My finger tips are covered in small black dots.
So great in number you can see them clustered from a distance.
My stomach is pierced by a machine that keeps me alive.
Where there was once smooth, sensitive, gorgeous skin has been replaced by that of tough, rough, and scarred (skin?)
My arms are sticky from the tape that holds me together.
They are bloody from the Transmitter checking me every 5 minutes, just to be sure I am still alive.
When I was 17
I got sick.
For months I drove around with a bowl in my car.
Just in case I needed to vomit.
I carried a bottle to drink constantly, always being filled then emptied, then filled then emptied, then filled and emptied again.
My friends would time me between trips to the bathroom.
Where I spent more time peeing out all that I had consumed than I had learning.
When I became skin and bone because my body ate itself to get nutrition, I was eating the entire contents of the fridge, and the fridge itself, three times a day.
When I was sitting on that exam table lucky to have a mother who is smart and caring to order blood work that the doctor didn't even bother to think about.
If it weren’t for her I would have gone home with another bottle of pills for a problem I didn’t have.
When I was 17 Every step I took was bone crushing.
My muscle mass was nonexistent.
On a body that usually holds 160 pounds of fat and muscle, but let’s be honest it was mainly fat, I was 125 pounds of skin and bone.
Every time I sat down my body would crush itself folding a million times downward and inward, suffocating.
My eyes, which stuck out from the dark circles surrounding them contrasting with the paleness of my skin, were covered with a veil.
I watched the world go by through a pair of unfocused binoculars.
When I was 17
I learned to give myself insulin injections because my body had attacked and eliminated my pancreas.
When I was 17
I had to prick my finger 6 times a day minimum while everyone around me stared and watched as blood would pour from me.
When I was 18
Instead of wearing my heart on my sleeve I wore my pancreas on my bra.
A little square machine that delivers my insulin protruding from between my breasts with tubing sticking out because I just don’t have much to hide it away.
When I was 18
I had to deal with kids pointing and whispering wondering what it was that was on my belly when at the pool or better yet, what was that white scary bulge on my arm is.
When I was 19
I tried to hide.
When I was 19
I was tired of people asking me if it hurt to check my sugars or give myself insulin or if that white bulge with a needle attached sticking into my arm hurt me.
I don’t know. You try it and tell me how it feels.
When I was 19
Cinnamon was my cure.
You want to know what cures stupidity? LICKING A DOGS BUTT.
When I am 30
People who know someone who’s grandmother’s godson’s great great grandchild met a person who knew another person who’s cat died from diabetes will tell me they know exactly what I am going through but they couldn’t imagine giving up sugar.
To them I say WATCH ME EAT THIS DONUT AND NOT DIE.