My name is Kitty and I am…

a diabetic.

I cannot begin to express the guilt and shame that I get by announcing that sentence. I’m useless, a failure because I have poisoned myself and set myself a life long challenge.

I have always been over weight (read this) and with diabetes running riot through my maternal side, you’d’ve thought I’d’ve taken better care of myself. 4 years ago, I was warned that I was pre-diabetic. I tried losing weight for about a month. 3 years ago I was told it was likely I was diabetic and I needed another blood test to confirm. I put it off. I was sure I would lose weight. I keep saying “I’ll start tomorrow”.

Yesterday I had my blood taken for the test I should’ve had three years ago and this morning I have had the results. Rather, I have had a phone calling saying “Things have progressed and you need to make an appointment but don’t worry. We’ll also book you in with the diabetic nurse.”   I’ve filled in the rest myself.

The don’t worry part is something I have to chuckle at. I am the kind of person who had a headache and it is a brain tumour. Already I have had my feet amputated and I am blind due to complications. I am scared. You’d’ve thought this would have made me take action 3 years ago. I’m stupid and it serves me right.

I would not take drugs, don’t  smoke, don’t drink excessively and actually look down on those people who do those things, but I am not better because I am addicted and instead of snorting lines of coke, I am shovelling lines of Jaffa cakes.

I can’t tell my family about this. The hubby knows, a handful of my internet friends and someone at work but that is it. I can’t tell my mum because it would be a constant tirade of what are your numbers, are you losing weight and her just generally whittling – I can do enough of that for myself.

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