Schlumpin' around.

I'll admit it. I'm kind of depressed. On second thought, I don't know if you can be kind of depressed. Is it like being a little bit pregnant? (I'm not pregnant, that's for sure.) Maybe you just are depressed or you aren't. At any rate I'm definitely cranky and anxious.

I've got an endo appointment on November 2. Yes, I am the brilliant diabetic who scheduled to see my blood-sugar-stuff doctor the Monday after Halloween. Looks like I'm going to have to blame white coat syndrome on my wonky blood glucose readings again. (Seriously, that happens to me EVERY TIME. High or low, never in range when I see my endo. She probably thinks I'm a lying liar who lies when I say I test, I swear I test! And I don't live on cotton candy! But I wish I did! But now that I think of it, why do endos bother with that in-office test? One test in a day doesn't provide any valuable information, except for possibly, "Ha! Caught you being diabetic!" Or maybe the endo can console him or herself by saying, "Well, at least my patient tests once every three months. That I know for sure!") Oh and also due to the kind of depression and general sense of apathy I've been eating like...I don't know, like a six year old would eat if no one forced them to eat things with chlorophyll. Pop Tarts, cereal, peanut butter and jelly, ice cream, fast food...I'm scared of what my LDL is going to be. NOOOO, STATINS DO NOT WANT! Thankfully my blood sugars have been okay-ish despite the steady diet of junk, but I do have to own up to hitting "HI" on the meter one day after my pump tubing was sliced and I didn't realize it until 10:30 that evening. I was out of town and just kept bolusing, hoping I could get back in range...because surely it couldn't be my pump because I hadn't changed my site and it just worked an hour ago and ARGGGH! The pump has not been my friend lately; due to a handful of bad sites combined with my new horrid testing habits I've seen more than my fair share of 300s, 400s, and even a couple of 500s. This is not like me. Or maybe it's the new and unimproved me. One day I'll test fifteen times and the next day I'll test once.

Anyway, back to being kind of depressed, because the internet is for complaining. Since my hypothyroid diagnosis I've definitely noticed a distinct, increasing feeling of crapola. Maybe it's psychosomatic, but symptoms, I haz them. My laundry list includes ~*~TMI~*~ fatigue, chronic constipation, what is this strange concept that you call libido, fatigue, feeling like ass, and more fatigue. A fellow Type I & hypothyroid combo friend posted on DM about a book that claims to answer the question of why one still has thyroid symptoms when one is on thyroid hormone replacement medication AND one's lab values are in range. You know what, man? I really don't want to read that book. It's going to delve into the alternative medicine universe of "lifestyle chaaaaanges" that basically mean you can't eat pears ever again and you must take 50 herbal supplements and lol guess what, six months later nothing will have changed and you still feel like crap. And you probably have another health problem now, too! Go you.

Now I know I'm being cynical. I know. But really what I'm avoiding is that rising gall feeling that I know reading the book will give me because the main message is really this: I have an autoimmune problem. Doctors and conventional medicine are not addressing my autoimmune problem. My immune system is seriously, seriously pissed off. Something is pissing it off. It is this something that is causing me to feel like crap, not necessarily diabetes or hypothyroidism. They are fancy symptoms of the larger something. If someone could tell me, succinctly, that they could help me stop the something (and it'd be nice if they actually had a quantifiable success rate) I would be totally on board. But I'm so not feeling the 50 herbal supplements and not eating pears. Maybe I'm just whining about no magic bullet again, but seriously guys. I am so tired of autoimmune disease. I am tired of feeling 105 when I am 25. I want someone to figure this stuff out already.

I want to be able to go into my doctor's office and tell her, "Doc, I don't feel so good" and instead of having her go, "Hm, well, your TSH is fine and your A1C is fine so...? What do you want me to do with you?" I want her to go, "Yeah, you are suffering from autoimmune disease and we should really start doing something about that instead of putting fancy bandaids on your fancy symptoms." I have a feeling that's about as likely as a cure for diabetes in the next five to ten years. So instead when she asks me how I'm doing I'm just going to say, "Okay." And then I'm going to ask for updated prescriptions for my diabetes supplies and my Synthroid and come home and feel like crap some more.

Maybe I'm blaming my garden-variety kinda depression on autoimmune disease, though, and instead of my endo I really need to see a therapist. :{ Not another doctor...!

twennysomethin pt two

So what was I rambling about earlier? I guess the main point of this post is: when am I finally going to figure out what in the hell I'm doing? I feel like my life, while comfortable, is puncutated by moments of sheer panic or overwhelming feelings of inadequacy. Those pangs of "WHAT IS GOING ON, SERIOUSLY GUYS" that hit around 11:43pm. When am I going to be an adult? When I am going to be able to swagger around like that dude in my office with the expensive watch?

Here are the marbles marbling around in my cranium these days:

• Homeownering. Seriously DC and NoVa, what is up with the price of real estate. Since when was ANYTHING made in 1952 worth $674,500? Puuhhhleez. Unless maybe the price is high because the house is now considered an antique? Ahhh, I get it. And this is the "buyer's market" they say! I know urban sprawl is horrible, but is it really too much to ask to have my own plot of grass? I just want my kid to grow up with some green. That doesn't mean I want my morning commute to be 2 hours, either.
  
  
• Speaking of the kid. YES, we absolutely want children. YES, we are looking forward to being parents. YES, I know that it won't be all roses. YES, I realize that I have not a damn clue about how hard and stressful being a parent is going to be . . . er, wait, do I really want to do this? (Let's not even get into the whole 'the human race is horrible' 'the world is going down the drain, why would you bring a child into it' lamentations!) The thought of being childless is even more daunting than the thought of having a child, but what if I'm one of those boring saps who's going to end up having my identity completely swallowed by the creature that erupts from my uterus?
  
  
• . . . and on the subject of self-identity. Dude, what in the hell am I doing. How do I define myself? If it's by one's career, I'm on the slippery slope to effing that one up. In no way do I want to associate the majority of my being with the company I currently work for, or the position I'm currently in. I'd be much happier if, when asked what I do, I could say "I'm a dog walker." Or maybe . . . "That person in the park with the stabby thing picking up paper bits." I think that says a lot, don't you? Why am I HERE when I know I want to be anywhere else? Problem is, I really don't know where anywhere else is either. When I was little I wanted to be a vet. When I was 17 I realized that would involve more than 4 years of school and broken cat jawbones and I begged off. When I was 18 I wanted to be a novelist, and then realized that most likely I'd end up a bitter, starving artist. That and there's roughly 20 or 30 million people who are more talented than I am, and my ego quakes at the thought of not being awesome.
  
  When someone asks me what my 5 or 10 year career goals are (yes, senior manager, I'm looking at you), I can feel the blank stare expression settling over my features. I can firmly see my children, and maybe a cat or something, but as for the rest of me? Not an iota of a clue. I'll probably gain y'know, 50 pounds or so, but beyond my fattening ass it's all smoke and mirrors!