The Gingerbread House

It was the Christmas season of 1998.  My father was underway and would not be joining us for Christmas that year, so my mother decided that we would go stay with my Grandparents.  To this day, having Christmas in Wisconsin feels special.  There’s something about the snow that seems magical.  The way it transforms the land into another world.  That fantasy built up by storybooks somehow seems complete when waking up to a snow-covered wonderland. 

Plus, I got to see my grandparents.

My grandmother had already told me about the gingerbread houses she was planning on having my brother and I build.  I was pretty stoked.  I loved any activity that allowed me to express my creativity through frosting.  I was looking forward to this trip.  I hadn’t been feeling myself lately and could use a little light-hearted holiday festivities in my life.

I was unaware that this trip would change my life forever.

I don’t know why I was so excited about the gingerbread house, but I couldn’t wait to get started.  My grandmother said we had to wait til a specific day (I can’t remember why.)  In the meantime my mother’s intuition that something was wrong with her daughter kept growing.  So they made me pee on a stick.

The result was black and I had no idea what that meant.  No one really bothered to explain but we were in the car and on our way to the ER. 

I remember needles, screaming, and images of Snow White.  The clearest picture is my mother’s face filled with tears.  None of this makes sense.  My Aunt Katie is reading Repunzel to me. My father is leaving his ship and flying to Wisconsin.  Eventually someone tells me that I have diabetes, whatever that means.

 All of a sudden my life changes.

Someone starts explaining that my body doesn’t work right anymore and my parents will have to give me shots.  I tell the nurses that I will do them myself.  I still believe that once I leave the hospital I will be okay and this nightmare of shots (self-administered or not) will be over.  I know Christmas is coming up and I need to get to Grandma’s and make gingerbread houses.

Diets.  Carbohydrates, proteins, and starches.  All words a child should not know, and yet I am now expected to swear by.  I miss our family Christmas party.  Christmas is coming.  I have to make those gingerbread houses.

I leave the hospital.  Words like “no-cure” and “rest of your life” have no meaning yet.  One day they will and they will hurt.  Right now, I don’t care.  I just want to make gingerbread houses.

My parents and grandparents were scared.  Now that I’m a parent, I can understand how frightening the experience must have been for them.  Their brave face fooled me at the time.  I’m sure it felt like a drop of unaccounted for sugar would kill me.  Sweets were not on the diet.  Gingerbread houses were not okay anymore. 

It’s strange how writing this 13 years later still brings about the feeling of devastation I felt when I was told, “No gingerbread houses.”  That meant something to me.  That was when I knew something had changed.  In that moment if felt like Christmas had somehow been taken from me.

I’ve often asked myself why gingerbread is the most significant thing to stand out when I think of my diagnosis.  All the other images are just secondary.  Despite everything that was introduced into my life, it’s the gingerbread that remains a constant reminder of the day I was forced to grow up a little faster than I should have. 

Happy Diaversery to me.

December 20, 1998.

Low Carb Diets will NOT "Cure" Me (or You)

I am so sick of hearing about "low-carb, low-carb, low-carb."  I've heard other diabulimics say it has cured them, I have heard of low-carb diets as advice from people who mean well, and I read a lot about it in the diabetic community in general.

I am not a fan of low-carb diets and neither is the American Diabetic Association.  In fact, the ADA advises against low-carb diets for diabetics under any circumstances.  For diabetics, low or no carb diets run a high risk of severe hypoglycemia (low blood sugar.)  The American Heart Association recommends at least 100 grams of carbs a day.

Denying your body of the minerals and energy it needs isn't any better than denying your body of the insulin it needs.

I think the draw to this diet for people who have diabulimia is that technically, you can eat as much as you want, lose weight, and not have to make yourself sick.  In that way, it sounds like a low-carb diet could actually "cure" diabulimia.  Let me be very clear about something.

Diabulimia is an eating disorder.

One more time.

Diabulimia is an eating disorder.

Yup.  It's right up there with anorexia and bulimia. It means that diabulimia is not just about not taking insulin.

You cannot cure an eating disorder with diet change.  Recovery comes from true self acceptance and love of yourself, regardless of weight or any other imperfections.

If you want to begin your recovery process please seek out a team that consists of a nutritionist, therapist, and a diabetes health care professional.

