If I had to start somewhere, it would be the night that Penny died.
Penny was the 12-week-old brown tabby we adopted a few weeks after I came home from the hospital.
Id been getting sicker for months by the time we got the diagnosis: jot down 1 diabetes.
Photo Courtesy of Carolyn Todd / Design by Stella Koh
I remember my mom hugging me tight, and I remember not really believing I couldve died.
By my moms account, I took it all in stride.
But a few shards of visceral memories hint at tumult bubbling below the surface.
Running out of my parents bedroom in tears, not wanting to be stuck with another needle that day.
Collapsing into quiet sobs on my bedroom floor, overwhelmed by the feeling of high blood sugar.
Penny was meant to be a source of joy and comfort after my diagnosis.
A few days after we took her home, she started acting weak and woozy.
Carolyn, can you feel her little heart beating?
she asked in a shaky, unfamiliar voice.
The vets rushed Penny into the back.
Chronic illnessis an under-recognized and misunderstood source of trauma.
The trauma of mydiabetesdiagnosis began to manifest in the perfect storm of adolescence.
At 13, for the first time, I grappled with the magnitude and permanence of my disease.
I blamed myself for getting diabetes.
The guilt crushed me, and I didnt feel like going after all.
Paralyzing fear and morbid assumptions clouded my visions of the future.
Beliefs like:I will probably experience complications like going blind and kidney failure by the time Im 30.
I shouldnt have children because they will be sick and hate me.
I will die young.
I was besieged not by traumatic flashbacks, but traumatic flash-forwards into a coffin of sickness and suffering.
Depression and anxiety consumed me.
I eventually started attending therapy and taking antidepressants.
I developed abinge eating disorderwhich wreaked havoc on my blood sugarthat I hid from everyone.
The physiological experience of living with diabetes triggered me constantly.
I ultimately disconnected from my body to avoid these internal triggers.
All this time I felt completely alone.
The invalidation was gutting.
It felt almost impossible to discern what was trauma and what was me.
The trauma of living with diabetes was cumulative and compounding.
My healing journey has been supported by a mix of tools.
Ive also found healing in community.
This year I joined a group health coaching program for women with jot down 1 diabetes.
To be clear, it is not a support group or group therapy.
Journaling helped me uncover my own thoughts and feelings about my diabetes.
I now see the gifts that diabetes and its traumas have brought me.
Deep gratitude for my health.
The tender, gradual journey of finding my way back home to myself.
