How meditation helped T1D diagnosis - and my mental health

How meditation helped T1D diagnosis - and my mental health

Never before was my need to remove my brain greater than after my Type 1 diabetes diagnosis. I was scared and tired. I wanted to hide from my body and its thoughts. Crawling under the sheets didn’t cut it. Running away wasn’t an option. Not giving myself insulin would kill me. The ‘I’ that ‘I’ was trying to escape was still there despite my best efforts to hide from her: my body and mind were at odds to cope with the adverse conditions they found themselves in, like a small fishing boat in a Force 10 gale off the Outer Hebrides.

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Squaring the circle: my two year diaversary

Squaring the circle: my two year diaversary

On this day two years ago, I was admitted to the hospital where I  spend the first night of my diabetes journey, alone, scared and sick, hooked up to a variety of drips, including my new life-saving drug, insulin. It was the second most horrible night of my life.

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“Remember that it’s all in your head” - Gorillaz

“Remember that it’s all in your head” - Gorillaz

“At least you've not got cancer”, a few people said to me after word of my diagnosis had got around. Or the more drastic: “It could be worse, you could be dead”.

On a bad day, I’d argue that these statements themselves disallowed me any level of suffering at all, implying I should just wheesht and get on with it. On a good day, I learned to just nod and “Yes, that is true”. Which it was, don’t get me wrong. Of course I preferred the alternative to death. 

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Santa brings a New Type One Plan

Santa brings a New Type One Plan

I had tried to leave my diabetes at home when I went on holiday. This was the start of the end, just before the New Plan. Reading my journals back I can see now that I was in denial. It had been two months of up and downs. I wanted off the rollercoaster ride, refused to accept what was happening to my body, wanted life to carry on as normal.

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Stop being a perfectionist

Stop being a perfectionist

Now on that first Monday, a dreary November day, my nurse was telling me I may feel better by Christmas but that it could take longer. I explained that life was ruled by the diary not to mention a small child and a business – I needed to be better. I’m a perfectionist. That’s when she mentioned “flexibility”. I winced.

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Ditzy? What me!

Ditzy? What me!

Ditzy is not a word I’d use to describe myself. Yet the other day I put the milk in the cupboard. I was 15 minutes late for a business meeting. I misplace things. And while my list making continues, it is, sadly, not with such glee. I’m starting to think I might have to reassess my view of myself.

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