Holidaze

See what I did there ^^^^

I kick off the holidays with my best friend coming to visit me from Idaho.  It's the one week of the year that I get to see her and it's pretty rad.  Let's just say what we have a good time.

What gets difficult is the food.  There's so much of it, and I often find that it's a trigger to not take my insulin.  Here's the scary part.  

I've moved beyond consciously skipping insulin.  

I know that I sound like a freaking nut job, but it's the truth.  My brain jumps to a place that makes me forget.  It's a self sabotaging thing.  I'm trying more and more to overcome this.  When I do, I feel like I'm constantly fighting this thought about gaining weight.

Then there's Facebook.  I logged on and my feed was overwhelmed by status messages that all said things about eating too much, gaining weight, dieting, and hitting the gym.  What pushed me over the edge was the following comment

"I ate a lot.  It's bad news when the fat pants aren't fat anymore :("

The author of this comment?  My mother.

Mom- if you ever happen to read this blog I apologize for what I'm writing.  I love you and I know that my journey has been frustrating and scary for you as well.  I am not trying to slap you in the face with this, but I have to say this somewhere.  Maybe if you do read this, you will understand me more.  I'm not sorry that I'm writing this but I am sorry if it hurts you.

She received supportive messages that all contained woman beating themselves up about eating one meal.  I would like to point out it's the one day a year that she's not dieting.  ONE DAY.

I truly believe that my mother suffers from eating disordered thinking.  I grew up with overweight parents my whole life.  Their inability to accept themselves effected their attitudes towards the foods that I ate immensely.  I wasn't allowed to eat unless they were hungry.  They told me that because I was smaller than them, that there was no way I could be hungry if they weren't.  I snuck food a lot and felt embarrassed whenever I was hungry.

Then my parents got divorced and my mother refused to get out of bed.  She barely ate and when she did it was in adherence to a strict Atkins diet.  In a matter of months she lost 70lbs.  Losing that weight along with the divorce changed her.

To this day she's always telling me to eat less carbs and I'll be okay.  I try to explain to her that low carb dieting is not going to cure my diabulimia.  I will still deal with the fact that I have an eating disorder.  

She doesn't think I have an eating disorder.  In her mind, I don't take care of myself on purpose.  I suffer from some sort of victim mentality that I will be able to overcome if I just accept the fact that I have a disease that I need to take care of.  She's told me before that I can literally change overnight if I just turn the switch on that says "hey I can take care of my diabetes."

I've tried to explain what it's like.  I've tried to speak up so many times.  She can't comprehend triggers or the feeling of a piece of pizza.  What she doesn't know is that she lives this too, it's just manifested differently.

I am trying very hard to overcome disordered thinking.  Most importantly, I am trying to accept my body for what it is.  It feels hard to do that when I can't get my own mother to understand.

Oh yea and she's visiting in two weeks.

Slightly Off Topic...

But if I don't write about it somewhere I don't know what I'll do.

Today, the topic is apathy in the face of cruelty.

Earlier this week I witnessed the most terrifying event I think I've ever seen.  I was walking around San Francisco, and out of the blue I saw two twenty-something year old men beating a man who appeared to be homeless.  They maced him, threatened to stab him with the screw driver they were holding, and began to stomp on his head.  People were standing a safe distance away and just staring as this man was being attacked.  9-1-1 was called, but when would the police or an ambulance get here?  My heart started pounding in my chest.  I knew that if someone didn't intervene this man could die.  The woman standing next to me locked eyes with mine and in that moment we both knew what was about to happen.

I don't know what exactly came over me but for the next 5 minutes I became someone different.

This woman and I charged forward, like two warriors leading an army.  We were screaming, were they words?  I can't remember.  I just kept thinking that this man cannot die while a crowd of people just watches.

 Our screaming worked.  The men took off.

The victim laid on the ground not moving or saying a word at first.  My heart stopped.  Had we been too late?  He started to stir.  We propped him up.  I have never seen a face so badly broken before.  I've seen movies and pictures of violence but this was nothing like it.  The blood, the pain, the bruising it was just astonishing in the worst of ways.  It was not make up, it was real.  Another human being did this with his hands and feet while others stood by and watched.  I don't know what prompted this violence, but I'm sure it didn't justify what was done.

