Food and drink is a universal joiner. It brings people together and is the center of the gathering most, if not all, of the time. Even if you’re at a concert and food is not served, alcohol is. A recovering alcoholic can get a non-alcoholic beer if wanted. Lucky bastard.
A type one that is under control of their sugars, that pays attention to their body, and actually cares for their health–often feels left out at such gatherings. The people in attendance do not keep food from them or hoard the liquor for themselves. The person in question, the type one, it’s that their damn pancreas has made it such that the they can’t fully participate.
Ordering a pizza at 1am at a party? Shouldn’t eat it. Meeting for dinner at 9pm on a work night? Gonna have a bad morning and have to play catch up to your sugars all of the next day. Want to sit at 10pm and drink wine while your sister cries about her broken heart? A recipe for disaster.
It’s not that I never partake in the above situations. It’s that I am consumed with the math in my head of how to fix what will happen to my cells, I am beating myself up for eating bread at such a late hour, I am acutely aware that I can not participate fully in one of the things that makes us human. Social interactions with food and drink.
And that is frustrating. It happens every single day. From the breakfast prepared for the six members of your home and yours is completely different to peeling the cheese off of the pizza and only consuming that. Leaving a sad pile of starches and feeling badly for the waste of money your co-workers spent on a pizza you shouldnt’t fully devour. Being actually sad that you are passing on birthday cake and they are all smiling as they stuff their faces with the delicious dessert and you just want to scream at their damn working organs. Then walking back to your desk and eating carrots. Not cause you are a health nut and living a super clean Gwyneth Paltrow life, but cause your body will turn on you if you eat that thing.
That makes me want to stay inside. Not even go to the party. And someone always says something stupid like, “Oh, you can’t have sugar?” or “Your diabetes must be really bad, huh?”
“No, Aunt Jane Doe, I can eat whatever the fuck I want and yes, my type fucking one diabetes is horrific.”
It’s also being reminded that my body does not do what it is supposed to. That my body does not function at full capacity. That the thing you are eating can slowly kill me.
I have no idea if other type ones do this sort of thing. It has taken me years of trial and error to see that the above changes help me live as my healthiest self.
I type this while consuming a green smoothie at a tea shop, my sugar at 83 and slowly about to rise, wondering if I will have to inject insulin to process this beverage. (93 now and rising—get the insulin!! Also, it was fucking 42 and that’s why I got the damn thing in the first place. Now, I have to take insulin for the damn thing?! I would like some consistency, Disease!!)
Did I mention that I am also terrible at math?!
Spoiler alert: that wine drinking at 10pm is usually for MY broken heart, not my sister’s.