Tearing Down the Scaffold
When my first post for this blog went live, I received a comment from a former coworker that I was one of the strongest women she knew. I couldn't believe it, because I don't feel strong. In fact, I feel like I devote an unusually large amount of time trying not to feel like a helpless, sniveling teenager. I was also surprised because a show of strength is not what I am trying to achieve by writing these posts. Quite the opposite, I began writing--and sharing in a public domain--because I desperately needed to take a risk--to expose myself emotionally--to scream from the rooftops truisms about my insecurities, my fears, my struggles. The decision to do so felt less like a choice than it did an imperative. My unhappiness had reached a fever pitch, and if I didn't do something--something authentic--the scaffold of false strength that had held me up for so long was going to crumble and take me down with it.
I like referring to this notion of 'false strength' as a scaffold because the word has dual applicable meanings. It has both propped me up and been responsible for my demise. I've talked about how solo hiking has been life-giving and empowering--which it has. But it has also been convenient. There; I said it. Just like the risk incurred when one hikes alone is not a black-and-white issue, neither is my relationship with it. The pull to the mountains was strong, and while it was important that I use the activity to process some of the tough issues I was grappling with, it has also been a space that has allowed me to hide. Despite the ballsy-ness that climbing mountains by oneself exudes, it was emotionally safe for me. No one is going to judge the single diabetic girl when she's out in the woods by herself, because there is no one around to pass judgement.
Being alone is not my natural state. I'm an extrovert. I could have joined the Appalachian Mountain Club on hundreds of hiking trips out of Boston throughout the years, but I was petrified that I would slow the group down. What if I had to stop and eat because my blood sugar was low? Or God forbid my blood sugar spiked high and it made me "bonk". Hiking (or any kind of exercise) with type 1 diabetes is a complete shit show when the blood sugar is not cooperating. Walking uphill in the woods when my blood sugar is over 200 probably feels a bit like summiting Everest without oxygen. Every step is leaden and every breath burns. There is no quick fix. The only remedy is time waiting for insulin to kick in. My diabetes trends toward being "brittle" (lots of swings between high and low blood sugars), so in my experience, the only predictable thing about my disease it is its unpredictability. I can pair the same food with the same insulin for five consecutive mornings and have five different blood sugar outcomes--yet another instance of getting burned by the futility of trying to control the uncontrollable. Because of this, I was incredibly intimidated to hike with others--especially with an organization that, in my mind, WAS hiking. Everyone seemed so legitimate--what business did I have raining on their peak-bagging parade?
Hiking alone became my secret recipe for empowerment plus angst-alleviation plus eradication of vulnerability, given that I'd conditioned myself to not show weakness when it came to my diabetes. I can't tell you how many hikes I've bonked on, feeling like I am going to puke, pass out, or both because my blood sugar is outside the normal range. Like that whole tree falling in the woods with no witnesses thing, it is much easier to deny the implications of the disease to oneself with no one there watching. For two decades, I've tried to convince myself just as hard as I did everyone else that I am infinitely strong, resilient, and unaffected by my diabetes. The problem is, this isn't strength, this is defensiveness. I've often felt like my disease was going to obliterate me, so my aim has been its eradication. If I held type 1 diabetes at arms length, I could spare myself--and others--the fear that ensued when reminded not only of possible long-term complications, but that at any moment this disease could take me out.
I continue to struggle with integration of my disease, with showing vulnerability. As the poster child for the 'stiff upper lip' club, it makes me incredibly uncomfortable to speak of how diabetes has absolutely rocked me throughout the years. I'm trying to get better about revealing to friends, coworkers, what is really going on with me when diabetes strikes--that my brain feels scrambled because it is currently being flooded with too much glucose, or that I need to sit down before I fall down because I'm extremely hypoglycemic--but it's not easy. Typically, I put my truth out there, then immediately work to lessen the impact it has on others. It's because I don't want to alarm or seem overly dramatic; I somehow feel like it's my job to reassure people that everything will be okay, even in times when it isn't.
I began writing this blog to take an emotional risk, to be authentic about my vulnerabilities. I believe this is the path to integration and eventual acceptance of my disease. Vulnerability is not something one can bypass; it's a universal truth for all humans--if for no other reason than the fact that we will all one day leave this earth, and we can't do a damn thing about it. Getting to this point has been a necessary journey. I attribute some of it to the long meditative hikes I took by myself in order to cope. It was my way of giving the middle finger to my diabetes and the terrifying feelings I was trying not to feel. I felt incredibly alone dealing with my disease. Looking for emotional equilibrium, I engaged in a solitary activity to make the outside resemble how the inside felt. Interestingly, as I set out to write about solo hiking last week, I realized that these days I'm usually in the company of others on the trail. That scaffold of false strength has begun to be dismantled, and with vulnerability and authenticity, I hope to eventually tear it down completely. It's a slow process, and I'm not there yet, but I feel like I'm headed in the right direction. Oh, and one more thing--I finally got around to doing a hike with the AMC this winter.
