The Big “D”
No — not that “D” dirty birds. Diabetes. That dreadful, disgusting, distasteful word. It sucks.
Wait, I’ll say it louder for the ones in the back
Everyone always says “…count your blessings, it’s just diabetes.” or “It’s not like it’s cancer.” And for the most part, they’re right. I don’t have to go through chemo treatments, I don’t have to worry about the possibility of numbered days, my family having to watch me slowly die, or all those other terrible things that come with terminal illnesses. I’m lucky and, for the most part, I know that I am lucky. But let me tell you, there are days where I feel very unlucky.
I guess I should start at — the beginning?
When kids are small, they want to be like everybody else. They want to feel accepted by peers, adults, society, they just want that sense of belonging. I wasn’t any different. And before you start judging, yes my parents loved me enough, yes they tried very hard to give myself and my siblings everything we wanted and they gave us everything we needed — for the most part.
Like any “modern” family, we had our problems, and those problems stemmed from our parents own family/history. It is what it is. We struggled through, like every other “modern” family. Of course, like “every other modern family” there was someone dealing with addiction. Me.
My vice wasn’t drugs or alcohol, but food. An unhealthy, unnatural obsession with F.O.O.D. I craved it when I was hungry, I craved it when I was full, I craved it in my dreams, before breakfast, after breakfast, before lunch, after lunch…All I wanted was food being stuffed in my face. My grandparents (on my fathers side) always made snide remarks about my “unhealthy” apatite. It wasn’t like I was eating just crap. I ate raw broccoli, celery, apples, grapes, proteins, sure there were chips, cookies, junk food — I mean, come on, I WAS a kid…But the issue was the amount of what I was eating. I wouldn’t stop — no I couldn’t stop.
It got to the point where, even though I should have been in junior size clothing, I was already wearing small adult clothing. My mother had to shop at places for plus size girls. No “Justice” for me, no “PacSun” or “HotTopic”. I was too fat to fit, and they definitely didn’t make “plus size” for junior girls.
I remember once, crying in a fitting room, wanting to die. Wondering, what I had done in my life to warrant such humiliation from my family and peers. Wishing that I was like all the other girls in my class. Size two, perfect hips, boobs (because trust me…for my size, I had no chest). And why did it have to be over eating? Why couldn’t I have bulimia? Why couldn’t I even have a “normal” eating disorder?! That night, I ate two helpings of dinner, desert and then snuck an entire can of corn…and some chips, and part of my dads left overs for lunch…
None of my doctors ever found anything “wrong”, per se, but there were signs. I was always sick — not really colds or flus, but I had really bad stomach issues, pain, enlarged liver…but yeah, they never found anything.
I went on with this lifestyle for years. Sneak eating, depression eating, happy eating…Food was my favorite. It understood me, it didn’t judge me, it didn’t make fun of me. Food never talked about me behind my back, it never nicknamed me the “human garbage disposal”. It was just that one consistent friend who was always there. Who knew it would be the most toxic yet fundamental relationship in my entire life? I certainly didn’t.