Diabetes is a shit disease. Ah sorry, I said disease and not a condition of normal life we are all the same come on if it were not there we would have to invent it yeah.

Disease. Like shit. Chronic degenerative.

I have been diabetic since 1989, I was 4 years old.

I have seen and experienced much of the progress in the treatment of the disease, from when I had to go to the diabetologist to do my blood glucose, to now that I have freestyle.

But I can’t say that the quality of my life has improved.

Quality is an all or nothing event, like muscle contraction, my physiology teacher said. 

Mine, our life, has no quality. What quality is it not having the right to eat if you are hungry, or being forced to eat if you don’t want to?

He says but just keeps it under control … already the term “enough” is not suitable, and such a sentence can only be said by those who do not have the disease.

Eat well, be careful of everything, and for no reason here is a nice 250.

You eat badly, you don’t care, 2 days of hypo.

You are at the bar, you want to pretend to be normal because it is good to feel normal now and then, you know that you will pay for that croissant all day, you know you should do 3 units but at that moment you want to feel free. As one of the first nurses who took care of me said: “Alessa ‘, eat these candies, I know sugar-Free. I know sugar-free!” Lucky them.

Here, diabetes takes away your freedom.

Freedom to be, to do, to dream. Yes, even to dream. In my dreams I take insulin, this thing makes me laugh a little, it makes me a little disheartened.

Freedom not to eat if you are not hungry, freedom to go out on the fly without being forced to carry at least a small bag with “the necessary”.

I even had the bag at my wedding.

Here it is, my wedding. Two weeks ago. No appetizers because I was at 250. I wanted to give a damn, but I was afraid, we just needed the day to end with a nice call to 118.

For heaven’s sake, I enjoyed it, it was undoubtedly the best day of my life, but always a but.

The life of the diabetic is full of buts.

Full of accounts, of tears, of anger, of a sense of helplessness, of small miracles that are canceled by absolutely unpredictable things.

I still remember that before a university exam, I tested my blood sugar and it was good.

I went in to take the exam, I argued with the teacher. Total time between entry and exit 20 minutes.

From 100 to 300. Daje.

Who knows, maybe I have all these problems because in Italy food is synonymous with life, also and above all figuratively.

Sociality, aggregation.

Maybe if I lived somewhere else it wouldn’t affect me that much.

But I was born and live here, Italy, Rome.

Rome, where my general practitioner tells me that I do a job that is too stressful, that I should lead a more peaceful life … “ok doctor, so since I’m a dietician, hire me, let me do a study (let them kill them they work 3 hours a week and also badly, but that’s another story), so I can go to

the gym, always eat at the same times, take care of me … “him: …” oh well, then in the end you don’t feel bad, look at that glycated! “

 Yes, of course, the glycate.

 I reveal a great truth, ready? Hold on tight huh …

 The glycata is A PUTTANATA. The mathematical average of the values ​​of the last 3 months, because the sugar binds to red blood cells, and their life on average lasts just 3 months.

 Great … so over 3 months if you were pretty good 45 days and pretty bad 45, in the end everything went well.

 A day lasts 12 hours .. For normal people, for us 24 because we feel bad even at night.

 So if on 24 hours 13 you are good and 11 bad, all in all you cannot complain.

 Who tells you that every time you are hyper your muscles hurt, you feel like throwing up, you are dull and you want to send all the shit but at the same time you wish there was someone in the next room ready to help you without making you weigh? A kind of withdrawal crisis, from what though? From the normality that I have never known for example. Beautiful when you wake up with 400 and after 1 hour you have to be in the car to go to work. What an emotion.

 Always while you are in the car, the wave arrives, and here is 90 .. 70 … 40. On the siding. I automatically tear off the 3 sachets and throw down dry, knowing that the fitting will help me with a nice traffic jam in which I will be able to stay still for 10 minutes and relax. Ah no, I have to answer the phone and be lucid. Oh well patience.

 He says but this because you are still with the multi-injection, try the micro you will see that turn.

Or not.

 We should have total invalidity from the beginning, and the right to a fair job, so as not to age prematurely and badly. I am 34 years old, of which 30 with diabetes.

 Of course, the analysis says I’m great, but that’s not the case. Year after year I am no longer able to do easy things, even beautiful ones, I force myself to do them so as not to feel inadequate, but I pay for everything and I pay dearly.

 I’m on my honeymoon in Thailand right now, I haven’t given up even half an excursion.

 But on my return home I know it will take 1 month to recover.

 Actually no, I will never recover, because when I return, everyday life starts again, so it never stops.

 Every day lived 100% by a diabetic, requires a day of total relaxation. Impossible.

 Therefore? So who pays the consequences are us in the first place, and who loves us and is next to us in secundis.

 We want to say a few words about how difficult it is to have a normal relationship? I just got married, after almost 5 years of living together. He bears and supports me, but sometimes, even if he never makes me weigh it, I see it is heavy to be next to me. If I were in her place, I would have gone mad. It depends on the character, but in my case diabetes is just a trait of it, Alessandra doesn’t exist without it. As if to say, I’m 1.65 tall, curly hair, pain in the ass, diabetic, ironic, brown eyes, etc.

 I am as I am also and above all because I am diabetic. And it’s not a boast.

 I am anxious, fearful, I make myself a thousand useless problems; in the last year I decided to fight some of my fears and it is very nice for me to reach small goals.

 Above all, I’m tired. Always. Physically and mentally. But I don’t want this to be a (further) handicap, so I try hard not to show it. At the end of the day I feel like I’ve tried to empty the sea with a spoon. And again the next day …

 In the months before the wedding I lost 13 kg, the wedding was just an excuse, I was overweight period.