I like referring to this notion of 'false strength' as a scaffold because the word has dual applicable meanings. It has both propped me up and been responsible for my demise. I've talked about how solo hiking has been life-giving and empowering--which it has. But it has also been convenient. There; I said it. Just like the risk incurred when one hikes alone is not a black-and-white issue, neither is my relationship with it. The pull to the mountains was strong, and while it was important that I use the activity to process some of the tough issues I was grappling with, it has also been a space that has allowed me to hide. Despite the ballsy-ness that climbing mountains by oneself exudes, it was emotionally safe for me. No one is going to judge the single diabetic girl when she's out in the woods by herself, because there is no one around to pass judgement.
Being alone is not my natural state. I'm an extrovert. I could have joined the Appalachian Mountain Club on hundreds of hiking trips out of Boston throughout the years, but I was petrified that I would slow the group down. What if I had to stop and eat because my blood sugar was low? Or God forbid my blood sugar spiked high and it made me "bonk". Hiking (or any kind of exercise) with type 1 diabetes is a complete shit show when the blood sugar is not cooperating. Walking uphill in the woods when my blood sugar is over 200 probably feels a bit like summiting Everest without oxygen. Every step is leaden and every breath burns. There is no quick fix. The only remedy is time waiting for insulin to kick in. My diabetes trends toward being "brittle" (lots of swings between high and low blood sugars), so in my experience, the only predictable thing about my disease it is its unpredictability. I can pair the same food with the same insulin for five consecutive mornings and have five different blood sugar outcomes--yet another instance of getting burned by the futility of trying to control the uncontrollable. Because of this, I was incredibly intimidated to hike with others--especially with an organization that, in my mind, WAS hiking. Everyone seemed so legitimate--what business did I have raining on their peak-bagging parade?
Hiking alone became my secret recipe for empowerment plus angst-alleviation plus eradication of vulnerability, given that I'd conditioned myself to not show weakness when it came to my diabetes. I can't tell you how many hikes I've bonked on, feeling like I am going to puke, pass out, or both because my blood sugar is outside the normal range. Like that whole tree falling in the woods with no witnesses thing, it is much easier to deny the implications of the disease to oneself with no one there watching. For two decades, I've tried to convince myself just as hard as I did everyone else that I am infinitely strong, resilient, and unaffected by my diabetes. The problem is, this isn't strength, this is defensiveness. I've often felt like my disease was going to obliterate me, so my aim has been its eradication. If I held type 1 diabetes at arms length, I could spare myself--and others--the fear that ensued when reminded not only of possible long-term complications, but that at any moment this disease could take me out.
I continue to struggle with integration of my disease, with showing vulnerability. As the poster child for the 'stiff upper lip' club, it makes me incredibly uncomfortable to speak of how diabetes has absolutely rocked me throughout the years. I'm trying to get better about revealing to friends, coworkers, what is really going on with me when diabetes strikes--that my brain feels scrambled because it is currently being flooded with too much glucose, or that I need to sit down before I fall down because I'm extremely hypoglycemic--but it's not easy. Typically, I put my truth out there, then immediately work to lessen the impact it has on others. It's because I don't want to alarm or seem overly dramatic; I somehow feel like it's my job to reassure people that everything will be okay, even in times when it isn't.
I began writing this blog to take an emotional risk, to be authentic about my vulnerabilities. I believe this is the path to integration and eventual acceptance of my disease. Vulnerability is not something one can bypass; it's a universal truth for all humans--if for no other reason than the fact that we will all one day leave this earth, and we can't do a damn thing about it. Getting to this point has been a necessary journey. I attribute some of it to the long meditative hikes I took by myself in order to cope. It was my way of giving the middle finger to my diabetes and the terrifying feelings I was trying not to feel. I felt incredibly alone dealing with my disease. Looking for emotional equilibrium, I engaged in a solitary activity to make the outside resemble how the inside felt. Interestingly, as I set out to write about solo hiking last week, I realized that these days I'm usually in the company of others on the trail. That scaffold of false strength has begun to be dismantled, and with vulnerability and authenticity, I hope to eventually tear it down completely. It's a slow process, and I'm not there yet, but I feel like I'm headed in the right direction. Oh, and one more thing--I finally got around to doing a hike with the AMC this winter.
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