I have heard tell of a magical time, when my body was simply a curly haired vehicle for transporting me to pools and parties, my mother’s arms and Fairyland. I have even heard tell that from its 2 year old pudge to its 5 year old lankiness, I saw this body only as a magical spinner-arounder, Daddy climber, crayon- holding glitter-sprinkler and mud pie maker. I had fun. I woke up and it helped me tumble out of bed. It told me where my arms where so I could hug my friends. It knew exactly where to cram brownies and how to scream “READY OR NOT HERE I COME!” with fearsome volume. It got sick, sported band-aids, held a thousand kisses and a million dreams. It was my friend. It was me. Continue reading “For the Love of Bod”
It’s time for me to come out. Not out of ‘that’ closet, but a cold, dark and lonely hidey-hole of fear, shame and self-suppression nonetheless. It’s more like it’s time for me to come out of the pantry- back there in the deep, dark corner where all the cakes and cookies and buckets of sugar hide.
That’s right: I’m diabetic.
It’s taken me about the whole, entire 2 years since diagnosis to be able to even say the word aloud without cringing in shame and wondering what horrible, horrible life choices I made brought this scourge upon myself. All you have to do is click open any single page on the whole wide internet and you’ll find some crack or comment about eating your big, fat, gluttonous way into Diabetes ( or The Betes, D-beast and D-bomb as I also call it). While I applaud the health conscious waves sweeping the globe, attacking the very real conditions and the very real people living through them can make for a cold, dark and lonely life for those of us who happen to wake up in the Dungeon of the Gluttonous with social judgment lashing down upon us.