 I have been on an extreme diet, but as a dietician and diabetic, I know how far I can go.

 Always perfect blood sugar.

 Now that I’m on my honeymoon, all a mess. There is. Except that, to avoid ruining my days, I have to concentrate a lot. And here comes the physical and mental fatigue.

 Just happened: today I wake up at 6 with 259, correct, at 8.30 breakfast and insulin. I go down alone, in the meantime my husband gets ready and I have a moment to cool down from… from myself, from this life so full of pitfalls behind but also in front of and around every corner. I drink coffee. I feel like crying. I see myself from the outside, as if I were not me. I measure: 160 again uphill. I roll back, on my thigh, just to rotate (I have bruises everywhere).

 I would like to be at home in my bed … but what kind of thinking is Alessa ‘? You are in Thailand on your honeymoon with the man you love, what the fuck are you saying?

 No, no, come on, now I recover.

 I’m going to get some food. Giuseppe gets out, he sees me strange, he knows me well by now and knows how I am even if I don’t tell him. Luckily he respects me, so when I say I’m fine, even if I recognize the lie, he humors me.

the gym, always eat at the same time, take care of me … “him: …” oh well, then, in the end, you don’t feel bad, look at that glycated! “

Yes, of course, the glycate.

I reveal a great truth, ready? Hold on tight huh …

The glycated is A PUTTANATA. The mathematical average of the values of the last 3 months, because the sugar binds to red blood cells, and their life on average lasts just 3 months.

Great … so over 3 months if you were pretty good 45 days and pretty bad 45, in the end, everything went well.

A day lasts 12 hours. For normal people, for us 24 because we feel bad even at night.

So if on 24 hours 13 you are good and 11 bad, all in all, you cannot complain.

Who tells you that every time you are hyper your muscles hurt, you feel like throwing up, you are dull and you want to send all the shit but at the same time, you wish there was someone in the next room ready to help you without making you weigh? A kind of withdrawal crisis, from what though? From the normality that I have never known for example. Beautiful when you wake up with 400 and after 1 hour you have to be in the car to go to work. What an emotion.

Always while you are in the car, the wave arrives, and here is 90 .. 70 … 40. On the siding. I automatically tear off the 3 sachets and throw down dry, knowing that the fitting will help me with a nice traffic jam in which I will be able to stay still for 10 minutes and relax. Ah no, I have to answer the phone and be lucid. Oh well, patience.

He says but this because you are still with the multi-injection, try the micro you will see that turn.

Or not.

We should have total invalidity from the beginning, and the right to a fair job, so as not to age prematurely and badly. I am 34 years old, of which 30 with diabetes.

Of course, the analysis says I’m great, but that’s not the case. Year after year I am no longer able to do easy things, even beautiful ones, I force myself to do them so as not to feel inadequate, but I pay for everything and I pay dearly.

I’m on my honeymoon in Thailand right now, I haven’t given up even half an excursion.

But on my return home I know it will take 1 month to recover.

Actually no, I will never recover, because when I return, everyday life starts again, so it never stops.

Every day lived 100% by a diabetic, requires a day of total relaxation. Impossible.

Therefore? So who pays the consequences are us in the first place, and who loves us and is next to us in seconds.

We want to say a few words about how difficult it is to have a normal relationship? I just got married, after almost 5 years of living together. He bears and supports me, but sometimes, even if he never makes me weigh it, I see it is heavy to be next to me. If I were in her place, I would have gone mad. It depends on the character, but in my case diabetes is just a trait of it, Alessandra doesn’t exist without it. As if to say, I’m 1.65 tall, curly hair, pain in the ass, diabetic, ironic, brown eyes, etc.

I am as I am also and above all because I am diabetic. And it’s not a boast.

I am anxious, fearful, I make myself a thousand useless problems; in the last year I decided to fight some of my fears and it is very nice for me to reach small goals, but what an effort!

Above all, I’m tired. Always. Physically and mentally. But I don’t want this to be a (further) handicap, so I try hard not to show it. At the end of the day, I feel like I’ve tried to empty the sea with a spoon. And again the next day …

In the months before the wedding, I lost 13 kg, the wedding was just an excuse, I was overweight period.

I have been on an extreme diet, but as a dietician and diabetic, I know how far I can go.

Always perfect blood sugar.

Now that I’m on my honeymoon, all a mess. There is. Except that, to avoid ruining my days, I have to concentrate a lot. And here comes the physical and mental fatigue.

Just happened: today I wake up at 6 with 259, correct, at 8.30 breakfast and insulin. I go down alone, in the meantime my husband gets ready and I have a moment to cool down from… from myself, from this life so full of pitfalls behind but also in front of and around every corner. I drink coffee. I feel like crying. I see myself from the outside as if I were not me. I measure 160 again uphill. I roll back, on my thigh, just to rotate (I have bruises everywhere).

I would like to be at home in my bed … but what kind of thinking is Alessa ‘? You are in Thailand on your honeymoon with the man you love, what the fuck are you saying?

No, no, come on, now I recover.

I’m going to get some food. Giuseppe gets out, he sees me strange, he knows me well by now and knows how I am even if I don’t tell him. Luckily he respects me, so when I say I’m fine, even if I recognize the lie, he humors me.

 After a few minutes, 240. I rebound. Maybe he didn’t like the thigh.

At the airport he sees me strange, he scans my freestyle independently, he tells me “come on, 217, down arrow”.

Let’s go to Phuket, the trail of the hyper is complicated to manage, discomfort, annoyance, desire to scream.

I go shopping, it usually helps me. This time it doesn’t improve my mood either.

And so, as soon as I sit on the plane, he points out that I complain all the time (he does it as a spur, never as a criticism, but I can recognize it when I’m fine.