The scars that bind

The moments seem to come and go with constant regularity of late. I feel on the verge of making some big decisions and I back away, sometimes slowly, sometimes even unwillingly but nonetheless back away. A step at a time, fast enough to not have to reconsider but slow enough to deceive myself that I never really reached a crossroad.

The baggage is unmistakable to me and I am masterful at hiding it. I dust the shelves to rid my mind of the memories, I sweep things under the carpet, I lock more skeletons in the closet but still they appear. I have “grown” to both expect and loathe their company.

Finding words to lift and inspire when everything seems to be going wrong is never an easy thing to do. I am the first to crawl deeper under the blankets and hide. If I am not hiding well you might find me running...probably sprinting in fact, doing all I can to escape. Familiarity has made me a little numb to be truthful. I learn to live with unresolved issues and problems. I move and shift them around just enough to prevent them collapsing...for one more day. If I just inch that to this side, move this over here, ignore that nightmare low, disregard that unflinching high then I will get through until tomorrow.

If it’s not life in general, it is diabetes, if not diabetes it is life in general. Problems, mistakes, miscalculations, anger, rage and guilt. Bitterness, blame, abuse, self pity and isolation. Just a few of the words, some of the sentiments but they too are imperfect. They hint at the problem, provide an insight but the real words are elusive. They swirl around in some mysterious cloud just out of reach, taunting me to stretch for them, to define them.
If time in the diabetes wilderness has taught me one thing, it is that not much is normal and not a lot of things make sense. My body stands as a testimony to the fact. I share medical wards with people twice my age in better physical shape. They read eye charts I struggle to see. They do exercises I can no longer manage. I fail my own and others’ expectations with monotonous regularity..

These are some of my scars. I have mine and you may have yours. They need not become objects of shame and isolation. They need not be swept under carpets or whispered about in poorly lit rooms. They are part of what makes me me and you, you. When all is going wrong and diabetes makes no sense sometimes all that remains are scars They are the scars of life with a chronic illness and emotional rollercoaster rides but in community they are the scars that bind.