When Diabetes Is "the OTHER" Problem

Hey, y'know that disease called diabetes? I certainly HOPE you do. This blog has been all about that silliness. Well, I've mentioned at some point or another that mental illness comes with chronic illness. It's part and parcel for the whole thing. And usually that mental illness is depression. "Why me?" becomes something you ask consciously or unconsciously almost every day. And, boy-howdy, does it suck! What I find most odd is that it's not called "diabetic depression." They tack "diabetic" on as a descriptor for almost every other thing that comes with the illness. Why does depression get left out?

After 48 years of Type 1 diabetes, I practically do everything required to maintain it as though I'm on autopilot. I've set alarms to keep me on that schedule I mentioned last post. When one goes off, I stop what I'm doing, check my glucose, take some insulin, eat a meal, and then go back to whatever it was that I was doing. (Performing these rituals is how I wound up turning "diabetes" into a verb. "Hang on a sec. I have to diabetes.") It's barely an existential speed bump in my day.

But staying on top of my OTHER medications... I wish it was that easy. Get the pills and divvy them up into the three-week pill container I have every third Saturday. This seemingly simple task becomes so arduous in my head. That's my severe recurrent depression in action. And so I fail to get that pill division done, fail to take them regularly, and before I know it those medications have lost their efficacy.

The big one... Well, antidepressants need to be built up to their therapeutic level. It takes four to six weeks for that to happen. What's more, the full dose shouldn't be given at the start. You have to build up to that dose. So it's 10 days at half a tablet to start, 10 days at a full tablet for stage two, and then another 10 days of one and half tablets to reach the full dose.

That said, my pill container only handles three weeks at a time. So I'm still struggling to reach that therapeutic level when it's time to refill it, and... "Oh, why bother? It doesn't matter anyway. No one really cares about me, so why should I work so hard at setting up my pills?" Yeah, that's my depression still holding sway.

I'll let you in on a little secret. I'd say 99% of this entire blog has been written while under the harsh effects of my mental illnesses.

Oh, yeah... Severe recurrent depression isn't my only psych issue. I'm also dealing with PTSD, which is the culmination of several events that either keep me awake all night or make me jump out of my skin while letting loose a scream of terror.

This morning, after taking my 24-hour insulin, (which only works for approximately 20 hours), I looked over at my empty container of other daily meds and... I just wanted to cry. Accompanying the urge to let the tears flow came the fun and exciting thoughts... "I don't care. It's not like missing those meds will cause me to suffer a painful death. Well, maybe my heart meds. I hear heart attacks are pretty painful. But maybe I'll get lucky and have one of those 'instantly fatal' heart attacks. The end. I can stop worrying about... well, everything. No bills. No scheduled medications. No having to put on an act so people think I'm happy and friendly. It can all just end and I can finally get some rest. And who knows? Maybe Heaven, (which I don't believe in), is as depicted in Supernatural. Everyone's Heaven is different. In mine, I'll be fit and healthy... and I'll be younger... and there'll be girls, and movies, and girls, and video games, and girls, and good food, and girls, and visiting D&D nerds to play with, and girls, and comfortable clothes, and girls, and really nice furniture, and girls... Yeah, staying alive is for chumps." 

Looks like nearly five years of being a bachelor is having a bit of an effect on me.

Such thoughts then begin to spiral. What comes next? Approximately 1,000 regrets from my decades of life come to mind. As I dwell on those, the short list of girls I had SERIOUS crushes on in high school pop into my head for a soul-sucking visit. And, hey, while I've got high school on my mind, how about remembering all of the abuse I suffered at the hands of the incubator? Oh, and here's a favorite memory: that job I absolutely LOVED and busted my butt to become an assistant manager, only to be rejected because I didn't suck up to the district manager, and the final result was him not only telling me that I did NOT get the job, but then gave me an absolutely insulting raise of $0.05 per hour for all of my hard work. Makes me wish I'd beaten him with a sack of hammers instead of quietly walking out of his office.

My mind is a playground for the morbidly obsessed.

I don't know if I've mentioned this previously, but I once told my doctor that I'm simply waiting for death. It's not that I'm actively suicidal. I just don't care anymore. And as I wait to shuffle loose this mortal coil, I don't want things to hurt. That's it. Like self-imposed palliative care, I just want to be comfortable while awaiting my demise.

That's why I take such great care of my diabetes. Because NOT taking care of it is a bad way to go. Too much discomfort.

The best part...? The cherry that sits atop this existential sundae made of psychological garbage... is that the complications of my diabetes are constantly reminding me that I could be so much healthier if I'd taken proper care of myself from the start.

Now... Who's in the mood to party?

No one, eh?

Okay. Maybe it's time to end this post. And to lift your spirits, here's a sign that should have mentioned juvenile diabetes instead of... Well...

I say we beat the little rugrats unconscious!