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Last week I wrote down everything I need right now.

Things I need to do, things I need to buy, things I need to plan for, things I need from other people, etc., etc. The list was–I am not kidding–two and a half full pages. In paragraph form. Because I didn’t want to make a *to-do list.* That would just overwhelm me and I knew I’d find myself adding a bunch of things I’d already done so I could get the high of crossing something off of said list. I didn’t need that. This wasn’t about getting anything done. It was about simply acknowledging everything swimming through my brain the past few weeks–all of it, how much of it, the sheer weight of it.

A list doesn’t pour the way a paragraph does, and what I needed more than anything was to pour.

Need can be tricky. The churning seas of Need and Want spill into each other and, because my mind works in a very All or Nothing sort of fashion, when I make a to-do list I often suddenly feel as if I NEED to do/have/receive all of these things immediately, right this very second, ready set go. My expectations for myself and for the way life works are highly unachievable.

A few days ago, I was sitting outside on a friend’s balcony, because I was house/cat-sitting for the week. I’d just gotten off work, had gone straight from work to my house to pick up some stuff I forgot (insulin, pretty important) and do a load of laundry. Then I went back to the friend’s house to maybe sit down for a second and also feed the cats. I’d been going, going, going all day, all week, all month.

From her balcony, I could see my car parked across the street. I started wondering to myself if my tires didn’t look a little flat, and remembered the check engine light that’s been dancing on and off lately, and that weird, semi-dramatic sound it’s been making when I accelerate. And so begun the spiral: I need to put air in my tires. And I need to get my car looked at ASAP (on Friday, my one day off of work per week.) And where am I going to live next year? And why haven’t I started looking into grad school? And I need to call my grandparents–I am the worst granddaughter in the world. And speaking of the world, what is my place in it? What am I even doing? How am I helping? What have I been doing for the past 24.5 years?

As you see, things can start to get a little out of hand.

In this particular moment, though, my thoughts started to slide through my mind like molasses, my eyes locked onto one particular fuschia plant for too long, and my hands started to tremble. Low blood sugar. Because in all of my working and laundrying and existential-crisising on the balcony, I’d forgotten to eat.

I went inside and grabbed a juice box and sat on the couch, drinking it and waiting for my mind and body to come back to me. 10, 15, 20 minutes… and all I could do was sit there until the sugar swam, until the weakness passed, until I was myself again.

I cannot emphasize this enough: if there is one thing in the world that can bring me back to reality–to the nature of real, true, life-or-death Need–it is low blood sugar. Nothing else matters, nothing else can matter, until I take the necessary steps to take care of myself.

By the time my blood sugar had risen to a functioning level, and I stood up off of the couch, I’d realized something. All I can focus on right now is taking care of myself, I thought. It is just the only thing right now.

You might be thinking, “This really isn’t some grand revelation. It is pretty basic shit, Sarah.” But for me (and for many people I’ve discussed it with endlessly), this is no small task.

I want to do and be everything all the time, for myself and for everyone else. I want my to-do list to be all scratched out at the end of each day. I want to say Yes to every invitation and to never have to ask for anyone’s help. This is how I have lived a lot of my life: saying Yes when I really felt No, because it is easier to just get through it rather than explain to someone why I can’t or don’t want to.  And then there is… the not asking for help. My fear and horror of possibly becoming a burden or an inconvenience to someone else often sends me running for the hills, to my own small world of one, before I’ve even reached out a hand. But I’m working on it.

“You can’t possibly foresee what other people can or cannot handle,” someone told me recently. “Reach out for help if you need it. Just ask. And if they can’t, I promise you someone else can.”

According to my aforementioned 2.5 page letter, I need A WHOLE LOT of things.

But when I really scale it down to the things I need in order to take care of myself these days, a few things are concrete and I can walk away from the rest, at least for now. This blog, for example, I have mostly stepped away from during the past few months, yet it is still here waiting for me when I have a little free time on a Sunday afternoon. The invitations I’ve declined may have disappointed a few people, but I’ve been honest, and like true friends, they understand.­­­­ So maybe I should write down all the things I don’t need to work myself up about doing right this very second. That list–who knew?–could go on and on.

Right now I need to truly, painstakingly slow down and take care of myself.

Let the people who can, help me do it.


There are times when I need to keep diabetes at arm’s length.

The past few months, and still now, honestly, have been a time like this.

