in the beginning there was light... but for a diabetic there is no beginning.

strokes of fate and intrigue inspire this blog. im not much of a writer, but i am a survivor. the way i see it, people need something, if not someone to hold onto. not always some more pc shit to read- but the gritty ironed out truth. the day to day how to survive in the belly of disease and life. i dont want to read anymore magazines or "how to" books- i cant stand talk shows' tips that rarely amount to anything. i dont want the promises of a cure. or the details of a new diet or injection modifier. i just want somebody to "tell it like it T-I-is." if i can get a confirming "amen" for people who understand my language, well that's all the better. nad if i dont, the rush of typing, the exhauset of my frustartion the pennicle of my words is enough for me to believe that i am being proactive in my frustration. so i will tell it. the daydreams, the nightmares, pity parties testimony, encouragement, and miracles. all that.

its summer olympics season. 2008. this evening after i saw that fine david oliver run in the olympic games, i got on the net looking for his race stats, aka, how old he is and whether he is married!! i found his blog. he's too young, too fast, and apparently well established. maybe by fate or chance, there was an option on his blog that viewers could click - to start ones own blog. i always thought blogging was interesting and nerdy in a cute way, but i didnt really know how to do it, and whether i had anything relevant to say. but then my leg started hurting again. an excruciating and private pain. i dared not cry again. im tired of that. i dared not complain, because i wasnt going to fall to the hurt- not today. so i started writing. rubbing my temple, praying over my pain and writing. my leg aches and cripples from the years of type I diabetes that have resided in my body. beginning stages of neuropathy. this blog is about my life with type I insulin dependent diabetes. the kind you dont hear about in the media as often as type II adult onset, the kind people mistake for the diabetes their great aunt bertha has to take pills for, the kind that is a bitch and has puppies, day after day...that one.

still, this wont be a sad " poor me" kinda thing, nah. thats never been my style. but i will be honest. i will be explicit. editing wont be done. all freestyle, from the heart. literally off the top of my head. this blog will be "a dear john letter" to the 25 years that i did not complain, to the years i injected myself, seized in my sleep, prayed it away, made myself throw up to keep my blood sugars in tact, woke my family in fear and drenched night spells, to the people who laughed at me in school, to the ones who said dumb shit and didnt know better, to the Granny that taught me to hold my head up, and to the angels in spirit and flesh that created a fence around me, and to the fence that never failed- God. this blog is a letter to the impostering demons that competed for my attention.

i am an everyday young woman, just trying to get through law school, work hard, and see where positivity gets me. although it was the olympics that brought me to the computer this night, im no athlete. not in the nearest sense of the word. i don't run at speeds worthy of international applause, unless it involves some jimmy choos on sale for more than half off. i don't swim as fast as michael phelps. heck, i don't even know how to stay afloat- in water, at least. but i do know how to a play a game that millions of americans confront. i been holding my breath for its cure for the last 2 decades. i have been diligent; up early,in bed late, tinkering with the meds and how much to take or not, working out, trying to keep a happy face, hoping they wont see the fear or smell the prozac on my breath. so maybe i am an athlete. maybe i am a magician. maybe i am a fool.

questions i often pose internally, and probably the subconscious reasons for my words herein are, 'how far will i run, how long can i last, and what is my honest incentive?' just being in the game, is sometimes more than i can ask for. im grateful. they say, "[i] look good," considering. i have not had long bouts in the hospital or reno failure. so statistically, i am doing ok.

but there are the days in between the tests, moments when i am tired of living, times when i want all things diabetes to end even if that includes me. but then there are times when i am proud, there are trumphs that call me to raise my fists in pride, days when i am certain that this disease is a figment of my imagination and a challenge to which i owe my character.

still, every morning i wake up, i make a list of the things i plan to do that day. oh yeah, i got notebooks full of random lists. "buy shampoo", "call tiff", "work on the brief for class"...i go on, as if i know that not waking is not an option. i dont know if it was faith in God or a challenge to God, but that conflict of sorts, is the only confidence i have. it is a precursor to my DNA, it is what my mother expects of me, it is why my father worked so hard so many nights and into countless days.

yet, the thing that most haunts my thinking and encourages my need to write, in this moment, are mixed emotions for a disease that taught me to swim without water and hurdle over bridges that only i could see, that sought to tear me under, and sometimes tried to suffocate me in my sleep. my personal olympics brought me to this night, to this website.

maybe someone else will read these words and know that there are others in the perpetual race called diabetes. the lighting may be different, the crowds may be more or less supportive, for you it may be a sprint, a hurdle or a relay from yourself back to yourself- but the race is on. the gun is still smoking, so its never too late to run your ass off.

there are days when i have to "pump myself up" just to keep moving even at a glacial pace. there are days when the ketones are ravishing, when i literally must sleep the entire day, when the perspiration and dizziness bathe me. but always, i tell myself that i will run, i will swim. i will breathe and pace myself through the course just like michael phelps. i hold on to the most uneven bars, just like mary lou retton. i stride along wind and float into my metaphysical self, just like carl lewis. and when i physically have exhausted myself, i pray that what i have already done will be enough to keep me in the race. i glide through time like that fine brian oliver. i am the american athlete- i compete with myself for a space within myself; i time myself and measure my worth against the numbers that only God can change. i am an athlete. no medal exists, other than gold.