Before you read any further, I want you to know that this is not a terribly uplifting post. And I won't fault you if you decide to stop reading now.

One of the worst parts of having diabetes, for me, is how vulnerable it makes me feel. In the past, I've expressed my fears related to this disease on this blog and my personal blog. I am not a person that lets fear deter me. I push on, I make my way in spite of the fact that I sometimes feel overwhelmed by the possibility of disaster that life presents.

But, you know, life with diabetes presents a whole other set of disastrous possibilities.

Sometimes, when I test and see a number that I don't like, a 36 mg/dl or a 360 mg/dl, I see the numbers in my brain. They are block numbers. And like a fourth grade poster project, they are colored in clumsily. They are collaged digits, filled with broken cells and nerves and the faces of people broken or taken by this disease. The numbers wheel about in my head, taunting me. And I am powerless to stop the avalanche of tragic thoughts that bury me in those moments.

If you don't have diabetes or you don't care for someone who has diabetes, it is unlikely you'll know what I mean when I say that I think diabetes is killing me softly. If you saw me on the street, you would probably think I'm perfectly healthy. You would look at my skin, my hair, my eyes and I don't believe you'd realize the complicated and frightening havoc that diabetes is reaking on my body. You wouldn't hear the thunderous roar of the freight train that shares the tracks of my life. Sometimes I don't even hear it. But it's there.

That's the thing with this disease. For the most part, it isn't obvious; it isn't blatant. It is sneaky and mean and cruel. It chugs along at our side, behind us, ahead of us. It makes a mess of things and leaves us to clean it up. To be completely honest, I prefer the moments when diabetes is loud and aggressive - the moments when it forces me or others to take desperate measures. Because, at least then people can SEE what it's doing. At least then, its relentless assault on the body is evident. At least then, I don't feel as if it's getting away with something.

Today hasn't been the greatest day. Diabetes is pissing me off. The numbers are hovering short of "take drastic measures" but above "everything is fine." Today it is sneaking and creeping. Today it is killing me softly. Today I am tired. Of. It.