How to Hit Mute, Speak Yiddish & Improve Life with Diabetes

Note to Readers:  Refer to this guide if you need to brush up on your Yiddish.

I turned 33 this weekend, officially finished my master's thesis, and completed my first collection of poems. I feel reborn! In spending so much concentrated time on my thesis and M.F.A., I must admit I have been a bad friend, blogger, daughter, sister, granddaughter, and diabetic. I would get so engrossed in my work that I'd forget to test, text, return calls, emails,etc. I didn't even answer the door (census takers, take note!) But I'm back to some semblance of normalcy--until I begin my PhD in the fall (don't jinx me). To those readers still with me, I apologize for my too long absence.

But you know what? (What, you ask?)

I'm not going to beat myself up about it (not that anyone is advocating that). But here's the why behind skipping self-flagellation:  Looking back as I do each birthday, I realized both how much and how little a role diabetes has had in my life and also how very much my attitude and approach has influenced both my successes and failings, not just with diabetes, but in many aspects of my life. In my early years of grappling with it all I had a lot of lousy days. Don't get me wrong, I still have lousy days, but they're less about my bloodsugars and more about allowing my [insert adjective here] attitude unchecked.

But a lot of years were steeped in self-regret and self-pity. I pretty much hated myself every time my sugars spun out of control (which was often), and broke down if I ended up with an A1C in or near the double digits. Then, I figured I was such a screw-up anyway that there's no point in even trying and hell, I wasn't worth the trouble anyway. This kind of thinking kept me from having to change anything. Looking back, I feel sadness and empathy for that girl whose visits are now quite seldom.

My self-esteem and quality of my life, it seemed, depended solely on my bloodsugar levels. And while the quality of life issues remain due the very real effect glucose swings have on one's body, mood, energy levels and current/future health, it is not the only guide I now use. Sure, there are still days when despite my best efforts I reluctantly spend a lot of energy and time fending off lows or stubborn highs, but those days are rarer now. 

And I am happier. Not because of my bloodsugars (though in range sugars do feel good), but because I learned how to shut up the mean girl in my head. I call that chatterbox Biffany. She still talks my ear off, but I ignore her. Most days anyway.

But oh, how I remember the years of beating myself up over my crappy bloodsugars and spikes after meals, insistent it was all my fault. I'd berate my lousy choices and lousy life with diabetes. Then, rather than moving on with my growth, my ego-maniac brain would kvetsch and mark all the moments so as not to forget that I messed up and how of course the failure was mine and mine alone. The voice in my head was relentless, like a mean girl in high school. And Biffany is harder to please than my friend's strict Jewish mother whose little boy is in love with a goyish girl who likes putting mayonnaise on her pastrami and rye. Feh! Poor goy(l), she'll never win!

I've felt a lot like that poor goy(l) because even though I'm a good mentsh and do my best at diabetes and life, with Biff, all my hard work ultimately amounted to nothing more than bupkes (my nephew calls it "buttkiss!") What Biffany cared about was continuing to berate me for my mistakes. By the time I crawled into bed, I would pray I could dream it all away. It never worked.

At some point, I just stopped doing that. I made the decision to ignore Biffany's bad attitude, even if I couldn't stop the mean voice from coming. While some low bloodsugars still conjure up the worst and most vulnerable feelings in the world, I can release myself from the tyranny of the mean girl who inevitably makes it all worse.

I now have the same proud ability all moms seem to have when kids are tugging and crawling up their legs screaming "Mommy, Mommy, Mommy!" and do not hear them and learn to ignore the mayhem when they're about to plotz. Ah, to know the difference between a real cry and chatterboxes who demands you do the dishes, answer the phone, feed the baby and attend to the screams of Mommy ! Yeah, sometimes it's too much to bear.

So too with me and my Biffany. If I can't stop her voice from kvetching about in my head I just muster up all the diabetic chutzpah I've got and tell her just what I think about her negative chatterbox self. Then, I just hit mute.