Again

I'm losing my hair. While I wish that was figuratively speaking, because the metaphors I could roll around in the hay with are so seductive, I mean that literally.

I did what every red-blooded girl with a centimeter of vanity would do and I Google'd my loss, expecting to find article after article backing my suspicion that I grow old, I grow old, I shall wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled and perimenopause is to blame. But the universe likes to test my limits and just generally fuck with my mind and the first link I clicked on stuck a dart in diabetes, saying this annoying little condition of mine can affect hormones and cause my tresses distress.

Based on other symptoms, I'm still inclined to believe I'm headed into perimenopause territory. But why did Google have to go and do that? Why can't I, just once, have some sort of mental, physical or emotional condition that can't be tied to diabetes? It's not even a pretty word, diabetes. It has no elegance or grace. But evidently, it has a list of side effects that is never-ending.

Moving

My instinct is to write "Moving On" or "Moving Forward," but in truth, I don't know if I'm doing either. I'm just moving.

Life can be complicated, and time can suck the life out of you, making you feel as if you have no permissions or rights granted; you only exist to mark its existence. Time waits for no man. Time will tell. Time after time.

Is there such a thing as a seven-year itch with diabetes? Seven and a half? Time goes by, and I go on, listening to the seconds tick and the minutes tock and the hours slam like a brick wall against every moment I try to claim as my own. Diabetes takes time. Time takes me.

I don't know where I'm going with this. I don't know where I want to wind up. I'm simply following a road and marking the miles. And I have miles to go before I sleep. (And miles to go...)

I thought about starting a new blog. A new chapter in the same life. But this isn't a new me. This is simply another part of me. So I'm continuing with this blog. I'm just writing it for myself now. A journal away from my journal. To keep that diabetes thing separated somehow. To give it a special place to take over as much of me as it wants, when it wants, without having to weave the test strips and the numbers and the apathy and the schedules and the bruises and the guilt and the gratitude and all of it through, around, in and out of my other bits and pieces. I write in a big black book with a fountain pen late at night about me. I type on a Mac with Georgia font in other hours about me and my diabetes.

Insert One Year Here