I’ve been down lately, feeling out of my element, washed up on an unknown shore, beached. My body is a strange new country, one whose language I thought I spoke fluently, until I woke up one day three weeks ago to find that the rules had all changed.
I can still see my old and dearly beloved life, pre-diabetes, as if from an ever- receding distance. It’s like my own body has cast me adrift, broken with the contract I thought we’d made to take care of each other, leaving me alone to slip and slide with the mysterious tide surging in my veins.
I waver between feeling like I’m beached and gasping for air, and a raging sense that I have to get things under control immediately, or all is lost. Neither is true, of course, but my feelings don’t know that.
The gulf I feel between myself and every other person who isn’t diabetic is vast. A lunch invitation turns into a mini-nightmare of fretting over the menu, will there be anything I can eat? Am I doomed to a life of brown bags hiding low carb foods? Every social invitation in my life involves food, most of it food that I can’t eat right now. Diabetes is a line in the sand, a deep ditch, a gulf stream. And worse, I know that I’ve barely gotten my feet wet so far.
The water is wide, I can’t cross o’er. Nor do I have light wings to fly.