This experience made me think about a lot of things.  First of all,  I have an uncle who has been chronically homeless since the 90s.  He is homeless due to alcoholism, and I know he has his days where people clutch their purses tightly, walk by quickly, with their eyes averted.  We've all done it.  However, if he were being attacked I hope that those averted eyes would not ignore him.

No one deserves the cruelty I saw that day.

Some Good, Some Bad.

Saw my nutritionist today.  My progress is great.  She informed me that I had lost weight since I started treatment.  Which is good because I have also been keeping to my diabetes regime.  It's still hard though. 

I haven't officially seen my weight on a scale in over 6 months.  I went from weighing myself when I woke up, before and after I used the bathroom, before and after I ate, and before bed to not at all.  I still feel anxious anytime I step on a scale... whether it's Grace's (my nutritionist) scale or at the doctors.  I know that as long as that number means something I have to keep going to treatment.

The treatment process feels like it's starting to get difficult again.  Most days I think I'm doing okay.  Like maybe I don't need therapy anymore. Then there are days that deliver such devastating blows; I feel like curling up in a ball and staying that way forever.

I have no one to talk to on those days.  Except for Grace and Ann (therapist.)  They are great but at the same time it feels pathetic and kind of weak to not be able to say anything to anyone.  I've tried to speak about it to people who love and support me but they can't seem to wrap their heads around it.  I just feel like a problem sometimes.  

I'm so tired of writing the word "ashamed." It's in almost every one of my blogs.  Yet, that's how I feel when I feel anything other than good.  Ashamed.  It's in everything that I do.  I fear that every move I make is wrong.  I'm starting to feel convinced there are two of me.

You see, there are people who think I'm super confident.  They think nothing bothers me and that I'm just cool with everything.  That is not me.  I'm more anxious than anyone could ever realize.  Why wouldn't I be when I carry a secret like this around?

My diabulimia isn't exactly a secret, but my struggle is to everyone but this blog.  There is a weakness and vulnerability in allowing that out.  It's not something that I think I can do.  When I've tried it's been rejected.  If it were again I think I'd just crumble.

Brandon (boyfriend who lives with me) mentioned that I've been having a lot of "bad/blue" days lately.  He doesn't get the eating disorder thing, but he tries.  He's watched been with me since my relapse started in 2008.  Through the hospitalizations, doctor appointments, crazy breakdowns, and dances with death he has been there to try to support me.  We broke up for two years because he couldn't watch me die anymore. He told me once, "how can I love someone who doesn't love themselves."  I hated him so much for that.  I hated him more for sticking around, and still supporting me even when we were just friends.

It took two years and 3,000 miles apart, but we've gotten a second chance.  I'm trying so hard to love myself better, and I hope one day I'll be able to 100% believe that I am beautiful and sexy.  Most importantly, I hope that one day I will be able to believe that I deserve love.

I Don't Think It's Funny So Why Do I Joke About It?

It's like beating a dead horse, but I'll say it anyways.

So much for keeping up with this.

However, I think I may have found some inspiration.

Last night I was at a Halloween Party.  While carrying a plate of cookies to a group of friends someone asked me if the entire plate was for me.  In response I made a horrible joke about being a bulimic. A woman heard my joke let me know that it definitely wasn't cool or funny.  Her response deeply effected me.  I was so embarrassed.  Not just because I had offended someone, but I had become the people that I am constantly trying to fight.

One of my biggest personality flaws is that I make inappropriate jokes about things that are too close to me. Even when it's obvious people are joking, sometimes I feel like I have to one up them and be twice the jerk... hence the bulimia comment.  Usually, people laugh and think it's funny that I "went there."  This woman brought me back to reality.

Through the night I learned that she was a body acceptance activist.  She's an avid blogger who blogs five times a week about body acceptance.  As she told me more about this movement the more and more I wanted to pick her brain.  The only feeling I can compare it to is what people may feel when they find religion.  I started to blurt out my story, which is unusual for me.  I try not to talk about it to people I just meet.  Let's face it... it's kind of a buzz kill.  I'm not sure if she thinks I'm crazy or not, but I find her fascinating. 

It felt like a relief to say it out loud to someone who wasn't my therapist and who didn't show signs of judging me.  I think that's what I hate the most about diabulimia.  The judgement.  Even my own parent's cannot accept it for what it is.  It's been nine years since I started on this path.  The sarcasm, blind eyes, and accusations of laziness need to stop. I think it's time that they accept that my eating disorder is real and it's here.

