Honestly, like half the entries here could have that title.

Or the whole blog, for that matter.

This morning, I finally managed to make myself do my two injections (Basaglar, my insulin, and Ozempic, an insulin…. enhancer?) for the first time in over a month.

And I feel better as a result. A lot better. A lot of my feeling of malaise has evaporate and I feel sharper and more focused and overall happier.

And I knew this would happen. Obviously. My diabetic symptoms were getting worse and worse, starting with that demonic hunger that warns me things are very fucked up indeed^[1] and eventually adding constant dizziness, dark depression, and that superstar of diabetic symptoms, constant thirst.^[2]

So I knew I was suffering and that the injections would fix that right up. Relief was close at hand for weeks and yet I could not bring myself to access it.

And for fuck’s sake, WHY? What the hell is wrong with me that makes it so that obvious, easy things like doing my injections that I know will make me feel a lot better become as hard as deciding to cut off a limb with a rusty hacksaw?

I form these bizarre aversions at lightning speed and end up hemmed in by them to the point of paralysis in no time at all and I am getting really fucking sick of it.

I keep asking myself what, exactly, was I afraid would happen when I injected. The obvious and wrong answer is that I am worried I will trigger a blood sugar crash. but that’s akin to dying of heat sickness out of fear of freezing to death.

I mean, ya got to have priorities.

The only other answer as to why I do these things is fear of change in general, even when that change is likely to be very good.

That doesn’t seem like the entire answer either, but we’re getting closer.

I fall back on that feeling that I am barely holding my guts in and that I have to do as little as possible or everything will fall out of me and I will die.

Not literally true, obviously. But it describes what depression can feel like.

It’s what happens when the “hide” mode of the “fight, flee, or hide” takes over and dominate the individual completely. On the deepest possible level, I am convinced that if I move or change too much, something out there is going to GET me, and so I have to life the life of a halfassed statue instead.

Well fuck that. Somehow, somewhere, I am going to find the energies I nee to smash all the stupid aversions and start really living.

Everything I need is out there somewhere.

I just need to reach out and grab it.

More after the break.

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Better but still…

Feeling somewhat better since my injections but I still kind of want to bludgeon the world to death with a club made of pure black hate.

So, ya know, mixed emotions.

Did not quite make it to the phone call to Doctor Ebtia’s office today. She’s my cardiologist and I want her to find out what the fuck the deal is with my heart operation because I am getting weaker by the day and I am scared one of these days just getting out of bed will be too much for my tuckered ticker and it will pop.

And maybe I will just plain die. Or maybe I will live but be in such a horrible state of pain, humiliation, and debility that I will wish I had died. Or maybe I will get super lucky and somehow survive despite nobody knowing I keeled over because I spend most of my time all alone in my room.

Mental note : try to have seemingly inevitable heart attack while with friends.

Oh, and ponders getting one of those medic alert things.

Well if I have a heart attack while waiting for my surgery, they better hope it kills me, because if not I am going to scorched-earth sue the entire St. Paul’s cardiac surgery for dropping the ball on this one.

I am pondering how to handle the call, though, because Doctor Ebtia seems somewhat high strung as does her staff, so I don’t want to come on all thunder and death and scare them into ducking my calls.

I can be quite scary when I am angry, especially to petite, nervous women.

They don’t know I’m just a big goofy puppy dog with a rather large bark.

So my approach will be the two pathetics : sympathetic, and just plain pathetic.

Emphasize how worried and scared I am and how patient I have been and how I have heard nothing at all from these people.

And not so much the rage and feeling neglected and thinking the cardiac surgeons won’t do anything until a heart attack makes my case interesting enough for them to be bothered with and so forth and so on.

That’s the scary stuff. Might be cathartic but a poor choice in terms of strategy.

If I can’t get her to take me seriously, I will try Doctor Caswell again. Last visit, I spilled the basics out to her, but I don’t think she got the urgency of it all.

So I think another try when I see her on the 30th would work.

One way or another, I am going to make it RAIN on this motherfuckers.

I might be sick.

I might be crazy.

I might be poor.

But I am still a force to be reckoned with.

And I have precious little to lose.

I will talk to you nice people again tomorrow.