The funny thing about chronic illness is that it never goes away. (Wait, that’s actually not funny. Anyway.) Even when our life is a tornado of 500mph winds, chronic illness is there as the furniture whirls around us. It is there as the walls crumble, as our roof tears away and we are left shelterless in the rubble, and it is there at our feet when the dust settles.

It’s actually kind of unbelievable how THERE it always is. How there it will always be. Sometimes we need a break so badly from these heavy demands, this weight, and the truth is that we simply do not get that.

But sometimes I push diabetes as far away as I can bear. As far away as I can get from something that exists solely and overwhelmingly inside of my body.

This is to say… I cannot ever get very far away from it.

But sometimes I can keep it at arm’s length… still acknowledging it, tending to it, but not dwelling or overanalyzing or agonizing over it. I did enough of that these past winter months. I really did.


I took this at Gallery 5 during March First Fridays. I wish I knew who to credit it to.

This past fall/winter was a difficult one for me. I moved back to Richmond in August with the intention to “heal.” Originally, I thought I’d go straight from Amsterdam to Portland or Austin or wherever the wind took me, but then decided another year in Richmond wouldn’t kill me (and that another year of avoiding things might.) I knew I was standing on an ever-weakening foundation as far as my health (and life) management went, and I thought one more year (just one! I consoled myself often!) in my sweet, dirty, artsy college city surrounded by my best friends would be good for me.

I imagined myself moving into a beautiful house in the Fan, finding a great, reliable, inspiring, full-time job immediately, seamlessly getting health insurance in the US again, going to the million doctors appointments I’d skipped over while living in Europe, saving piles and piles of money, etc. I imagined–and I am not exaggerating–that I would have all of this wrapped up by Christmas. And that then, I could take my racked-up savings and deeply-cared-for body and get the hell out of town, back to all those beautiful faraway places. But in a better place, physically and mentally. Me, but so much better.

How it really went down, in a condensed version, is something like this: I ended up working a part time job that I hated, paying $300 a month for health insurance until I could not afford it any longer (this didn’t take long) and was forced to drop it entirely in October. This quickly dashed my plans of doctors appointments I hadn’t  even made yet and money-saving and the smooth grand piano idea I had of what “healing” would look like. My reality unraveled me. It is a very scary and dangerous place to be, to live with a chronic illness–a life-threatening illness–and to not have the safety net of health insurance, or the funds to go to the doctor or even buy The Medicine You Need In Order To Live. Or… to buy groceries, for that matter. These days were very dark for me. I wrote about them a bit as they were happening (here, for example) but honestly, I’m going to skim past them right now. You understand.

In January, I managed to get health insurance again. I was able to see an endocrinologist and make other appointments I needed. I was able to see that I had some very necessary changes to make, though actually making the changes is a very-much-still-unfolding story of its own. In March, I got a job that I am very grateful to have, that I enjoy going to and love learning from. I joined a weekly writing class that I adore. I got off the waitlist for a writing workshop in California in June–a vast bright light and adventure to look forward to.

The weather warms. I’m finally making the self-care space to feel better that I’d truly believed would begin when I snapped my fingers last August, and would be wrapped up painlessly in a tidy bow after a few months, when I’d decided I was done with it. But shit, these things take time. And work.

I’m learning a lot these days, and most of it has nothing to do with diabetes. Which is to say, it also has everything to do with diabetes, because illness is entwined so intricately into my daily life. How very There it always is.

Nothing looks like I thought it would at this point, but I kind of have to trust that I am in the right place, where I need to be in this moment. Breaking myself open, staying put in this city, my home, even longer now. Everything feels uncomfortable, often. It feels vulnerable and thick and complicated. And necessary. When our foundation can no longer hold us, we have to get down close to it, onto our knees, and build it back up with our bare hands.

The path is not linear and life is unimaginable, which is not a bad thing.

This is where I find myself these days.


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i’ve had an endless stream of low blood sugars for the past three days and i’ve officially run out of juice boxes. no energy for a grocery run, so i resort to spoonfuls of honey. i’m piling layers of sticky sweet on metal and as i bring it towards my mouth my trembling hand tilts and a string of honey pours down my chest, thighs, tops of my feet.

i’m days deep in feeling like a sugar-frenzied shell of myself and i am quite literally dripping in the thing that will save my life again and again and again.

diabetes mellitus: etymologically, honeyed siphon.

me: shaking there alone by the kitchen sink trying to save myself over and over.

and sugar: the threshold of my life, rolling off of my body and hitting the floor.



(wrote this a few months ago. took the picture in 2012, while living in France.)