For 10 years, I stabbed myself ,on average, 4 times a day.
I’ve been diabetic for 11 years. That’s almost the same amount of time for a person to go through the school system. I guess in October of this year, it’ll be my graduation. But I’m not leaving anything behind; I’m not escaping anything.
The other night, I looked up “how long can a diabetic live without insulin?” The answers differed depending on the variables. But the conclusion for me was this:
There isn’t much data to support this, as most diabetics don’t experiment with death on purpose. But estimations were that I would survive maybe one week, more or less.
So a vial is my source of life. But how I use it, that decides whether I live. Too much can kill me; too little can kill me.
My survival is based on numbers. The amount of carbs I guess I eat determines the amount of insulin I give myself. I’m playing a number game with death. One mistake can lead to seizures and eventually a coma if left untreated.
I’m fighting for my life everyday.
I guess life really is just about surviving for me.
But I will survive.
In response to The Daily Post’s prompt: Survival