My body has always been unruly.  As a child, I was so skinny kids would call me Olive Oyl. Now some of you may be wondering, who the hell is “Olive Oyl.” Well, she is the wife of Popeye. Not the chicken place. The sailor man. He lives in a garbage can. He likes to go swimming with bowlegged women. Nevermind.

I have a love-hate relationship with food. But not for the reasons most would think. You see, everything I put in my mouth is a Math equation. I hate Math—especially when 2+2 should equal four, and it doesn’t. Math isn’t so simple when you are an insulin-dependent diabetic. So when my young ass, endocrinologist, asks, “are you Bolusing for the correct amounts?” and I just give them my resting bitch face and respond. “I’ve been doing this math shit since I was 10 years old.” Dont ask me that stupid question because you dont have an answer to my question. I’m obligated to come to this office twice a year for insurance. Just fill my scripts and i will see you in 6 more months. I didn’t say that BUT I’m sure my side eye did because I’m wearing a mask and can’t give my normal RBF. Signed. Filled. See you in 6 months. Guaranteed it will be someone else and my frustration will start all over again.

I have been a diabetic for 45 years. That’s a long-ass time to be thinking about food every day.

Every meal 

Every snack.

 It is what some of us do. If you want to avoid complications. But that’s another story.

It gets very frustrating.

 When I was diagnosed, It was called Juvenile diabetes. Now it’s called Type 1. 

This ain’t your Grandma’s diabetes.

 It didn’t come from eating too much sugar.

 No, I wasn’t a fat kid.

 And Yes, I can eat that.

 But to eat it first, I have to do the math.  Then once you know the math, it’s easy to dose the correct amount of insulin for each carb you eat. Each and every one. Yep, that’s what I said.

Each

One 

That is… easy if… you are not sick, there are no hidden carbs, you are not stressed, not a hormonal teen, hormonal adult, or take meds that have hidden sugars, and all is right in your world.

When I was a kid, I would hide it as much as possible—sneaking off to the nurse’s office in school to take insulin before lunch—hating it. Thinking the other kids would find out. . Your acceptable foods list, you knew the carbs if it was listed on the package, great. Easy math. But if you didn’t know how many carbs, it was a guessing game, and the math was not easy.

 Nope not in front of people

 If I couldn’t be discreet, I would eat without insulin, and my blood sugars would be sky high when I got home, and my mother would be pissed. The worse part,  passing up on something I wanted because I didn’t want anyone to see that weird kid …yeah her. She sticks needles in her stomach because her mom gave her too much sugar. When you are a kid, nobody wants to stand out. You just want to fit in and be…like everybody else. My unruly body made sure I didn’t fit in. That is until I went to summer camp.

Diabetic kids camp.

 I laugh out loud now. That’s is sooooo f**ked up to call it. But that’s what it was. 

 At camp, I was just like everyone else. We were all poking our fingers and sticking needles in our stomachs. We were all doing the math, hopefully not of the top of our heads. Thank god for the invention of insulin pumps. But that’s another story.

At camp, I found my community. We would spend our days hiding from the nurses, sneaking off into the woods not to meet with a crush but to have carbs outs. A carb out… eating contraband the candy the counselors didn’t find when they searched our luggage.

How the hell is a pack of Now and Later’s contraband. As good as that shit it.

Anyway

We would have a competition as to who could eat the most carbs without injecting insulin or letting their blood sugars drop the lowest without passing out. 

Fun times. 

The adult in me says. That was so stupid. That was our way of rebelling. 

It took a lot of growing. Now I am unashamed about my unruly diabetes. I no longer hide checking my unruly blood sugars or dosing insulin. I don’t care if my pump alarm is loud enough for other people to hear.  Nothing is as exciting as seeing someone with a CGM on their arm and the fist bumps we give one another. Or how quickly we lift the sleeve of a shirt to show off the CGM. Especially the “sugarbabies” who decorate their devices with colorful stickers and bling. It’s more… normal. They don’t have to hide.

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