There’s Insulin In My Refrigerator

And I have to use it.

Didn’t see that one coming!

Sometimes, when you have one autoimmune disease, there’s a likelihood of adding another. Like with tattoos. Or children.

Where I had one, I now have two.

Like this:

But instead of souls, think “diseases.” And instead of heart, think “Caira!”

Latent Autoimmune Diabetes in Adults (LADA, if you will) is Type 1 Diabetes’ slow-creeping, over 30 cousin. My doctor told me she sees one LADA case per year, and it looks like 2016 was My Time. To me this suggests I should be compensated. In reality, it means there are insulin injections and a drastic reduction of: carbohydrates, and sugar, and happiness, and alcohol.

It means I look at my *Luna & Larry So-Co No Dairy Delicious ice cream bars and think, “you’re stupid.”

It means I scowl as I walk through the grocery store, judging everyone in the gluten-free section. Fucking hipsters. Fucking health-conscious hacks drinking black pomegranate juice out of a mason jar, working on their craft.

Because here I am. Stockpiling mason jars. Blending shit and taking about it. The only thing worse than someone who drinks kale smoothies is someone who previously complained about people who drink meadows for breakfasts and now has to do it.

It means I’m occasionally just a melancholy, grouchy, Vitamix-wielding diabetic.

It means I am hungry.

It means the first time I inject myself I see the person in the mirror, pinching her belly flap, shirt tail in between teeth, holding an insulin pen in her right hand. How the fuck did this happen? I can’t do it. I pace around the apartment. Everything is saying this needle DOES NOT BELONG HERE. I saw Requiem for a Dream. I know where needles go, and where they do not.

It means I am overwhelmed.

It means, also, there is more to be written on the subject of abnormal immunity.

*No offense to you, Luna. And Larry.

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Originally published at on April 17, 2016.