Hi y'all!
It's been a while since my last post, sorry about that! Between school and tennis and more school, there hasn't been a whole lot of time for, ya know, literally anything else. But a lot of stuff has happened lately and I wanted to get my thoughts out, so here goes.
So, first things first, I sorta momentarily blacked out on the tennis court on Friday.
It... sucked. Normally I feel a low coming on pretty early, so I have plenty of time to get something to eat. But Friday, all the symptoms hit at once--one second I was fine, the next second I was so dizzy I didn't know which way was up. And then my vision got all dark and I somehow ended up lying on the ground.
When my vision cleared and the world righted itself slightly, the first thing I was aware of--other than the persistent pounding in my head--was that my entire team was surrounding me. I was grateful, of course, that they cared enough to make sure I was okay, but I was also mortified. I couldn't shake the feeling that they were unconsciously judging me, that their opinions of me were changing based on my apparent inability to make it through something as routine as a 2-hour practice.
I've been told, time and time again, that I shouldn't let people's opinions bother me so much. And for the most part, I've gotten better at that. Anyone with T1D--or any chronic condition, for that matter--has gotten good at dealing with the stares and the awkward questions from strangers in public. But when the people in question are people I care about, it becomes a whole different situation.
I'm used to playing tennis while low. I've played through practices and even entire matches where my blood sugar has remained below 70. Is that a smart choice? Definitely not. I know it's dangerous to do things like that. So why am I so reluctant to sit out?
Here's the thing: my brain is under the unquestionable impression that if my condition stops me from doing something, it automatically makes me weak. And the last thing I want, ever, is to be perceived as weak because of a condition that I can't prevent or control. Obviously, I know that doing something to take care of myself--even if it means sitting out of practice--isn't actually a bad thing. But my fear of how people view that choice tends to override my need to deal with my health.
Which is why what happened on Friday made me so angry. Angry at myself for letting it happen, angry that I hadn't felt it coming, angry that even if I had felt it, I probably would've kept playing and then it would've been even more my fault. Most of all, angry because now my teammates and coach had a whole new reason to view me as a liability and a burden, instead of a valuable member of the team.
I guess this post is sort of a reminder--for myself, for all my fellow PWD and anyone with any chronic condition, mental or physical. First of all: Whatever society tells us, whatever our brains are conditioned to believe, taking care of ourselves doesn't make us weak. We deal with so, so, so much that normal people will never see or understand, and we are stronger because of--not in spite of--our challenges.
And second, we can't always control our conditions. Sometimes, despite our best efforts, our conditions control us. Sometimes we black out on the tennis court because that one unit correction took us from 270 to 40. It happens. And it's okay. It's not a reflection of us, of how hard we try to keep our numbers in range, of all the work that goes on behind the scenes to prevent or delay the inevitable. We are still good enough. YOU are still good enough.
I love y'all. Stay safe. Thank you for being here--for me, for each other, for yourselves. You're awesome.
