uniform to someone on Twitter. The picture was from several years ago, and that was not even when I was my healthiest nor in my best shape, but it was a time when I had lost almost 50 pounds. I had gained it back and then some, unfortunately.
This person was very encouraging, of course, and as much as I want to return to something I love, I’m beginning to believe my time has truly passed. I let the best years of my life go and I let them go for naught, because I am not successful. I have a struggling relationship and kids who no longer respect me. I have a career that has gone down in flames, no friendships in person, etc.
But what I do have is that pump…that insulin pump that I can remove at anytime…it’s always there, reminding me that I can control this outcome, if no others…
And yet, I don’t pull it…
And I question myself why…?
(For the record, I’m not in any danger, just voicing my thoughts, so I can try and escape them… I may not be on WordPress for much the next two weeks, but I’ll be on Twitter sporadically.)