For a number of years, I was the only diabetic I knew. Diagnosed when I was a little kid, there wasn't an army of advocates knocking down the doors of my school. As far as I knew, the only meter in my elementary school was mine. In my high school, there were two meters: mine and the one belonging to a classmate's older sister. No one else I knew was taking a fingerstick before having the orange slices at soccer practice, or before tap dance lessons.

My first taste of a diabetes community came one summer at camp. Growing up in New England, I had access to one of the best diabetes camps in the country - Clara Barton Camp. I spent six summers at CBC, giggling with my fellow campers, singing my lungs out at the nightly campfire meetings, and making friends.

Oh yeah, and every morning, the counselor broke out the tackle box filled with meters, syringes, insulin, and other diabetes supplies. Everyone tested their blood sugar first thing in the morning. I felt like I was a part of a community that understood what it was like to live, every day, with diabetes.

After camp, it was high school. Then college. Then those post-college moments where I was figuring out what the heck I wanted to do with my life. And somewhere in there, flailing around between my many jobs and boyfriends and experiences, was my diabetes.

"Hey! What about me! Remember me?"

"Yes, Diabetes. I remember you. Come on, I've been testing and shooting. I even went on a pump for you. Aren't you happy?"

"Sort of. You're managing me, but you're managing me alone. What about some buddies?"

Sigh.

"Fine. I'll find you a few pals that understand us and what we're doing. But then, you be quiet, okay?"

Nods.

I went online. I found a few websites about diabetes. I started my own blog. Other people with diabetes found me. I found them. Then dLife. Then Blogabetes. The world cracked wide open and I found a whole community of people living with diabetes who really understood what this was like. Finding others made all the difference.

My diabetes gave me a grin.

I grinned back.

"Happy now? We have a whole mess of people who understand us."

Diabetes nodded and motioned for me to lean in closer.

"What? Yes, this is great. I know. What's that? No, you can't have a kitten. Let's just shoot for a good A1C, okay?"