That's a painful acceptance, when I think about it there is a pain and devastation in my chest.  But, for now this is my reality.

And it's not a joke.

Why Can't I Keep Up with This!!!

I really wanted to give a voice to my diabulimia. It's something that I have struggled with and am still unable to fully understand.  I want people to read this and see a part of my world, and one day I hope to share this blog with people that I know.

Yes, I have not shown people that I know in the "real world."  I don't really know why.  Well then again I do.  I don't want everyone to know everything that I go through just yet.  Certainly not my co-workers.  Without "real-world" people reading this I can post honestly without worrying about hurting feelings.  A lot of new feelings and emotions have come up on my road of recovery and I know that I need to come face to face with them.

Some may wonder... if I wish to remain anonymous why post my real name and picture... my answer is that I guess if this blog gets stumbled upon by someone I know than it's okay.  It would be more okay to me than if I just posted a link and told people to read it.  I don't want to force this upon people. I want people to read it because they are interested in what this life is and has been like.

It makes me ask myself why I don't write blogs almost daily.  It's not because of the time and it's not because I don't like to write.  In fact, I love to write.  I suppose it's possible that I am afraid of spilling everything.  I promised myself that's what I was going to do.  Perhaps I am more ashamed of things that have happened to me than I thought.

I know I need to stay more committed to this.  In a way, it's just as much a part of my treatment as going to therapy is.  Bare with me readers.

Diabetic "Cheerleaders"

I think it's great that there are people in this world that want to prove that you can live a "normal and "healthy" life despite having diabetes.  I think those people are wonderful; I really do.  However, I sometimes feel like they cross a line and it makes me want to smack them.

I will be the first to say it.  Having diabetes sucks.  I have had this for 13 years and I still hate it.  I will say it again.  I hate having diabetes, it sucks.  It sucks that it pretty much happens for no reason.  It sucks having to take shots or to wear a pump.  Checking your blood sugar?  Sucks.  It sucks that I may pass it on to my son or any other future children that I have.  It sucks that I'm at risk for some pretty serious complications.

Nope, you will never EVER hear me sing the praises of my diabetes.  That's perfectly okay with me, because that's the reality.  It's a disease that won't go away, is expensive, and never allows you to "ignore" the nutritional intake of your food.  That doesn't mean that I sit around all day and sulk about having diabetes either.

The truth is you deal with it, and you don't let it control your life.  You don't let it dictate what you can and cannot do.

Everyone's got there "thing."  This is just mine.

Keep Going.

I'm happy to say that the "wave of change" so to speak is still alive and well.  I would be lying to say that I didn't still feel the pain of my choices though.  I think the most important part of this was that I did pick myself off of the floor and I kept going.

Keep going.  Keep going.

It's a phrase/mantra that I have used for so long.  It used to mean just take one more step before collapsing.  On days were I could not breathe that phrase made me take one breath.  When I think how far I let myself succumb to my eating disorder, just how sick I'd get before and ambulance was called, it scares me. It also frustrates me.  You'd think with a will power like that I'd use it for positive things, but instead I chose this path.

Keep going. Keep going.

It means a lot more now. It's not about taking one more step to hide a sickness.  It's not about keeping puke from coming up.  It means to keep fighting.  It means to not give up on this journey and this process.
For a moment I found myself blaming the fact that I chose to get help for my recent issues.  I don't think that anymore.  This process is not going to let me feel sorry for myself.  This process is not going to let me live in ignorance.  Its forcing me to truthfully look at myself and change what I don't like.

Keep going.  Keep going.

Tired

It's been a while.  Treatment has it's process and I feel like most of the time it's working.  I really REALLY like my therapist.  I feel like I'm on the verge of some break throughs.  Well I'm really in the middle of some break throughs.

I have a lot of flaws and I struggle so hard to mask them instead of embrace them and deal with them that I just end up failing miserably.  The worst part is knowing that by doing this I have pushed people so far that they have become tired of me.  I can't really blame them.  I'm tired of me to.

It's hard to come to terms with the consequences that this has brought to my life and for the past two days I have not wanted to do anything.  I haven't wanted to eat, I haven't wanted to be happy, and I haven't wanted to live.  It took a moment of self-pity to realize that I can be better.  The reason this is happening is because of my choices and to beg and plead will not work.  Nothing I do may ever make anything that's going on in this moment better.

