If you see me standing frozen-stiff-still while staring off into space, I haven’t lost my mind. I’m counting the vibrations of my insulin pump to be sure I’m administering the right dose.
Pay no attention to the swooshes of air in the bathroom stall next to you. It’s just me, jumping up and down and punching the air. I’m trying a last-ditch effort to get my blood moving faster, so that the insulin I just took can go to work more quickly. (Where else am I going to get my impromptu exercise on while at work?)
A carefully counted pile of candy doesn’t mean I’m neurotic. (Well, I guess that’s just my opinion.) I’m doing it so that I can get an accurate carb count of what I’m eating.
When I ask the waitress for Diet Coke, and then ask her again, “So this is Diet, right?” when she brings my soda, please don’t think I’m being difficult, or that I think she’s stupid. I’m trying to save myself from an emergency extra bolus of insulin.
It’s true that it may seem odd for someone who wears an insulin pump to also still take injections of insulin, but in perilous situations of stubbornly elevated glucose, an injection will bring me back down much more quickly.
An unusually high tolerance for pain, needles, and the sight of blood doesn’t actually make me brave, or a badass. (My black belt in Tae Kwon Do does.) It’s just how I’ve acclimated to the life I was handed.
Yes, I’ve named inanimate objects such as my CGM. I also do a mean impersonation of him, when he gets confused (Also known as "???"). It doesn’t seem as juvenile when you consider that I spend more time interacting with this piece of equipment each day than I do with any one human being.
Eating the same breakfast and lunch every day isn’t a reflection of how much I enjoy these meals (though, I do most days) or an indication that I’m stuck in my ways. Repetition and consistency help me manage diabetes more easily.
I’m not crazy. I just have diabetes.