I can climb to the top of a rock wall
and a bouldering wall
and a mountain.
I can put everything in a suitcase
(including my diabetes supplies)
and move to France for a year.
Or back home, to Virginia.
I can write poems.
I can write about diabetes and publish it.
I can write about travel and publish it,
or diabetes and travel and publish it.
I can stop eating gluten if it makes me feel better,
or I can eat all the gluten and try all of the street food,
and I can enjoy it.
I can try to cook, and I can forgive myself when it doesn’t go well.
I can wear orange and go to the world’s biggest street party
and wear black and go the beaches of the south of France.
I can graduate from college.
I can meet my favorite band, and discuss diabetes.
I can go 2 months without my Dexcom, although I’d really rather not ever again.
I can find humor in a 15 hour bus ride through England.
I can find humor in this disease, sometimes.
Other times, I can–I must–admit how fucking terrifying and ridiculous it is.
But I can always see, feel, live a full life beyond my chronic illness.
I can take a deep breath and listen to the old brag of my heart:
I can, I can, I can.
(The last line was tweaked from a quote by Sylvia Plath in The Bell Jar!)