I wish that I didn't have to wait to lose what feels like everything to have the flame of change lit inside of me.  Perhaps one day I will not be that way.  Perhaps one day I will be able to recognize the needs of others and really hear them before they are tired.

I'm tired too.  I'm tired of fighting myself.  I'm tired of making things hard for myself all of the time. It's really time to stop wishing and thinking.  It's time to start doing. 

Fighting

If I could avoid all conflict in my life I would.  I hate when people point out the flaws I already know I have.  It's not like I'm not thinking that crap all the time to begin with.  Don't people think that if change came so easy it'd happen overnight?

I just feel like a failure today.  A complete total failure.

My Enemy.

I'm pretty sure his name is Pizza.
The great thing is, is that I don't even like the stuff.  Once I get in on my plate though I'm a maniac.  I try so hard to avoid it but then I can't.  Self-control in theory is so much easier than the actual  practice.

So updates on treatment...
When I went to the endo last week I saw my weight.  I had gained nine pounds.  I didn't mean to but I cried in the doctor's office.  I was so frustrated and angry with myself.  I'm doing it "their" way and gaining weight.  I feel so defeated.  Sometimes, I truly believe that being skinny trumps everything else in life.
Still going to therapy.  I wish I could afford to go twice a week but I can't.  The therapy part is the easy part of this whole thing.  What's hard is the nutrition.  What's hard is wrapping my head around the eating in "moderation."  That, and checking my blood sugar.  The blood sugar thing should be so simple, but I guess after not doing it for so long it's more complicated than I thought it'd be.

I feel like such a bad mother.  I worry all the time that I will die early and Isaac will wonder why his mother didn't love him enough to stick around.  I would never want to do that to him.  I feel so guilty that I couldn't cure myself of this after he was born.  I think about all the people who care about me, and all the people that have had to put a wall up just do deal with me.  It makes me so sad and ashamed.  I think my family has a hard time ingesting what it is I go through.  In their minds I am just killing myself and making stupid decisions.  So many family members and friends have put blinders up when it comes to this and I understand why.  Who wants to deal with it?  I don't.  But I have no choice.  I am lucky to have people in my life who are sticking around and who are being truly supportive of it all.

Bubbling

Thursdays are almost always bad for me.  Isaac goes back to his father on Thursdays and I feel like my life is de-railed.  I hate Thursdays.  They are like THE day that I will always be crazy; no matter what.

Went to the mall today.  Trying to get out the door was a challenge.  I felt like I was too fat to wear anything... I was fine for the most part after I got to the mall... then I went to Victoria's Secret and that pretty much ruined the whole trip.  It was stupid... I feel stupid.  Saw something that I liked but they didn't have it in my size.  That's the trigger for the bubbles to start.  I feel like they start in my stomach and pop once they are in my brain.  What comes out of them are sticky, nasty, hateful, words that make me feel like I had no business leaving the apartment in the first place.  I try to ignore them and they won't stop.  All the while I'm just begging myself to get over it and then I feel ashamed and stupid.  I feel like trying to explain this is useless.  People tell me to "get over it" or "ignore" those thoughts.  Like I haven't tried that already.  I so desperately want to feel normal and happy.  I wish that a store not having something in my size wouldn't make me feel like the literal elephant in the room.

Grotesque

UGH... severe setback.  I know it hasn't been too long going through all this but now that I'm really striving to be better it's like a slap in the face when I fuck up.
I don't even like pizza.  Yet, I ate it.  Oh yes I ate it along with breadsticks AND dessert pizza.
DISGUSTING
that's all I can think about.  I am so mad at myself.  I've been feeling like this for hours now and it's keeping me awake.  I'm mad that I ate it... and I'm mad that I'm mad about eating it... it's a fucking cycle that doesn't break. I keep imagining these little fat cells joining together to create another layer of fat on my already overweight body.  I just want it gone.  I want the pizza out of me.  I feel ashamed and embarrassed for even eating it.
At first, I didn't take my insulin.  I just didn't think about it.  I don't know if I forgot or it was a subconscious thing... but I didn't do it.

So I got sick.
I checked my blood sugar...
Over 600...
So I did take insulin.

