SomaCow

I have been reading about my disease, figuring the best way to combat diabetes would be with a six-demon bag and a vorpal sword, but, since I have neither, I could try using knowledge instead.

I stumbled across an interesting physiological feature, namely, anger issues are common in pre-diabetic individuals. It seems the topsy-turvy blood sugar game gets irritating to the body, constantly stemming the flow of glucose and vainly summoning insulin that cannot be bothered to show up. Typical Pancrean passive-aggressive behavior.

So, your body, in a pinch, summons that juicy-tasty morsel, adrenalin. The power flows through your veins, and you begin to crush heads, everywhere, ripping out stanchions, tearing off car doors, flinging passers-by into the river.

Or, you yell at your friends and act unreasonable about things.

I am not trying to say my disease caused all of the bad things I have done to others. I am not trying to say pre-diabetes rage made me verbally abuse every service personnel I encountered. I am certainly not trying to say diabetes put that hole in my door.

I am simply trying to put together the facts, pick up the pieces of the puzzle I kicked across the room, and get back to living on the straight and narrow.

And by narrow, I mean sexxxy skinny britches.

Had some stomach pain and nausea today, presumably from the meds. As a good friend on Twitter pointed out, sleeping through the night is fantastic, and I have slept through the night twice.

More on that another time.

Nurse went to bat for me today, and got $40.00 back from the Evil Red Circle. They were gypping me. Here’s a weird thing – My test strips are MSRP around 60 bucks for 50 strips. When you are stabbing your finger sometimes three times a day, that gets pricy, quick.

My insurance will not pay for them, because my insurance wants me to die. Seriously, United Healthcare… how can I pay your outrageous premiums when I am dead?

Nevertheless… IN the package of the test strips thingy, there was a credit card. Nurse called the number, and they activated a “Never pay more than $15.00″ policy. How is THAT? Why even sell them for $60.00? What a bizarre policy.

Earlier, I was insulting to gypsies. My bad. Show me your deviled eggs and dice games, and your wheel of destiny. I will play along.

Woke up with a blood sugar of 272 today, came home with a 174. My body continues to raid its extensive and vast cookie jar of fats overnight, marauding the samoas and peanut butter delights long ago tucked away. Good riddance. For all my glorifying of eating, I have always hated the fat that comes with it.

I must fast for some bloodwork tomorrow, and I am looking forward to it. As the pounds come off my body, I relish the loose clothes, the light step, and the almost smug, self-righteous feeling weight loss gives me.

So much about fat is worthless and strange to me. It physically binds you, constricting around your body and muscles so you cannot move. It clogs your arteries, so you cannot pump blood properly. It makes you less appealing to the opposite sex, limiting your procreation opportunities. It makes you sweat, and thus stink, more. It leads to more zits.

While it once might have indicated wealth and position, fat is now a sign of a troubled organism.

When I quit smoking, I often had to physically restrain myself from beating the shit out of other smokers. Not just because the smell makes me want to throw up, but because they were killing themselves. They were playing with poison, and forcing it in, slow and sure.

Do THEY Want To Die?

I bet they do, most of them.

Maybe that is why I want to grab them, and slap them, and force them to stop. Every time I see a smoker, and now, a fatter, I see a man or woman on a ledge, inching themselves toward oblivion. I wish they would step back from that ledge, my friend.

But they won’t. Not unless they decide to for themselves.

I keep looking for a picture at my “worst”. Fattest, whatever. This is a shot from March of this year. Please, do not show this to children:

Note the eyelids, weeping pus, starved of sleep. At this weight, I could not even pick up my daughter without wheezing. Check out the cheek skin, swollen and thick, asymmetrical and frightening. The greasy hair, the stinking clothes… Well, you probably cannot SMELL the clothes, but they smelled of sour sweat and stank ass cigarettes. This was me, locked into Chantix, and dying a quick death.

I want to hit him. He disgusts me. But I know he made the right decision.

Eventually.

 

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