Around this time in 1988, I started to get really, really sick. So sick that I lost a substantial portion of my bodyweight, was thirsty enough to empty a double-doorway refrigerator of all its liquids, and spend substantial portions of days feeling so listless that I was practically sleepwalking. Then, on my mother’s birthday that year, I was taken to a general practitioner who listened to a brief rundown of my symptoms, tested my blood and my urine, and told me plainly that I had developed diabetes.
In 1988, diabetes was paid little mind by the public at large. It was a big question mark. Few people understood what it was, and even fewer understood what really caused it. Even today, I sometimes deal with people who should know better presuming that my diabetes is the result of poor physical health management. The change in their demeanour when I explain to them that I was playing and training in a junior version of America’s national sport, baseball, and was thus fit enough to at times be eating McDonald’s five nights a week and yet still be in a healthy weight range… well, what can I say. Slapping people in the face with the dick of their own ignorance is sometimes the most satisfying thing I do. Having said that, however, I am not going to lie to you and tell you that my diabetes is well-managed. It is not.
I do not have food allergies, per se, but I do have reactions to certain foods that would make you think there was something very wrong with me. I have literally vomited at the sight of one pasta product. I have a very retarded sense of smell, so when I tell you that I would rather die than eat a product that smells like Parmesan cheese, understand my full meaning. The point here is that I have a range of likes in terms of food that is so narrow that I try to avoid dining at other peoples’ housings as much as I can.
This, obviously, causes me to take a lot of shortcuts in terms of self-sustenance. If my blood glucose falls to a low range, I will treat that by consuming large amounts of high-glucose food. In fact, my meals tend to be like my shoulders. Very large. Because in spite of my aversions to most foods, eating foods that I am comfortable with, or have high amounts of things that I enjoy in them (chocolate, caramel, and sugar for example), can help alleviate the feelings of distress that accompany most of my day.
The result is, my diet is terrible. Absolutely fukking terrible. As I earlier hinted, there was a time in my life when I might on occasion eat McDonald’s five nights a week, yet my stomach was flatter then than it is now. This destroys a lot of the myths that people cling to about health and nutrition. But that is beside the current point at this time. The simple fact is that eating is not enjoyable on its own for me. I have made a number of references to how retarded my sense of smell is. My taste buds are not exactly sensitive either. In fact, much of my revulsion towards foods like pasta is not a matter of taste. It is a matter of physical sensation. Putting things that wobble into my mouth produces all kinds of nasty inner sensation thought that not only would I rather not have, but you would not like me having.
So what does this all add up to? Well, for one thing, I desperately plead and hope every day that I will be told a cure for diabetes is in the Human trial stages and would I like to be included in said trials. Because having my islet cell function back would give me the satisfaction of going to people like certain doctors and putting my foot into their head whilst virtually chanting at them that they cannot use my diabetes as a barrier to prevent actual addressing of real problems anymore. I have said to my asshole male parent’s face on multiple occasions that I would have been discovered to be autistic a lot sooner if I did not have diabetes or the cure that was promised was delivered when it was promised for. His indifferent, completely thoughtless response is one reason I will no longer talk to him. He is not merely incapable of caring how I feel (or convincing me that he cares might be more accurate). He is incapable of convincing me that he does not enjoy seeing me in such pain and disadvantage that his father would disown him and this country had said father lived to see it.
I have dreams of the Human trials stage of a cure for diabetes concluding with me having the required cells implanted on my mother’s birthday. Because that is the one gift I want to give her that I know she will understand as acknowledgement of how painful my existence has been for her. That is one of the few things I really even consider worth the bother of living for. But there is another side of this desire. I want to hold my filthy asshole male parent by the neck and tell him he cannot use the destruction of my islet cells as a psychological whip upon me anymore.
Every positive is now bound with an undercurrent of fukk you, daddy. Every. Single. One. Even if I were to get a book deal tomorrow that ended up with a bestseller and enough money for me to invest in something that fixes my woes for the rest of my life. Even if I met someone as nice and relatable as a certain one of my present neighbours. Even if I succeeded in bringing suit against Autism Speaks, and they were divested of so much money that they could never make a public statement again as well as on record as a terrorist organisation. Even if I found myself with the power to alleviate the world’s problems with having too many Humans on it, every fragment of motion has a current of serious hatred in it.
This is why I do not believe I can keep going through another twenty to thirty years of this life. People keep promising real changes or dramatic changes, but never with a timetable or even so much as a plan. Even the one idea that could produce a real positive change, a National Disability Insurance Scheme, is more a long-in-the-distance promise than an actual plan. And given how conservatives love to give the richest one percent of the populace tax breaks and other squealing bacon at the expense of everyone else, the idea that I will live to see any benefit from that idea is far-fetched.
Is it any wonder that when asshole shitpiles like Tony Abbath (as I call him for giggles) threaten us with getting “elected”, I wish people like The Joker would become real and do a number on him? Is it any coincidence that the people Kronisk tortures, murders, and nails the feet of to the floor are the same twats who support their kinds of policy? Fukk you, Tony, I want my nieces to grow up into a world where they can count on not being stoned to death if someone rapes them. And every word out of your mouth that touches on the subject tells me that you do not share that desire. I would rather saw your little bollocks off (and all the retaliations that the scum you represent would bring out in response, let us not forget) than have you make a decision on my behalf.
As Lemmy Kilmister wrote so well, “…and all my promises are lies, all my love is hate”. My love is motivated by my hate of others. I love those who are the opposite of what I hate. I hate those that are the opposite of what I love.
Every day is accompanied by feelings of disgust, anger, fear, love, hope, desire, and all at once. The sad point is that no attempts to reconcile from the mainstream society that has excluded me to this point will ever succeed. It is too late for that. After years of abuse, of being left to rot in other peoples’ forgetfulness, and being told there is never going to be any attempt to fix the results, reconciliation is not an option. Because the above quote, “all my promises are lies, all my love is hate”?
(It is amazing what diabetes as a subject matter can inspire.)
That is exactly what I hear whenever you open your yap.
I Still Find It So Hard... 