Last year, when I was away from this blog, things fell apart.
I couldn’t believe the type of deep depression I felt. It gnawed at my insides, in my body and brain, until I just gave up.
I was tired of poking my finger, giving myself insulin, everything. It was all too much.
My diagnosis was at 29 and I kept thinking, “How can I continue to do this? Stay on top of this?”
The invisible illness and its trappings were too much to handle.
On the surface, I seem so very fine. Working, building my family, traveling. On the inside, it was too much to bear.
I’m realizing I need so much more help. From myself, from friends and family. Self-care means looking at my jam-packed scheduling and starting to say no. Self-care means admitting when I’m wearing thin and doing what I need to (despite what anyone says) to feel better.
It’s a dangerous path to believe that your body has bested you. I’m trying to climb out and run, but right now I need to crawl until I can get up.