I hate the time you take out of my day - out of my conversations, my getting ready to go somewhere, my meal prep. I hate always having to step away to deal with your crap.
I hate the energy you zap, how you peppered my pregnancy with your nuisances, how I feel chained by the ankle to your regimen. Test, treat, test, treat. The second I stop paying attention, you take the wheel and drive us over a cliff.
I hate the way you sneak into my quietest moments and yell "Surprise!" as you interrupt me with your pump errors and low blood sugars and loose infusion sets. Whether I'm rocking my daughter to sleep or teaching a voice lesson or performing a recital, your intrusions are never welcome.
You're a damned expensive disease - whether it's the insurance, the doctors, the drugs, the technologies, the accessories, or the medical supplies, I remember reading once that I can expect to spend a third of my income on you each year.
I hate feeling high. That unsettling, cotton-mouthed, nauseating, sleepy feeling combined with the rage of fight-or-flight stress hormones that make me unreasonably aggressive toward the people I cherish.
I hate the second and third lows of the day. I hate feeling like I'm constantly slapped down in my place, reminded of my vulnerability, thrown back on the floor any time I try to get up. I hate not being confident to walk ten minutes in any one direction because I don't know if I'll be able to make it the ten minutes back without a low blood sugar. I meet diabetics who are athletes, who run marathons, who play sports. Me? I'm afraid to walk to the park with my toddler.
I hate the way people without diabetes think they know what my needs are, what my diet should be, what my history must have been. I hate the way the media has painted it as a disease we deserve.
I hate when my blood sugar is 441 and I don't know whether it's because my pump malfunctioned, my insulin went bad, my site came loose, that soda wasn't diet, or I miscalculated lunch. There is rarely a simple explanation for the worst days.
I hate fearing what feels like the inevitable. Wondering when it will strike out of nowhere. Waiting for the other shoe to drop. I hate how you hit my friends, one after the other, with neuropathy, retinopathy, heart disease, essential tremors, etc. I wonder when I'll piss you off enough to make you hiss and snarl at me with the worst you've got.
I hate how you claim a stake in my identity - as though you and I are symbiotic, as though I needed you here to be all I am now. I hate that each of the scenes of my life have had you pressing your face to the window, knocking your insistent knock like a pesky neighbor who can't be ignored. I struggle to define myself with you there in the shadows.
And I hate that.