Low Blood Sugar Binge && Imperfection

When you wake up from a low binge my first thought is still OH F**K. Seven years ago I would have been obsessing about the calories I shouldn’t have “had” to eat. But now my first thought is what is my sugar. I don’t just call this progress. I call this recovery. In any other recovery situation you use the word binge it signals a relapse. In my case it signals a 31. That’s what my blood sugar was when my boyfriend came in this morning: 31. I was attempting to eat cookies. I hadn’t tested my sugar. I could barely speak. He asked me what I was doing. I’m sure I looked like a crazy person. Shaking, mumbling, trying to shove tagalongs desperately into my mouth. “I’m low.” was all I managed to get out. He could tell this wasn’t a normal low since I wasn’t really treating it myself (or snapping at him.) Do you need me to test your blood sugar? He asked. I nodded mutely, understanding very little of what was happening. The next 30 minutes passed in a semi blur. Conscious-ish is all I can call it. Lights were on but NO ONE was home. So I ate a sleeve of cookies. More than I needed to for a low but I was shoveling food in my mouth like my life depended on it. BECAUSE IT DID.

&& THIS is why diabetes and eating disorders are so hard to detangle, to figure out, because it’s a disease wrapped around food. My entire disease circles around decisions I make regarding food. So, yes I had a “textbook binge” this morning. Eating uncontrollably, shoveling food, no awareness for the amount or taste && then this morning my blood sugar was 321. Yes, a diabetes FUCK. But you want to know what else happened last night, I didn’t die. You think I’m being facetious? I’m not. Dying from a low blood sugar- that happens. My body instinctually shoveling food to prevent that certain death? That happens too. I no longer shame and blame myself for, no one wins in that game. So instead of waking up mad at myself for eating more calories than other people or the rest of the bullshit gammet that used to run through my head; I test my sugar, I correct && I move on with my day. That’s my recovery: Imperfection, a broken pancreas && true peace with both.

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