I still wish that I could get the pizza out.  Part of me is angry that I didn't wait to take insulin until I threw up.  That way the pizza would have been gone.  Now it's there and those fat cells are holding hands and laughing at the cow they are creating.

I'm trying to stay positive.  I'm trying to remind myself that setbacks are normal... that I just started this process and can't expect to be magically cured... at the same time I wonder if I really can overcome this.

Bills Bills Bills

So I just got the official word... my insurance is not covering my treatment.

I am beyond disappointed.  No, I am angry.  The docs have convinced me that this a matter of life and death at this point.  They have officially terrified me into treatment and now I can't get it.  Well I can get it I just have to shell out about $200 a week.  Maybe for some that's not a lot of money but for me it is hefty.  I feel like screaming or throwing something.  I feel to upset to even type anything creative.  The worst part is feeling like this and having no one to talk to.

"Treatment" has started.

How I Got Here

Food and I are "in a relationship and it's complicated." We're polyamerous with Body Image Issues and together we are a trifecta of destruction. For over eight years I have been killing myself as a result of this relationship and I want to stop.

I remember being eight years old and looking at my blonde and skinny friends, hating myself for not looking like them. Every night before I went to bed, I used to wish that there was a way for someone to come into my bedroom in the middle of the night and shave all the extra fat on my belly off. I would have given anything to not be fat; I so desperately wanted to be beautiful. I thought if I were skinny I'd have more friends. I felt lonely.

Before everyone figured out I was diabetic I lost a lot of weight. I remember running to my P.E. teacher and excitingly telling him that I had lost 10lbs! I was so excited but still hungry. My parents would stop me from eating third helpings at dinner so I snuck food.

After my diagnosis, complete with regulated diet and injections the sneaking food continued. It never stopped. The first time I lied about my blood sugar, I was 10.

Several years later...

My parents are getting divorced, and I witnessed my mother go from Martha Stewart's clone to a woman who didn't want to get out of bed. I didn't know how to process this. So I just stopped taking care of myself. Then I started losing weight and people thought I was beautiful.

When I was 14 I had my first DKA. Two months later I had my second. Then, my third shortly after. That landed me in my first long-term psych facility… not the right place at all. It was a borderline horrifying experience. I found myself mixed in with teens that were given the option of this psycho facility or juvie, teen prostitutes whose brains were fried on meth, and kids with severe psych issues like schizophrenia. One night I was locked in my room by the staff and was informed that the staff had learned that the rest of the patients were conspiring to attack me in the shower.

There was another patient there that had diabetes, “Sam”. He would intentionally make himself sick to get out of foster homes that he didn’t like. We didn’t talk much, but we had several conversations about not taking insulin in which we both admitted that we didn’t truly believe that you could die from insulin manipulation. Then one day Sam and his roommate stole a weight from the day room, threw it at their window, and escaped. A week later Sam was dead. An autopsy confirmed cause of death: Diabetic Ketoacidosis.

After I was released from the psych ward I became more careful and secretive of my disease. I had gained a substantial amount of weight while there and coped with it the only way I knew how. Not taking insulin. Even though I knew that it could kill me it didn’t matter because being skinny was more important. It trumped everything else in my life. I threw up from high blood sugars on a daily basis. I couldn’t walk across a room without feeling winded. The DKAs kept happening and I kept slipping away.

In 2006 went into DKA again. I was sent to another treatment center, one that was better suited to fit my needs. Afterwards I was not allowed to return to my mother’s house so she sent me to live with my father and stepmother.

I’d like to think they tried their best. I’d like to think that they cared. But several events led me to a relapse. A month after I turned 18 I moved out. I was not ready for my newfound freedom and felt like my life was spiraling out of control. Before I knew it I found myself in DKA again and again and again.

I have stopped breathing before. I have hallucinated while in DKA, it was the only time in my life that has ever happened. This disease is destroying my life. I do not want to be sick anymore.

In 2009 I gave birth to a healthy baby boy. I do not want to be dead because my son deserves to have a mother who will live. It has taken me years to come to the realization that I need to find my own help and I am in the process of doing so. That is way I have started this blog.

I want to talk about the healing process. I don’t know if anyone will find this or read this but I will share this anyway. So brace yourself as we go through this journey together. 

Goodness knows I’m scared shitless.