You know, I spent most of my life trying to not eat, and feeling guilty and self-loathing when I did anyway, or using food as a control device — when it’s not controlling me — or actively not caring if I was committing slow suicide and eating whatever I damned well felt like eating. Me and food go way back.
As I mentioned in Dancing for Normal, my entire relationship with food changed radically when I decided to get serious about my Type 2 diabetes management. I eat according to my meter, I focus on protein and complex carbs, and lately my blood sugar numbers are actually getting too low for comfort. Like, out of the blue, a 58 yesterday, my all time (so far, hopefully the last time) low.
My endocrinologist and I are recalibrating the dosages of my diabetes meds. That sounded fairly uncomplicated when I saw her a few weeks ago. Just cut one pill in half and call her in four weeks. I know the dosage I was taking is too much, but cutting the pill in half sometimes results in a number too high. Depending on how carby my meal is, how stressed I am, how not ill I am. Sometimes there is no correlation whatsoever.
I’m really not interested in going back to numbers in the 120s. (80-100 is “normal range” for fasting blood sugar.) But when I get down to 58, for the first time in my life I’m realizing that I must eat. Literally, it’s medicinal, and not optional. Don’t treat the low, and you can pass out and not wake up again.
Doesn’t diabetes suck? When I have a green light — actually, a mandate — to eat something carby to treat a low, I really don’t want it now. Such rich perverse irony.